Lynna Banning Page 14

A smile quirked the chief’s otherwise impassive countenance, and Ben sucked in his breath. Fathomless black eyes surveyed him from under motionless shaggy brows. The Indian was a master at deception.

  “You dance well, my friend,” Ben said, keeping his voice even. “The music of your mouth is as subtle as your footsteps. In these many hours I have learned little of importance.”

  Black Eagle nodded. “Tell me then what you wish to discover.”

  Ben laughed softly. “I grow weary of this game, Black Eagle. I speak plainly, yet you reply in riddles.”

  “Ho!” The old man chuckled. “A man has a tongue with which to speak, and words to hide his thoughts. Your tongue, my friend, is as nimble as a young deer.”

  Ben shrugged. “My tongue grows numb with wagging.”

  “It is necessary.” Black Eagle made a show of sipping from the soapstone tea bowl, but a shadow fell across his face. “The Indian way of life is dying.” His voice dropped to a throaty whisper, and he sipped again. “As a nation, we grow old. Soon we will pass away forever.”

  Ben’s gut twisted. He knew what Black Eagle felt. He himself had experienced the same grinding sense of loss in Carolina after the war. An entire era, a civilization he had known and loved, had been wiped from the face of the earth. The old Indian was fighting for survival against an inexorable force with the only weapon he had left—his wits.

  Ben laid his hand on Black Eagle’s bony, buckskinsheathed arm. “Old friend, I would aid you if I knew how.”

  “Tell me, then,” Black Eagle replied quietly, “how are we to save ourselves? We have little food. Our women grow too weak to bear healthy sons. Our enemy, the people of the Modoc, ride from the south to count coup against us and steal our children. How are we to protect ourselves?”

  Ben’s heart faltered. That was it! Black Eagle needed weapons. Guns. But the chief knew guns were forbidden to the Indians. Did Black Eagle think Ben would supply him with illegal rifles?

  Impossible. But for the moment, he wouldn’t tell that to the chief. First he would use it as leverage to pry loose the information he needed—who was rustling cows from Wildwood Valley ranches?

  It was not Black Eagle, that much Ben knew. But he’d bet a dollar the old chief’s scouts knew who it was. The sharp-eyed Klamath tribes knew everything that went on in these mountains. A sixth sense told Ben the chief knew more than he was telling; that piece of information had to link in some way with Thad Whittaker’s killer.

  He raked his fingers through his hair. Time was running out. He didn’t like the way the chief’s interest returned again and again to Jessamyn. For all he knew, one of Black Eagle’s braves would offer to buy her, or—worse—would kidnap her. He had to get her out of camp.

  And that meant he’d have to push Black Eagle a bit. Scratching the stubble on his chin, he purposefully uncrossed his legs and made as if to rise.

  “Wait!” The chief’s dark eyes expressed what the proud old man could not utter. His people were desperate. Black Eagle was ready to trade information—it was the only thing of value he had left.

  Ben hesitated. “I will wait but one hour, old friend. And I will listen. What is it you would say?”

  Black Eagle gestured, palms up. “There is one—”

  The chief broke off. Jessamyn burst from the trees, striding toward them with determined steps. Her bare feet made no noise, but her hard breathing was audible. She’d been running.

  Ben raised his head and stared at her, then sucked air into lungs that seemed suddenly paralyzed. Good God, her hair…

  A riot of dark chestnut curls tumbled almost to her waist. In the hot morning sunlight, red-gold highlights gleamed like a nimbus about her head and shoulders. He couldn’t take his eyes off her.

  “Ben,” she panted. “I—I must speak with you!”

  He looked away. “Later.” He growled the word over his shoulder.

  “No. Now.”

  Now? What the hell was the matter with her? Couldn’t she see that he was busy?

  “Ben, it’s important.”

  Across from him, Black Eagle folded his gnarled hands into his lap and grinned. “Not beat her enough,” he said in Yurok. The old man’s shoulders shook with laughter. “Or maybe she is again willing?”

  “Ben?” Jessamyn tugged on his shirtsleeve. “Please. Come with me—I have something to show you.”

  Black Eagle snorted. “Long legs and a smooth belly,” he said in his native language.

  Under his breath Ben cursed them both, Black Eagle for his suggestive words—words that called up a vision of Jessamyn naked beneath him, her skin hot and silky—and Jessamyn for her artless blundering into his intelligence negotiations with the Indian chief.

