Golden Hawk 3, page 7
She began to explode then, repeatedly, each time letting out a cry that sounded like a sob. He felt her gushing and it became tricky staying inside her. At last, unable to keep himself from climaxing any longer, he let himself go. Reaching up and pulling her to him convulsively, he pulsed wildly up into her, grunting fiercely with each throbbing ejaculation. She laughed deeply, delightedly, and pulled him closer to her, tightening her vaginal muscles about his shaft in a fierce, determined effort to keep him erect.
It worked.
Laughing excitedly, she began to move once more—steadily, slowly this time. His shaft probed so deeply at times that its tip seemed to him to be on fire. Still thrusting gently, she leaned away suddenly and began to sing softly, happily. He reached up and ran his long fingers through her thick auburn hair. She laughed and, still singing softly, leaned closer, throwing her long, damp auburn hair over him, so close that he could take one of her nipples in his mouth and suck on it. Her soft singing became a low moan then, and he found himself coming alive, lifting to meet her thrust for thrust, the gathering ache in his groin becoming intolerable.
Suddenly he reached out and grabbed her narrow hips and swung her around under him in one swift motion. She gasped up at him in surprise as he prowled over her, then proceeded to slam down into her repeatedly, with a fierceness that caused jagged little cries of pleasure to break from her slack mouth. He was through playing. His urgency allowed for no more gentleness as he raced brutally toward his climax.
When it came, it caused her to respond just as powerfully, and for a long moment the two emptied themselves into each other, clinging together with the closeness of vines, gasping, laughing softly—covered all over with fine beads of perspiration.
Hawk leaned back and closed his eyes. Alice leaned close enough for him to catch one of her nipples in his mouth. He closed his lips about it and drifted off, aware of the fetid perfume of her body enclosing him. He awoke once, aware of her still holding him, looked past her at the pale canvas roof—at the sunlight filtering in through the snow cover—and then dropped off again.
When he awoke, it was dark and he realized he had slept through the day. He was still in the bed, naked under the sheets, and Alice was dressing his arm by the light of a coal oil lamp. A concerned face looked into the wagon through the round opening in the rear. Hawk recognized Dick Wootton.
“How is he?” Dick asked.
“Better,” Alice said. “Much better.”
“We’re moving out tomorrow.”
“Move out, then. He can’t be moved. I think the wounds are infected.”
“We’ll wait, then.”
“Another day. Give us another day.”
Wootton nodded. His face vanished from the opening.
Alice was lying. Hawk knew how a wound felt when it was healing properly—slightly itchy—and that was exactly how his forearm felt. But even though he knew she was lying, he said nothing as he turned to look up at her.
She smiled down at him, finished tying the bandage, then blew out the lamp. In a moment she was out of her nightgown, had thrown back the sheets, and her long, hot limbs were pressed hard against him. He grabbed her fiercely and closed his lips over hers.
He was caught up, he realized, in a hunger for Alice and her body that went to the very roots of his soul, filling him with a need wild and inchoate. It was dangerous, he felt dimly, and strangely debilitating to lust after any woman this badly, yet there was nothing he could do to pull himself back from this obsession.
And even worse, there was nothing he wanted to do.
Chapter Five
THE JOURNEY BACK from Grizzly Pass proceeded with surprising ease. The settlers had lost only two wagons to firewood and the rest, they knew, would be waiting for them, come spring. Meanwhile, the snow had let up and a January thaw had set in, easing the cold if not the footing. Most of the women and children rode the horses that had drawn the wagons and the pack horses Hawk had brought with him. The men willingly broke the trail on foot where that was necessary.
They were within a few miles of Jim Clyman’s cabin when Hawk saw Jim waiting by the trail for him. Hawk knew what Jim was going to suggest, and it filled him with immediate, irrational resentment. Behind him on his horse sat Alice Gentry, her arms tucked snugly about his middle, her cheek resting against the small of his back. She felt remarkably comfortable back there.
