to that comer of the room.
“N’tha thah!”
His harsh, guttural words grated on Linsey’s ears, making her tremble.
With a threatening stare in her direction, he moved gracefully to the bed. Still poised like a mountain eat expecting danger, he swiftly threw back the furs.
As Linsey watched, she desperately searched for a plan to protect the defenseless man. Bear’s hunting knife lay on the table, and without conscious thought, she crept slowly toward it. The Indian continued his survey of Bear, his back toward her.
Her hand closed around the knife, and without sound, Linsey rose to her feet, her body seeming to act on its own accord. She had fought too hard to save Bear’s life from the fever to sit back and watch him be killed by a savage.
Linsey took two hesitant steps toward the vulnerable copper back, the knife raised above her head. She knew she had made no sound; she had never moved quieter in her life. But instinct must have alerted the Indian to danger.
He turned abruptly, a wicked sneer crossing over his face.
“I’ll not let you kill him,” Linsey whispered.
As if he understood her, his sneer deepened to a grin, his eyes seeming to dance with enjoyment. Slowly he hooked the tomahawk through his breechcloth and sheathed his knife. As graceful as a panther, he began to stalk her.
With each step the Indian took forward, Linsey took one backward until she felt the mantel from the fireplace pushing into her head. She could go no farther, and still the Indian silently approached.
“Damn you! Only a savage would torture a sick man.”
Linsey held the knife at waist level, both trembling hands wrapped around it. “I’ve never killed anything before, but as God is my witness, if you touch him, I’ll put this knife so deep in you it will come out the other side!”
The Indian stood relaxed, the smile never leaving his face. His black eyes sparkled as they stared into hers. He spoke in his fiendish language, his hand outstretched, palm up.
“You want my knife, do you?” Linsey snarled. “Well have it you shall,” she raised the knife slightly, “but it will be in your belly, not your hand.”
From the bed Bear moaned loudly, and for a fraction of time the Indian turned his head. Linsey sprung, realizing this was the opportunity for which she had waited. The Indian returned his attention to her just as she moved. Grabbing her hands effortlessly, he removed the knife. With a flick of his wrist, he threw it into the wall across the room, where it hit and quivered before becoming still.
Face to face they stood, the proud fierce warrior holding her easily. Her chin raised even as shear terror dilated her eyes.
“Pel ah wee o skees a kwee.” His voice was soft, the smile gone.
“You will never know of my fear.” Linsey tried to make her voice firm, but a quiver sounded in spite of her effort. I’ll never give you the satisfaction of seeing me afraid.”
Again he spoke quietly while almost reverently wrapping a strand of her long hair around his finger. As if breaking out of a trance, his big body shook, and he freed her hair and gently set her aside.
He walked toward the fireplace, and for the first time Linsey noticed that he limped. How could he appear to move so gracefully that she only now saw his limp?
Having expected to be instantly tortured, Linsey’s terror-fogged mind jumped from one scattered thought to another. Why was he taking time to make a fire? Dressed only in pants and a breechcloth, his bronzed chest bare, she wondered if he was cold. Perhaps he liked to be comfortable when he tortured captives, she thought, fighting to swallow a nearly hysterical impulse to giggle.
Without realizing she was doing so, Linsey watched the Indian light the fire. When a spark caught, he blew gently, adding larger pieces of kindling as the flame grew.
“He didn’t tell me to blow on it,” she moaned in a whisper, seeing her error in trying to start the fire.
A hungry golden blaze
“N’tha thah!”
His harsh, guttural words grated on Linsey’s ears, making her tremble.
With a threatening stare in her direction, he moved gracefully to the bed. Still poised like a mountain eat expecting danger, he swiftly threw back the furs.
As Linsey watched, she desperately searched for a plan to protect the defenseless man. Bear’s hunting knife lay on the table, and without conscious thought, she crept slowly toward it. The Indian continued his survey of Bear, his back toward her.
Her hand closed around the knife, and without sound, Linsey rose to her feet, her body seeming to act on its own accord. She had fought too hard to save Bear’s life from the fever to sit back and watch him be killed by a savage.
Linsey took two hesitant steps toward the vulnerable copper back, the knife raised above her head. She knew she had made no sound; she had never moved quieter in her life. But instinct must have alerted the Indian to danger.
He turned abruptly, a wicked sneer crossing over his face.
“I’ll not let you kill him,” Linsey whispered.
As if he understood her, his sneer deepened to a grin, his eyes seeming to dance with enjoyment. Slowly he hooked the tomahawk through his breechcloth and sheathed his knife. As graceful as a panther, he began to stalk her.
With each step the Indian took forward, Linsey took one backward until she felt the mantel from the fireplace pushing into her head. She could go no farther, and still the Indian silently approached.
“Damn you! Only a savage would torture a sick man.”
Linsey held the knife at waist level, both trembling hands wrapped around it. “I’ve never killed anything before, but as God is my witness, if you touch him, I’ll put this knife so deep in you it will come out the other side!”
The Indian stood relaxed, the smile never leaving his face. His black eyes sparkled as they stared into hers. He spoke in his fiendish language, his hand outstretched, palm up.
“You want my knife, do you?” Linsey snarled. “Well have it you shall,” she raised the knife slightly, “but it will be in your belly, not your hand.”
From the bed Bear moaned loudly, and for a fraction of time the Indian turned his head. Linsey sprung, realizing this was the opportunity for which she had waited. The Indian returned his attention to her just as she moved. Grabbing her hands effortlessly, he removed the knife. With a flick of his wrist, he threw it into the wall across the room, where it hit and quivered before becoming still.
Face to face they stood, the proud fierce warrior holding her easily. Her chin raised even as shear terror dilated her eyes.
“Pel ah wee o skees a kwee.” His voice was soft, the smile gone.
“You will never know of my fear.” Linsey tried to make her voice firm, but a quiver sounded in spite of her effort. I’ll never give you the satisfaction of seeing me afraid.”
Again he spoke quietly while almost reverently wrapping a strand of her long hair around his finger. As if breaking out of a trance, his big body shook, and he freed her hair and gently set her aside.
He walked toward the fireplace, and for the first time Linsey noticed that he limped. How could he appear to move so gracefully that she only now saw his limp?
Having expected to be instantly tortured, Linsey’s terror-fogged mind jumped from one scattered thought to another. Why was he taking time to make a fire? Dressed only in pants and a breechcloth, his bronzed chest bare, she wondered if he was cold. Perhaps he liked to be comfortable when he tortured captives, she thought, fighting to swallow a nearly hysterical impulse to giggle.
Without realizing she was doing so, Linsey watched the Indian light the fire. When a spark caught, he blew gently, adding larger pieces of kindling as the flame grew.
“He didn’t tell me to blow on it,” she moaned in a whisper, seeing her error in trying to start the fire.
A hungry golden blaze
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