  Exasperated, he sent Black Eagle a look of resignation. At the amused look on the old man’s face, Ben narrowed his eyes. Why, the old fox relished his discomfort! The chief couldn’t have engineered a delaying tactic any better if he’d planned it himself.

  Furious, Ben slapped his palms on his knees and rose to face Jessamyn. “Say it and be quick about it.”

  “Not here.” She plucked at his shirt. “Come with me,” she breathed. “Hurry.”

  Black Eagle laughed out loud.

  Ben groaned. He gripped Jessamyn’s upper arm and pulled her toward the tipi. Her shirtsleeve was damp. Dark tendrils of her hair brushed against his hand as she moved. It, too, was wet. He inhaled the faint scent of sweet woodruff and clenched his jaw in sudden fury.

  “What the hell have you been doing?” The fragrance of her hair made his insides feel weightless.

  “Swimming,” she said, catching her breath. “With Walks Dancing. You were asleep, so I—”

  With his free hand, Ben reached for the deerskin flap.

  “No!” she blurted. “Not in there. In those trees over there,” she whispered.

  Ben stilled. Behind him, Black Eagle’s throaty chuckle rose as he slurped from his tea bowl.

  “What a woman!” the Indian muttered in Yurok, just loud enough for Ben to hear. “She cannot wait more than one hour. No wonder you look so tired, my friend. You will have many sons!”

  Ben gritted his teeth. He walked Jessamyn none too gently into the stand of sugar pines at the edge of camp. Once beyond Black Eagle’s sharp eyes, he pulled her about to face him. “Talk!” he ordered.

  She turned out of his grasp and led him to a tired-looking pony, its tail braided in the Indian fashion. Jessamyn flipped back one corner of the blanket tied behind the saddle. “Look.”

  Ben stared. “Well, I’ll be goddamned.”

  “This Indian man rode in while we were swimming,” Jessamyn whispered. “He didn’t see us. After I got my clothes, I saw something shiny, like metal. So I looked.”

  Ben released the breath he’d been unconsciously holding and slipped the rifle partway out of its covering.

  A Spencer repeating carbine. Brand-new. Lord God, what a war-hungry Indian could do with such a weapon. He slid the gun back into its hiding place. A brave didn’t carry a rifle. No Indian he ever knew had owned a rifle. Here, right before his eyes, was the piece of information Black Eagle had withheld.

  Ben stroked his chin. “Looks like someone is supplying guns to the Indians holed up in these mountains.”

  “In exchange for what?” Her quick question startled him. Of course, it would have to be a trade. But the tribe had no money, nothing of value besides a few warm furs and some cooking pots. The only thing the Klamath had now was his eyes and ears and—if he was lucky—his scalp.

  His fury evaporated. Weighing the implications of what she’d discovered, his brain made the connection. Black Eagle needed weapons to protect his people from their traditional enemy, the Modocs. In exchange for rifles, Black Eagle was maintaining silence about something he knew, something about the cattle rustling going on in the valley. The chief must know who was behind it. He kept quiet to avoid jeopardizing his supply of weapons.

  “Ben,” Jessamyn whispered. “You look so odd—what is
it? Are you angry?”

  He drew her away from the pony. “I’ll admit I was ready to strangle you not more than two minutes ago, but not now. Not after what you showed me.”

  “Oh, good,” she said. “Because I’m dying of hunger and I know you’ve got some jerky hidden somewhere.”

  Ben had to laugh. She was completely unaware of the service she’d done him by discovering that rifle. Now at least one piece of the puzzle fit. All he had to do was pick up the trail of Black Eagle’s scouts; eventually it would lead him to the cattle thief. Whoever it was probably sold the beeves on the hoof in Idaho and used the money to buy rifles from some corrupt army quartermaster at Fort Klamath. Or, more likely, Fort Umpqua.

  Ben didn’t realize how swiftly he was moving back toward camp until Jessamyn’s ragged breathing told him she couldn’t keep pace with him. Not with bare feet, anyway. Without thinking, he turned and scooped her up into his arms. She gave a little yelp, but he silenced her with a single hissed word. “Hush!”

