Dances Naked by Dani Haviland Page A

child to get sympathy and food— or to use as a distraction while he pillaged and robbed. She knew he did that whenever he found the opportunity. She knew it was bad, but there was nothing she could do about it. She had asked him to stop on two different occasions. In retrospect, she should have bit her tongue after the first thrashing he had given her for sassing him. No, he wouldn’t listen to reason and had no scruples. The worst part though , was that he never shared his spoils with her or the baby. She shook her head to erase the bad memories of him and their brother, Atholl, Senior, her child’s father. She looked back at Red Shirt and smiled in relief. Even if this man was an enemy, at least he gave her food.
    He didn’t like to hurt people. There had been too much of it in his short life , but this man needed to be taught a lesson, even if by one not of his family or tribe. He had seen the man be cruel to the horse and, just as bad, the woman and chil d. He couldn’t just let him go— that would be a sign of weakness in front of his men. Killing him swiftly would be easiest , but burying him up to his neck with rocks and dirt would be a fair punishment, too. If he did manage to get out of his earthen grave, he would probably be so weak that he wouldn’t be able to make it to water. There weren’t many creeks or streams around here and the few springs in the area well hidden. Yes, he’d let his men bury him then let the woman throw on the last shovelful of dirt , if she wished. She didn’t seem to care for him even though they had been traveling together.
    Red Shirt grunted his order; this time using severa l words of his Indian language. He pointed at Marty and signed for him to help the other two. The three were to assist Grant to his tomb of shame. Of course, Grant wasn’t too eager to go . He kicked and wriggled like a live fish on a hot frying pan, squealing and whining that it wasn’t his fault. “It was her that did it. She told me to take the stallion, that the mare wasn’t good enough for her. She gave me the gun and said to shoot the damned Indians. The only good Injun was a dead one. She, she …”
    Twack!   This time Red Shirt took the honor of shutting off the free flowing faucet of lies. He shook his head and snorted at the pathetic excuse for a man: white, red or otherwise. He not only lied, he was blaming a woman, a woman of his own family who he had abused, for his wrongdoings.
    Grant was stunned but still conscious. He tried to open his mouth to protest , but his face wouldn’t respond. He brought his bound hands up under his chin and realized why he couldn’t speak: his mouth was open all the way and he couldn’t close or move it. His jaw was either broken or dislocated. He looked to Rachel, pleading with his eyes since his voice wouldn’t work. H e could see that she didn’t care though. No, wait—s he did care. She was smirking and shaking her head side to side, relishing his predicament.
    “How do you like being hit in the face? Not very nice, eh?” she remarked then snorted in disgust. She had zero sympathy for the brother who beat her for sport, let her have just enough food to live , and wiped his ass with her hat. “Let the devil have you then,” she said then walked away from the pit. They could do what they wanted to him.
    As it turned out, the ground was too hard and the implements too primitive to dig a proper man-sized pit. They settled for a grave that was deeper at one end than the other.
    Inevitably, Number Two had to hit Grant one last time to knock him unconscious. Even binding his legs hadn’t helped much. His wiggle potential was too high for the three of them and Red Shirt didn’t want to stoop to the level of enforcer and assist in the punishment.
    The braves each carried a leg . Marty supported the sho ulder and lax head, which flopped to the left, the jaw, set catty-wumpus to the right. Just as they were getting ready to drop him into the pit , Marty