The following day did not bring the hoped for joy of a reunion between Adam and Kia; on the contrary, it was to be the start of a nightmare for Adam.

The day had started well enough. Their cells had been unlocked and a tin plate with a chewy, tepid meat stew had been thrown down on the floor along with a tin mug of water. This had been the first proper food Adam had eaten since he had let himself be caught. The previous night's offering had been a plate of fatty meat; more fat than flesh, and although Cameahwait was able to sit up and consume the unpleasant meal, Adam had turned his nose up and handed his two measly slices through the bars to Cam. By morning he knew that had been a mistake as he was starting to feel faint from lack of food. He wolfed the tasteless stew down. It didn't matter he had no fork and had to scoop the gluey mess up with his fingers, or that it had as much taste as a bowl of horse feed. It was sustenance, and it filled the gaping hole in his belly.

A couple of hours later a group of soldiers appeared. He recognised them as the men from the ambushed convoy. They yanked Adam up by his arms and hauled him out of the cell. He was dragged to the yard and forced down under the spout of the water pump. With one man pumping the handle up and down, and two large women armed with rough cloth, Adam had been soaked and scrubbed to remove all the war paint which marked his body.

An unbidden memory emerged from the hidden recesses of Adam's mind. He could suddenly recall standing docilely in a tin bath as a child whilst his father vigorously washed him down. He must have been about five years old and he was covered in black soot. How he had ended up in such a condition, Adam could not recollect. But he distinctly recalled his father muttering and admonishing his young son for getting into such a mess. Although his father was angry at him, and had to be brisk whilst washing away every speck of soot, his actions hadn't been painful. Unlike now. The two washerwomen scrubbed at Adam's skin as though they were attacking the step of a brick house back east. As one woman gripped him by the neck and scoured his back until his skin was red, the other would be pulling out an arm and rubbing enthusiastically to remove the paint. If he tried to push them away, one of the soldiers would rap him sharply with the butt of his rifle on the offending arm to make him behave. His head was forced back and a cloth was rubbed violently over his face. To add to his humiliation, his buckskin pants had been forced down his thighs to reveal his pale buttocks as a surety no markings remained. When all the paint was gone, Adam could do nothing more than sit back against the pump in a puddle of paint-stained water, his skin scratched and raw, feeling utterly humiliated by the experience. And the whole time the soldiers had stood and watched and laughed.

The two washerwomen took a last look at their handiwork, nodded smartly to the laughing soldiers and marched back to wherever they had come from. Adam stayed on the ground, his head drooping and wet hair falling into his eyes. Through the dripping wet tangles he could see several pairs of boots and the barrels of carbines resting on the sandy earth. Another pair of boots—highly polished and clearly belonging to an officer—walked into Adam's line of vision. As Adam turned his face towards him, the man dropped to his heels until they were eye to eye.

"You was right, Cap'n, he ain't no Injun."

The captain looked over his shoulder at the man who had spoken and then back to Adam.

"Tell me your name."

Adam looked back to the ground, the drips from his soaking wet hair running in rivulets down his face.

"I asked you to tell me your name."

Adam lifted his face and stared at the officer but stayed silent.

The captain rose to his feet and with a nod to one of the soldiers, took a step back.

The soldier stepped forward and knelt next to Adam. Before he knew what was happening, the soldier had grasped a handful of Adam's hair and sharply jerked his head back. Adam winced at the sharp pulling pain in his scalp.

"I'll ask you one last time. What is your name?"

Adam's eyes narrowed into charcoal streaks of defiance. "Nïnay nía Liwanu. Nï'ara Nuuch."

The captain's nostrils flared. "What?"

"Nïnay nía Liwanu. Nï'ara Nuuch. Nïnay nía Liwanu. Nï'ara Nuuch."

Through the pain-induced tears in his eyes Adam could see the soldiers exchanging looks of revulsion, top lips curling in loathing for the white man who refused to speak his own tongue.

"Geez, Cap'n, he's gone native."

Another man spat.

The captain turned away, the same look of repugnance marring his features. "Take him back to his cell."