  He strode into the camp clearing to find Black Eagle sitting exactly where he’d left him. The old chief regarded Ben and Jessamyn with twinkling black eyes. Nodding his head and grinning, he motioned them toward the tipi and made a covert obscene gesture.

  Unaccountably, Ben found himself grinning back. No harm if the chief entertained lascivious thoughts at this moment. Acting as if Jessamyn really was “his” woman would mask his discovery of the rifle. He chuckled. He’d managed to beat Black Eagle at his own game. With Jessamyn’s help, he acknowledged.

  A weight lifted from his shoulders. Now he knew how to proceed. The first thing he had to do was get Jessamyn safely away from Black Eagle’s camp and back to town. Then he’d load up a week’s worth of supplies and search the mountains for a hidden cache of army rifles. One of Black Eagle’s scouts would unknowingly lead him right to it.

  A heightened state of awareness washed over him, based on a combination of a sleepless night and euphoria over his success. He moved toward the tipi, Jessamyn clasped hard against his chest.

  For just a moment he found himself actually looking forward to getting her alone, pretending she did belong to him. God, would he ever stop thinking about her?

  The other thing you have to do, an inner voice reminded as he reached the shelter, is get Jessamyn out of your arms. He set her down at the entrance. He’d stay inside the tent with her for about an hour—just long enough to satisfy the imaginings of Black Eagle. Then he’d saddle their horses and depart with the old chief’s blessing. His heart sang. Lord God, he could kiss her!

  Jessamyn lifted the deerskin flap and stepped inside. Ben worked to keep his gaze off her gently rounded backside.

  Inside, she turned to face him. “Ben, for heaven’s sake, are you going to feed me?” she murmured.

  Feed her! His pulse leaped. She didn’t mean it the way he took it, but he had to crush the image that bloomed in his mind. Lord almighty, he was beginning to think like Black Eagle.

  “Here. In my pocket.” He felt for the strip of jerky, handed it to her along with his jackknife.

  Jessamyn sank onto the soft fur at his feet. The elusive fragrance of her hair wafted upward, and his groin tightened. God help him, he wanted to do more than just kiss her.

  From the way she attacked that strip of venison, she could probably spend the entire hour eating. He watched her tongue slip out from between her teeth, her mouth open for the slice of dried meat.

  Damnation! He sat down opposite her. He hadn’t planned on this, hadn’t ever dreamed he could be so drawn to a member of the female gender. He wanted her. But he knew bone-deep he was too vulnerable. He couldn’t afford the risk, wouldn’t admit even to himself how soul-deep his hunger ran.

  He clenched his jaw until his teeth ached. What the devil was he going to do for the next sixty minutes?

  For an entire hour Ben watched Jessamyn gobble down sliced jerky. While she ate, she bombarded him with incessant questions. Her head cocked to one side, she scribbled in her notebook as fast as he could talk.

  “What do you think about Indians having firearms?”

  “Damn dangerous,” he growled.

  “How did you and Black Eagle get along when you served as the Indian agent?”

  “We were blood brothers. We trusted each other.”

  “Do you notice any difference now in the chief’s regard for you?”

  Ben hesitated. There was a difference; he just didn’t want to explain it to Jessamyn. Mercifully, she did not ask what Black Eagle thought of “his” woman.

  Ben himself did not know what he thought of Jessamyn at the moment. The stubborn, overstarched Northerner, sheltered all her life in civilized Boston, had certainly made an impression on Black Eagle. And despite the language barrier she had befriended the Indian chief’s daughter, Walks Dancing. Both things surprised him.

  He shook his head. City lady or not, another day in camp and she’d have the whole band of Indians eating out of her hand. He was the only one she didn’t seem to-cotton to. Only when her otherwise valiant spirit flagged after hours on the trail, or after the emotional shock of eating a supper of roasted dog meat did she turn to him for help. Then she was like the feisty little banty rooster he’d once accidentally shut out of his sister-in-law’s henhouse. Head up, squawking, but with feathers that drooped in the mud, the bird had glared accusingly at him with a hard, unblinking eye.

  Jessamyn Whittaker had that same fighting spirit. And, Ben noted with an inward chuckle, she had emotional depths she herself was unaware of. He would never forget how she had wept during the audible lovemaking session Black Eagle and his wife had indulged in last night. What an astounding reaction for an unworldly woman of delicate sensibilities.

