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“Stop it! What…”
I tried to raise myself on one elbow, forgetting that my wrists were still bound, and fell back helplessly. In the dim light, his flickering upward glance at me looked almost evil, although his voice remained flatly impersonal, like the touch of his fingers, which now probed gently at my swelling ankle.
“Keep still. Done some horse doctorin’ when I had to. But nothin’ seems to be broke, anyhow.”
“How convenient for you!” I managed, with a gasp of pain when the pressure of his fingers increased. It was ridiculous that I still had the overwhelming desire to keep on sobbing. In spite of my efforts to fight my own weakness, I suppose I sniffled, for he looked at me sharply.
“You hurtin’, or just mad?”
My ankle throbbed sickeningly, but I wouldn’t say so. I wouldn’t let him think I was begging for pity!
Pressing my lips together I turned my head aside. I would not let him hear me cry out again. I would not whimper, I would not sob, I would not grovel. No matter what he did…
He had begun to loosen the other moccasin and to draw it off my foot. I could not help wondering, with the part of my mind which was not invaded by waves of pain and tiredness, what he was about now, but I would not look at him either.
“I guess you did some walkin’.” His voice was ironic; I hated him for it. “Wait here. I’ll be back in a while.” I knew he had come to his feet with all the easy litheness of an animal, and that he stood watching me for a moment, but I pretended to keep my eyes closed and would not speak. Through my lashes, I saw him shrug and walk away silently.
“Wait here,” he had said, as if I had been in any condition to move. Perhaps he hoped I’d attempt to run away again—how? By dragging myself painfully into the bushes?
I was in a trance of weariness by now, halfway between dozing and unconsciousness, too tired to go on thinking.
When I opened my eyes a small fire had been lit nearby, and I felt a cold, stinging sensation in my feet.
I must have moved involuntarily, for Lucas Cord’s husky, impatient voice ordered me sharply to hold still. By this time I was exhausted and light-headed with hunger and thirst. It was the odor of cooked food nearby which had awakened me.
Did he intend to torture me? He was binding strips of cloth torn from my own petticoats about my feet and around my injured ankle, working silently and deftly. Even when he tore off another strip I was capable of only a small gasp of protest.
He straightened, his face expressionless. In the firelight I noticed all over again the bronze glints in the stubbled whiskers he’d allowed to grow.
He walked over to the fire and came back carrying a kind of gourd dish.
“Thought mebbe you might be feelin’ hungry.” He caught my look and a corner of his lips lifted a trifle as if he had almost smiled.
“Ain’t horsemeat, if that’s what you’re thinking. Nor dog-meat either. It’s venison. Shot an elk-deer this morning.”
“Dog-meat!” I stared at him in horror and he shook his head in mock amazement.
“Didn’t you know? It’s considered a real delicacy. But I guess your stomach has gotta get accustomed to it.”
In contrast to his earlier impatience, he seemed almost affable now, but I didn’t trust him even though I discovered that he had untied my wrists.
“Better sit up against that saddle; you’ll find it easier to eat.” Before I could attempt the movement he leaned across me, his hands hard around my waist as he levered me upward.
From behind the saddle he produced a battered canteen which was half-full of cold water. I think I would have gulped it all down thirstily if he hadn’t warned me, with exaggerated patience, to take only tiny sips at first, barely enough to wet the inside of my mouth.
; “Drink too much an’ you’ll get cramps so bad you won’t be able to eat.”
It was the most delicious stew I had ever eaten, although I did not dare ask what else was in it beside venison. Anything would have tasted good to me, of course, after having been half-starved, forced to walk for miles and miles in the broiling sun! Even now I did not quite know how I had managed to survive.
Lucas Cord was watching me with a strange, narrow-eyed look that did not swerve even when I happened to glance up and caught him at it.
He said, in that husky, caustic voice of his I was beginning to know so well, “Don’t expect this kind of service after tonight! My brother’s wife did the cookin’ and made that salve I put on your feet. But tomorrow you can start makin’ yourself useful around camp. Little Bird will show you.”
I lowered the dish and stared at him wildly.
“What do you mean? Around camp? But you’re not going to keep me here, are you?”