Jim Clyman reached up to take the halter on Hawk’s horse.
Hawk pulled up. “What is it, Jim?”
“Just a reminder,” he said. “You could cut off here if you want. The cabin’s not far. You’ve done enough for these pilgrims—more than enough—and I thank you.”
“That’s all right, Jim. I’m going all the way to Fort Hall.”
“That so?” Jim wasn’t surprised, though he tried to act as if he were. He was a poor actor.
“I promised Alice.”
Jim’s glance at Alice was a cold one. He nodded and stepped back.
Hawk urged his horse on and did not look back at Jim or up at the pines on the slope above, beyond which was the trail he could have taken back to the cabin ... and Singing Wind.
He felt Alice’s arms tightening affectionately about his waist and heard her murmur of thanks for keeping his promise to her. He said nothing and kept his thoughts away from the cabin, thinking only of the end of their trek through this white wilderness and of a time when he could be completely alone once more with Alice Gentry.
The arrival of the settlers at Fort Hall was a time for rejoicing, both for MacGregor and the mountain men and other settlers wintering there. The gaunt, weary settlers were greeted with hot food and warm lodging and the promise of a safe, if uneventful, stopover until winter had finished with this stretch of the divide. That they had made it back safely was all that mattered, and the settlers immediately held a service to give thanks, with a solemn but eloquent young lad leading them instead of the late Reverend Twitchell.
Alice, it turned out, was a woman of considerable means. Keeping herself apart from the rest of the settlers, she rented quarters from MacGregor that were far from the grainery or the cook shack, and there she and Hawk retreated, ignoring the scrape of the fiddle and the shouts of the caller as the square dancing commenced.
On the trail down from the pass, Hawk and Alice had slept close by each other, but prudence had kept them apart. Now, it was as if the doors of a pent-up furnace had been suddenly flung open. They could not get at each other quickly enough. They tore into each other like hungry birds at carrion. She told him she wanted him to rip her clothes from her and he had done so gladly, the sound of her ripping garments throwing fuel on the fire that consumed him.
Then she had fastened to him like a leech, sucking him and holding him and taking him deeper and still deeper—until both cried out at the end of it like wild animals and collapsed, thoroughly spent, into each other’s arms. Hawk felt her trying to arouse him just once more, but he pushed her away groggily, turned his head, and slept deeply.
When he awoke, still sprawled in her arms, he found the fiddle and the foot-stomping had stopped entirely, along with the cries of laughter and the happy shouts of the men sampling MacGregor's whiskey stores. The fort was still—as still as death.
He got up carefully so as not to disturb Alice and went to the window and looked out at the fort's moonlit quadrangle and the gate beyond. Not a soul was in sight. He felt suddenly very lonely.
“Hawk ... ?”
He turned. Alice was sitting up in bed.
“I'm over here,” he told her.
She left the bed and padded to his side on naked feet, a tall, willowy wraith of a woman, with long auburn tresses that coiled about her shoulders and her breasts, some of the curls entwining her nipples. Her patch gleamed mysteriously in the darkness.
She moved against him, the feel of her nakedness against his inflaming him. He draped one arm about her shoulder.
“It is so quiet,” she said, as if reading his thoughts.
“Yes.”
“And just look at that moon.”
“I’ll be going back to my cabin tomorrow,” he told her suddenly, his voice hoarse.
“But why?”
“I have things to get.”
“What things?”
“Never mind what things,” he told her roughly. “I have to go back up there.”
His voice brooked no argument. It was as if a steel door had slammed down the moment she asked the question. She did not argue with him. He looked away from her and back up at the huge silvery moon. He had not once mentioned to Alice anything about Singing Wind, and he never would. Singing Wind was something special and apart. And now he had to go back to her. He regretted not having left the settlers on the way here when Jim had suggested it.
Alice snaked her hand up about his neck. She turned him slightly and leaned gently against him. Then her lips found his. There was no angry, furious passion now. That particular storm had passed. Instead, something new blossomed between them, something more deadly—a tenderness coupled with raw desire.