  No doubt about it, Jessamyn was a decidedly uncommon woman. Ben watched her pare off another slice of dried venison, wash it down with the bowl of hot sassafras tea Walks Dancing had set just inside the tipi entrance. He knew he had to get her out of camp as soon as she could ride. Black Eagle had taken too much of a fancy to her.

  “Soon as you’ve finished eating, pack up,” Ben muttered over the tightness in his throat. “We’re leaving.” He rose to his feet, his head brushing the top of the shelter.

  Jessamyn stuffed another piece of jerky into her mouth and shoved her notebook into the saddlebag. Snapping his pocketknife shut, she handed it back to him, along with the remains of the dried meat. She pulled her boots on over her thick wool stockings and stood up.

  “I’m ready.”

  Ben eyed her. “No, you’re not. Pin up that hair.”

  Jessamyn’s eyes widened and her hand flew to her head. “Oh, my, yes, I’d forgotten all about it. Wait—my hairpins!”

  She rummaged in the saddlebag, withdrew a handful of bent wire pins and a tortoiseshell comb. Raising her arms, she began to twist a handful of her thick, dark hair into a loose roll. Ben caught his breath as her shirt pulled tight across her breasts. He couldn’t watch and not want her. Lord, how was he going to stand the two-day trek back to Wildwood Valley with her?

  He turned away, angry at himself for being so intrigued by this annoying bit of single-minded womanhood. Grumbling to himself, he strode outside to saddle the horses.

  The entire Indian encampment gathered to see them off. Jessamyn followed Ben to their saddled mounts, letting her gaze roam over Black Eagle’s little band. Everyone was here—the old woman, silent warriors, wide-eyed children. And not one single dog, she noted with a twinge of pain. Also absent was the brave with the hidden rifle. She quietly called that fact to Ben’s attention, and he nodded.

  Just as she settled herself on the mare’s back, she spied Walks Dancing limping through the crowd, her undulating steps agonizingly slow. Pausing next to Jessamyn’s horse, the Indian girl handed up a beaded deerskin pouch. Inside lay a beautifully carved comb made of polished bone. Jessamyn’s heart swelled. A gift.

  Touched, she withdrew the tortoiseshell comb from her hair and presented it to the young Indian w
oman. Then, with a final smile, she nudged her horse up the trail after Ben’s gelding. At the first bend she twisted in the saddle to look back. Walks Dancing waved until she was out of sight.

  Jessamyn’s throat swelled. She had made a friend in the Indian camp. Though they could not talk directly with one another, a bond had grown between the two—a shared understanding. Words were not needed.

  Ahead of her, Ben urged his horse into the rock-walled cavern. Jessamyn followed the hollow clatter of hoofbeats into the shadowy opening that led down to Wildwood Valley and civilization.

  It was dark before the sheriff called a halt. Parched with thirst, her skin dry and tight from the hot wind, Jessamyn slid off the mare.

  “Are we going to cook supper now?”

  “Not tonight.”

  Her stomach contracted. She’d eaten cold jerky for breakfast, and since then she’d had only two dried-out biscuits from Ben’s pocket. Now she faced a cold, meager supper, as well.

  “Don’t turn around, Jessamyn. Gather some wood. Someone’s following us.”

  Her blood turned to ice water.

  Ben dropped his saddle a good distance from the fire pit he’d fashioned. “Just keep moving around.”

  “Who is it?” she ventured. Her voice sounded tight and scratchy.

  “They’ve been trailing us since noon. I wouldn’t put it past Black Eagle to—”

  He broke off. “Jess, don’t turn around. Come over here to me.”

  “Wh-what is it?” She tried to keep her voice steady.

  “Nothing, yet.” He slipped one arm behind her shoulders and pulled her back against his chest. “See that ledge up there?”

  She nodded. A lopsided boulder jutted from the rimrock above them.

  “I’m going to stake the horses beyond the fire. Make it look like we’re camped a ways off.”

  “Oh,” she said in a small voice. “That’s a g-good idea.”

  “Stay close beside me. If anything moves up there, you let me know.”

  Again Jessamyn nodded. Fear turned her mouth sour. She swallowed hard. Her saliva tasted like unripened grapes.

  Ben moved to the stones he’d laid out in a ring, knelt and flicked his thumbnail against a match head. A flame flared and guttered. He touched it to a twisted wisp of dry dockweed.