Dream Walker

Early evening shadows sent long, dark fingers across the alley at the back of Stirman's Mercantile. Rachel crouched behind a stack of wooden crates, breath catching in her throat.

If Doaks found her he would drag her back to that filthy shack to cook and clean and God knows what else. She covered her mouth, held her breath against a threatened cry. Tears of anger, sorrow, and raw fear flooded her cheeks.

He was coming, him and those drunken friends, making no effort to silence their approach.

"Come out of there, ye dirty heathen savage. Come out and maybe I'll not beat ye half to death."

The worst he'd ever done to her was fling her across the shack when she displeased him, but that whip he carried coiled at his hip frightened her into thinking he might do worse. She cringed and tried to make herself smaller.

Doaks kicked aside the crates, crashed through them with a splintering of wood, and grabbed her up by the back of her shirt like a kitten. She kicked and clawed, but he only laughed and held her out of harm's way.

"Mangy little wildcat. Spit and claw all ye want. And then settle yourself down. Paid good money for you, ain't letting you loose, so you might as well stop fighting me."

The hot stench of his sour whiskey breath washed over her and she gagged and went limp. He was a huge man and could do a lot more to her if he took a notion. There'd be other chances to get away.

She let him drag her from the alley like a gunny sack filled with feed. Even though she had quietened, he kept her at arm's length and stayed out of her reach. Recollecting her earlier escape probably made him more wary, for he carried the bloody marks of her nails along one cheek.

From out on the street, someone hollered, "Sic her, you old drunk." Another voice answered, "Ain't gonna let that skinny Injun get away, are ye?"

The crack of a distant shot cut through the crisp spring evening.

Roaring in victory, Doaks hauled his prize into the street, bellowing curses.

Grim and silent she hunkered on hands and knees and glared at him. The men who had gathered to watch only laughed and continued their sport, stomping the packed earth and egging on the trapper in his game.

If he came too close she'd bite his dirty ear off. The chance didn't come, for he was too quick and kept her out of reach of his vital parts. And so she waited, bided her time, and glanced up and down the street drenched in early twilight.

Surrounded by the rowdy men, Rachel and her captor squared off, he almost too drunk to stand up¬right, but still much the stronger. He laid a hand on the whip, flicked the long leather tail out across the hard packed earth of the street. His bleary eyes gleamed. She hunched her shoulders, covered her head with both arms, and waited for the first sizzling lash of the burning whip. She would grab it and choke him to death.

"Don't you kill her now, you old fool," someone shouted with glee. "Even red Injuns is good for something, 'specially female 'uns."

"Hear that, Injun," Doaks snarled. "They don't want me to kill ye. What do you think?"

She wanted to cry out that she was as white as she was red. White like her father. It would mean nothing to these men. To them it only took a drop of her mother's blood to make her a filthy Injun. Instead she steeled herself to take her punishment from Doaks. This time she had gone too far and he would probably beat her. But not much, because he enjoyed her waiting on him hand and foot. She would get back at him sooner or later. The chance would come, he would have to sleep. When he did she would cut off his privates and feed them to him for breakfast. Fried.

Doaks grumbled and flicked the whip so that the end popped above her. "That brother of yours is counting his money, I would 'spect, while I'm dealing with a crazy savage. Ought to have knowed myself better than to dicker with 'em. Red bastard sold me a lazy, good for nothin' runaway. Ain't even purty." He leaned down, jerked up her chin.

Choked by the sour whiskey on his breath, she gulped down bile and kept her eyes closed tightly. She loved her brother with all her heart. He had kept her alive, carried her at times till his feet were bloody during the removal. What had happened to him brought her great sorrow. One day perhaps she would understand why he had sold her to this terrible man. But she knew for sure, Eagle must have had no choice.

Doaks squeezed at her jaw until her ears rang. "You know that, gal? You ain't even purty. And what do I have to show for my trouble? Paid good honest money and what do I have? Nothin' but trouble, that's what. I git through with you, you'll damn well know how to pleasure a man."

He staggered backward on the slope of the street, feet tangling. His grip loosened. She doubled both knees into her chest, kicked out, and caught him hard in the stomach.

He let out a tremendous whoosh and doubled over.

She bounded away, drinking in fresh air. Free.

Behind her he retched, the others whooped and hollered. She chose a route that would take her up the hill onto the square and raced through the dusky dark. Rounding a sharp curve in the road, she caught a second wind and took off, only to slam broadside into the haunches of a plodding horse. With a gasp she bounced off and landed flat on her backside. Momentarily breathless, she managed to roll over and scramble to her hands and knees. In another instant she had vaulted once more to her feet.

The rider, a big man dressed in buckskins, dismounted agilely and headed for her. "Here now, what's your hurry?"

A quick glance over her shoulder told her that the drunken crowd was fast approaching.

The man's silver eyes glittered, he breathed the stench of whiskey over her. Was there nowhere to go, no escape from such men?

He had a hold on her and she jerked to get away. "Let me go, you pale-eyed snake." Switching to Cherokee she spat quick, insulting words at him, but he wouldn't turn loose.