Silken Savage Read Online Free Page B

at bay. Staring straight before her, Tanya refused to look to either side. Compressing her lips tightly together, she called upon her fierce pride to school her features into rigid planes, refusing to show her growing fear and panic. Stoically she bore the taunts and blows, ignoring the pain, willing herself not to cry out.
    Once she lost her footing and fell headlong in the dirt. The leather thong cut into her neck, cutting off her air, choking her. Amidst the throng of bronze limbs thrust at her, she fought her way to her feet, stumbling after her captor’s horse. Scraped, scratched, and bleeding, she clawed at the noose until she could once more draw a ragged breath. Hatred and pride rescued her flagging composure.
    In a clearing at the center of the camp, they stopped. The captives were herded together to one side as the returning braves dismounted and were greeted by their fellow warriors. Out of the largest and most ornate of the decorated
tipis
emerged a tall, gray-haired Indian. His proud stance proclaimed him a man of importance in his tribe. He spoke to Tanya’s captor, his deep commanding voice carrying to where Tanya waited with her fellow captives. A silence fell over the crowd when he spoke. Tanya’s captor responded, and together with several other men, they went into the ornate
tipi.
    This seemed to signal a return to camp activity.
    Standing with her friends, Tanya watched as two Indian women lit the huge fire in the center of the clearing. As the flames drove away the encroaching darkness, so did it drive away all hope of escape. Glancing about her, Tanya winced at the number of tents surrounding them. Should they somehow manage to slip unnoticed to the edge of the camp, they would have to cross an open expanse of field separating them from the forest’s edge. For the moment the Indians seemed content to ignore them, but Tanya sensed their every move was being monitored.
    Most of the crowd had dispersed. The women had dragged the curious children away. Tanya wondered if they were now inside their skin-covered homes eating supper and sharing conversation the way white people did. Many of the men had stayed and were sitting about the fire talking, now and then throwing a glance at the captive women.
    Bone-weary and sore, Tanya tentatively lowered herself to sit on the dew-dampened ground. Seeing no reaction from their guards, the other women followed suit. Too tired and scared to talk, they huddled silently together, a tense, pathetic group. The aroma of cooking food caused their empty stomachs to cramp painfully, especially as they watched Indian wives carrying bowls of food to their husbands around the fire. No one came to give them food or water or blankets to ward off the evening chill.
    Every so often a few of the Indians would wander off, only to return after having painted his face and chest, and sometimes his arms and legs, with strange, frightening designs. Soon they were all decorated in bright, greasy paints, and the hostages shivered, wondering if this was a prelude to their torture or death. It certainly appeared as if they were preparing for some sort of celebration or ceremony.
    Tanya’s nerves were stretched taut. Huddled with her trembling, terror-filled fellow captives, she strove desperately to keep her own panic at bay. Her heart had lodged somewhere in her throat and was pounding at a frightening pace. She jumped involuntarily when Melissa slumped against her. Melissa had found a temporary escape from her terror, whether in sleep or a fright-induced faint Tanya wasn’t sure. She shifted Melissa so that the girl’s head lay in her lap, absently stroking the bright hair. The soothing action brought her a measure of calm.
    Tanya barely recognized her captor when he finally re-emerged from the large tipi. He, too, had painted his face and chest. Across both cheeks he wore what resembled huge black claws, and one wide stripe of black followed the straight line of his nose. On his broad,