Page 59 of The Enchanted Land

At the end of two days, they made camp again, hastily erecting the crude shelters. As Morgan was lashing some dried grass to the roof of the hut, Jacques stopped beside her.

“My scouts have just returned to tell me that no one is following us. The little Spaniard said he had killed your husband, but I would not trust such a one as him.Eh, ma petite?” She stared at the Frenchman as if seeing him for the first time. He was a short, thick man with a scar across one eyebrow and a belly that hung over his belt. He looked very old, as though every single event in his life had etched a line on his weather-beaten face. He stuck out a dirty hand and caressed Morgan’s breast. Involuntarily, she jumped backwards.

“Ah, so—la petitecomes alive. They usually do. You are lucky now. On other trips, I have let my Apacheamistake their pleasure of the white women. But they are not gentle and one of the women died. I lose money when one of my women dies. Other women showed up at Madame Nicole’s with Indian babies in their bellies. My old friend does not like this. She says the white men are such silly creatures that they do not like to go where a redskin has gone before.” He cupped Morgan’s chin in his hand and studied her. “Yes, Madame Nicole will like you.” Morgan tried to move her head from his iron grasp, and the Frenchman laughed.

“Such spirit from one so little! Be careful, Golden Hair, or I may take special notice of you myself.” He turned and was gone.

Morgan stood for a few seconds glaring at his back, her eyes blazing with hatred. Then she went into the hut and was soon asleep. For the first night since she had been taken from the Montoya ranch, she dreamed. She saw Seth in her dream, and she ran to him, her arms open. When she was close enough to see his eyes, they were sad and he turned his back on her and began to walk away. She called his name, pleadingly at first, and then her cries became more and more desperate.

She awoke, her body drenched in sweat, to feel a hand pressed firmly over her mouth. “You’re all right now. I’ll take care of you. Just be quiet or they’ll hear you.”

Morgan felt herself being cradled. It was good to have an older woman’s comforting arms about her. In the three days she had been a prisoner, she had paid little attention to her surroundings or to her fellow captives. Now she felt she desperately needed this woman’s comfort.

The woman talked to Morgan as she held her. “My husband and my little boy and me lived up on the side of a mountain, about three days east of where they picked you up. It wasn’t an easy life. The winters were hard, and Bobby was always out with the sheep.” Her voice was toneless.

“The three of us had just set down to eat when the door busted open and the Frenchman and two of his Indians walked in. Without a word, they killed Bobby and little Jimmy. He was only three years old.

“They looked me over, like I was an animal. I made a jump for Bobby’s gun, not to kill them but to kill myself. I didn’t want to live after what they did to my baby. They caught me. So here I am.”

“Why?” Morgan asked through her tears. “Who is this Madame Nicole? What does he want with us? Why doesn’t he just kill us? If he killed us, then I could be with Seth.”

“Seth is your husband?”

Morgan nodded.

“I’m not sure, but I believe he deals in white slavery. He doesn’t keep all women.” She shuddered. “Only the ones who pass his inspection.”

“A slave?” Morgan asked. “I don’t understand. You can’t sell white women.”

“Well, it seems he can and is going to. I heard them mention San Francisco.”

“Just be glad you’re little and pretty.” Morgan turned to another woman. Although it was dark in the hut, she knew the woman was young, with bright red hair—pretty in a brassy way. Her mouth was too wide to be really beautiful. “Her mother wasn’t so lucky.” She inclined her head to the girl in the corner, quietly sobbing. “They raped her mother and then killed her. The girl had to watch.” The girl in the corner was only about sixteen years old.

“My name’s Jessica,” said the red-haired woman, “but everyone calls me Jessy.”

“And I’m Mary,” said the woman who still held Morgan. It seemed understood that they would not use last names.

Morgan murmured her own name.

“Morgan? Strange name for a girl,” Jessy said. When Morgan held her silence, Jessy continued. “The girl over there is Alice.” She turned again to Morgan. “How’d they get you? What happened?”

Mary interrupted Jessy’s questions. “Don’t bother her now, Jessy, she needs rest. It’s too soon for her to talk about it.”

Jessy continued, “I can guess how you feel, but I figure for me anything’s better than my old man. They killed him, too, but I don’t feel no regret. In fact, I’m almost glad to be goin’ to San Francisco. Been itchin’ to go ever since I heard about the gold.”

“Let’s go to sleep now.” Mary put an end to Jessy’s story. “They’ll want us to start soon enough. Let’s remember, though, that we’re in this together.”

The next night they set up camp again. Morgan was beginning to be adept at taking apart and setting up a wickiup. The three women felt a good deal closer, and for the most part, they worked well together. The girl Alice still spoke to no one, and went about her work awkwardly. Morgan joined the other women in covering Alice’s errors and slowness.

Morgan set the last bundle on the ground by the wickiup. As she straightened, she felt a hand on her hair. She knew it was one of the Indians. She had seen them staring at her as she hastily braided her hair each morning. In spite of herself, she felt a scream rising in her throat. As her mouth opened, a hand closed over it, a hand tasting of smoke and horses.

Morgan felt her body shiver with fear. She did not like the Indians. They never showed any feeling.

Gently, the Apache unfastened her braid and held the blond silk up to form a curtain that caught the sunlight. He uttered some guttural words and seemed pleased as he rubbed his hand in the softness of the hair.

A shot rang out close to their feet. The Indian dropped his hands from Morgan and reached for his knife. She turned to see Jacques holding a rifle, aimed at the Apache behind her. The two men exchanged a few of the guttural sounds and the Apache turned and left, angrily.

Jacques went to Morgan, her body shaking with fright. The Frenchman grasped the uncoiled braid of her hair and let it twine around his fingers.

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