He found himself unable to hold back. Her mouth opened and her tongue moved out like a serpent to scorch his lips and set fire to his loins. She felt him come alive against her and laughed softy, seductively. Without a word, his desire for her choking in his throat, Hawk took her up in his arms and carried her back to the bed.
There was no more talk of him going back to his cabin that night—or during the nights that followed.
The same moon that shone over Fort Hall that night was noticed by Singing Wind. Restless, she stood at the window, looking out upon the moonlit stretch of snow-covered meadowland that extended down from the ridge. For too many days she had waited for Hawk’s footprints to break that clean expanse as he moved up the ridge to the cabin.
What she felt, she did not tell even herself. But until a week before, she had strapped on her snowshoes and gone hunting every day, going as far as the trail she knew Hawk had taken on his way up to Grizzly Pass. She knew how long it should have taken him to bring the provisions to the settlers, and now she waited anxiously for his return. It seemed that he had been gone a very long time.
And then, one bright day, with the sun glancing brightly off the snow, she had seen the settlers retreating from Grizzly Pass, the women riding the horses, most of the men on foot breaking the way for them. She had been on the edge of a clump of juniper when she first caught sight of them. Hurrying to its edge, she peered down at the long, streaming file of settlers, looking eagerly for sign of Hawk.
When she caught sight of him at last, he was on his horse, a white woman sitting behind him, her arms tight about his waist.
Singing Wind had felt a quick stab of dismay, then immediately thought better of it. It did not matter what her eyes told her. Singing Wind was Hawk’s woman. Hawk was only helping one of the settlers. It was obvious where they were going. Back to the fort. And that was a good idea. Only insane whites would try to haul their wagons through in the middle of winter.
And as soon as they reached the fort, Hawk would return to her. After all, he had left his new buffalo robe behind, the one she had just made for him. He would not want to lose that. She wiped away the tears that came unbidden, turned, and made her way back to the cabin. From that day on, she had not gone hunting again, content to nibble on the little jerky still left from the buffalo while she waited for Hawk’s return.
When, she wondered dully, would he return? Would he ever return? The question was too much for her. Her heart beating queerly, she left the window and went to her bed. But she did not sleep.
Sick of jerky, a week later Singing Wind left the cabin and went in search of fresh game. She moved swiftly, effortlessly on her snowshoes, and though she had the Walker Colt Hawk had given her stuck into her belt, she relied on her bow and arrow.
The Crows had always chided her for practicing so often with a bow and arrow, but after her marriage they no longer said a word. They knew that if the two of them were to live, it would be as much by her efforts as by those of her inept husband. Then had come Golden Hawk. Like a spirit from the wood, he was—and kind and strong. With his long rifle she did not need her bow and arrow. And what pleasure he gave a woman!
Now, once again she was having to rely on her own prowess with a bow and arrow, and perhaps that was best. After almost two hours she caught sight of movement ahead of her in a clump of pine and headed for it. By the time she reached it, she saw the tail of a mule deer retreating. She kicked off her snowshoes and raced through the stand of pine. When she reached its far side, she saw the deer in the middle of a clearing, pausing in its flight to test the wind.
Singing Wind sent an arrow into its side. The animal leapt, ran a few yards, then slowed. She hurried out after it and sent a second shaft into it, this one burying itself in the deer’s neck. The deer moved off quickly to the right, jumped once, pathetically, then collapsed facedown into the snow.
Jubilant, Singing Wind advanced on the deer and proceeded to butcher it, not failing to notice how poorly it dressed. It had been a long winter already for this scrawny creature, she realized. But now, at least, Singing Wind would have fresh stew for Hawk when he returned.
The haunches thrown over her neck, what she had cut and dressed dragging behind her in a leather sack, Singing Wind made her way back to the cabin. It was close to sundown when she caught sight of the cabin on the ridge below her.
