Savage Heat by Nan Ryan Page B

believe the captain. But a chill ran through him despite the heat of the day and the circles of sweat soaking his blue blouse. He had a terrifying premonition that he would never again see the beautiful golden-haired Martay Kidd.
    Fighting back a sob of panic, Major Lawrence Berton kicked his bay into a gallop, shouting over his shoulder, “We must find her before night. We must!” And he led the saddle-weary detail farther into the canyons and crevices where the terrain was so rough and forbidding, it would be possible to hide there forever.
    He heard the distant neighing of a horse.
    In a flash the Sioux was on his feet, the Winchester rifle in his hand. He cast a quick look at the woman. She was sleeping again, but he couldn’t count on her remaining asleep. If she wakened and cried out, they’d be discovered.
    Peering warily out into the sloping green forest, he laid the weapon aside and went to the cot. Throwing a long leg over her, he straddled her, his knee resting on the bed beside her hip. Keeping one foot on the floor to support his weight, he leaned down and swiftly placed a brown hand over her mouth. His touch brought her instantly awake and a pair of terrified green eyes looked up at him.
    “Don’t scream,” he said softly. “I’m not going to hurt you, but I want to make sure you’re quiet. I’ll have to put a handkerchief in your mouth for a while.” She shook her head violently and made soft mewing sounds, her eyes wild. He paid no attention. He drew a snowy white handkerchief from an inside pocket and quickly gagged her while she lay trapped beneath him.
    “Now,” he said conversationally, looking down at her, “do exactly as I tell you and you won’t get hurt. Understand?” She glared at him. He slid his long, lean fingers into her hair at the side of her head. “I said, ‘do you understand?’” The fingers tightened, holding her head immobile. She nodded. “Good.” He released the hair and, reaching down, scooped her shoes from under the bed, slid down the length of her body, and deftly put the slippers back on her feet.
    Then in one fluid movement he was off the bed and pulling her up and guiding her toward the open front door. When they reached it, he picked up the Winchester and walked out onto the shaded stoop, bringing her with him. He looked down at her, took her hand, and reading the puzzlement in her eyes, said, “We’re going to take a little walk.”
    Was this it? she asked herself. Was he going to take her into the woods to kill her so he could bury her body away from his cabin. Her eyes darted to the gleaming rifle he carried under his right arm. Would he take her deep into the trees, lift the steel barrel to her temple and fire? Would her death be mercifully quick or would he rape and torture her first? Would he throw her down and tear the white silk dress from her? Would he rip her fine French underthings to shreds, then cruelly force himself on her again and again? Would he scalp her and tie the long, bloody locks to his belt?
    Would she live to see another sunrise?
    Her heart pounding so furiously it was painful, she died a thousand deaths on the way to what she felt sure were her final minutes on the earth.
    They were climbing now, he leading her up a rocky, treacherous path that was so narrow, she had to follow behind. Hobbled by her tight skirts, she stumbled after him, her hand in his, her legs weak. She was jerked along and at times lifted when she couldn’t manage because of her dress. Out of breath, gagging on the handkerchief, she bumped into him when her captor stopped abruptly.
    His arm coming back to hold her close, he turned his head and listened. Martay listened too, and heard the clanking of bits, the creaking of leather, and the whinnying of horses. She froze. More savages coming to join him? A celebration of some sort with her a part of their uncivilized entertainment? Dear God, no. Not that! Not the horror of being passed around among a dirty