Arid then she saw the footprints of a man leading his horse up the slope to the ridge, and then his footprints going from the barn to the cabin. Hawk had returned as she knew he would! Still dragging the sack of dressed meat behind her in the snow, she hurried on down the slope to the cabin. Outside the cabin she left the meat and burst jubilantly through the door.
A tall Comanche warrior was standing in the middle of the room. His face was painted with considerable skill. He gazed coldly at her and smiled grimly. She spun around. Four Bannocks, each as hideously painted as the Comanche, entered the cabin behind her. One of them had lost part of his scalp.
She shrank close to the wall.
The Comanche approached her. “Where is Golden Hawk?” he asked in miserable Crow.
Singing Wind remembered then her foolish response when Hawk had warned her not to wander too far from the cabin. It was not true that no Indian would dare harm Golden Hawk’s woman. She grabbed for the big gun Hawk had given her. The Comanche struck it from her grasp, then slapped her so hard that she trembled all over and slumped back against the wall.
Again the Comanche asked, “Where is Golden Hawk?”
Singing Wind closed her mouth firmly. She would say nothing. She was Golden Hawk’s woman and would do nothing that would dishonor him.
Hawk’s uneasiness would not let him sleep. As silent as a shadow, he left his bed without disturbing Alice, dressed swiftly, and let himself out onto the fort’s quadrangle. The wind had died down and the stars were winking brightly in the night sky. It was the silence that awakened him, he realized.
He saw a light in the sutler’s grog shop and plowed through the deep snow toward it. He found Jim Clyman inside, nursing a whiskey at a table in the rear. Jim waved him over. Hawk slumped at Clyman’s table. Without a word the sutler came over with a mug for Hawk, and Jim filled it with his bottle. Jim, too, was silent.
It was the lateness of the hour, perhaps, or the sudden, blessed silence from the interminable wind.
Despite the fact that it was past midnight, the sutler was still going over his inventory. That day, despite the storm, a load of supplies had come in, the last shipment MacGregor could count on until spring, the teamster told him. This came as no surprise to anyone, including MacGregor. Fort Hall had been lucky so far; the snow had been light all winter, the mountains getting hit the hardest.
But this past week had made up for it.
“Can't sleep?” Hawk asked, and he downed most of the whiskey.
“Yep. Makes the silence kind of loud, don’t it? But I’ve been waiting for this.”
“Pulling out?”
“Yep,” Jim said.
“When?”
“First thing in the morning. That roan I bought is all packed. I’ll be riding the black when I pull out. Can’t see spendin’ the rest of the winter in this place. It ain’t MacGregor. He’s sure been decent. It’s all these bible-thumpin’ pilgrims. They smell worse’n a stable.”
Hawk nodded. He felt the same way, and as he listened to Jim Clyman, he found himself envying the man.
“Which direction you taking?”
“I won’t be going back to the cabin, if that’s what you’re thinkin’.”
Yes. That was what Hawk had been thinking—and the moment he thought of Singing Wind, it felt as though he’d been kicked in the stomach. But he said nothing and just shrugged.
“I’ll be going beyond Grizzly Pass,” Jim went on. “When I was up there, searching for fresh meat, I found me a hidden valley with a lake and a river pouring out of it filled with beaver. And other game, too. Maybe I’ll get me a little squaw and stay up there for a while. Get the stench of white folks out of my nostrils.”
Hawk grinned at him suddenly. “You wouldn’t want to give me any hint of where I could find that valley, would you?”
“Hell, no.”
“Didn’t think so. Hidden pretty well, is it?”
“You’d never think it was there if you didn’t know it. I was chasing a whitetail when I came on it.”
Hawk leaned back and sipped his whiskey. For a moment he considered asking Jim to stop by the cabin on his way and say good-bye to Singing Wind for him. Since Jim was going toward Grizzly Pass, it would not be much out of his way. And he had just mentioned that he would like to find himself a squaw. Singing Wind would do Jim nicely.