Adam was hauled to his feet once more and propelled back into the cell where he was thrown with force onto the floor. He had kept up an increasingly loud mantra as he was returned to the stockade. "Nï'ara Nuuch. Nï'ara Nuuch. Nï'ara Nuuch." The soldiers shook their heads in disgust as they left the room. After a moment or two, Adam peeled himself slowly from the floor, his skin smarting from the rough treatment. There was a snort as Cameahwait commented drolly, "Now that's the Liwanu I remember."

Adam guessed it was one of his brothers who had given the game away and disclosed that the man in their cells was not a Ute Indian, and that he was, in fact, a white man born in Boston and member of a successful ranching family in Virginia City. Despite this, Adam didn't hold any bad feelings towards them. He had been so dismayed that Kia wasn't in the wagons with the rest of the Ute boys, that he certainly hadn't been thinking straight. If he had thought about it properly, he would have realised Hoss and Joe would follow the wagons back to the fort and make an approach to the commander's office. Thankfully, Hoss— the guilty party—would never put two and two together and realise it was his conversation with the captain that was partly responsible for the appalling treatment Adam was to receive over the next few days. His unmasking as a white man was only one of the reasons he was to be beaten so badly. Add to this Adam's open defiance, and refusal to speak in his native tongue, and anger and indignation was stirred within the men who had manned the transport.

It started that afternoon. Three of the soldiers from the convoy—including the young sentry whom Adam had frightened so much he had wet himself—entered his cell and yanked him to his feet. His arms were secured by two of the men, and then the young sentry, with hatred and vengeance in his eyes, punched Adam forcefully in the stomach. Adam folded in two, expelling a grunt of air, but was kept upright by the two men behind him. More hits to his belly and chest followed, and then the young man, clenching and unclenching his fist, started on Adam's jaw. The torment seemed to last for hours, but in matter of fact only lasted a few minutes. The young sentry took a step back, shaking his unclenched hand and nodded to his two cohorts. They let him go, and Adam crumpled to the ground. The men stepped over him as they exited the cell and left Adam and Cameahwait alone.

Cam had watched his friend being beaten with frustration coursing through his veins that there was nothing he could do to give him aid. He had pulled himself up the bars into a seated position, and grimaced at every thump Adam received. He watched as Adam lay winded on the hard wooden floor.

"Liwanu? Liwanu, my brother?"

Adam groaned and raised a dismissive hand. "I've had worse beatings from my little brother Joe when he was a nothing more than a whippersnapper."

Cameahwait grinned and lowered himself back down to the blanket. "But why beat you?"

Adam sat up carefully and gently probed his painful jaw. "They didn't like the look of my face without the warpaint."

xxxxxxx

That night, Adam was angrier about the non-appearance of Kia than his beating and humiliation in the yard. He paced slowly around the cell, one hand held out for balance against the wall, the other curled around his belly.

"They must know who she is to me; why else would they not let her come?"

"Perhaps they see I am better."

"Someone must have told them."

There was nothing Cameahwait could say to calm his agitated friend. He let Adam pace until eventually Adam quietened and lowered himself to the floor.

The meal that night was a slab of fat with a slither of rubbery bacon lining the edge. It was tough and chewy and Adam's bruised jaw ached when he tried to gnaw through it. He didn't turn his nose up, though, choosing to grind the meat slowly on the less painful side of his mouth.

But the following day, a painful jaw became the least of Adam's worries. The same three soldiers from the day before arrived before the sun had even risen, bursting into the room with a lantern to light the way. Adam was lying on his side, his arms wrapped around his naked torso to keep out the cold of the night and early morning. He had been in a deep sleep and turned groggily onto his back when the light was shone in his face. This time they didn't bother to stand him up. They simply stood and kicked him from all sides. One unfortunate kick got him square between the legs and with a cry of pain he pulled his knees up sharply, rounding his back against the assault. He lay on the hard wood floor—a tense ball of pain—with one hand clutching his groin and the other over his head, until they stopped and went away. He stayed curled up, ignoring the quiet pleas of Cam. And when the breakfast plate was thrown on the floor next to him, he ignored it. Instead, he reached out with shaking fingers for the tin mug of water and managed to pour some into his belly before his head fell back exhausted to the floor. Adam didn't move again that day.

The following morning after a night of agonised and restless sleep, he was able to drag himself across the cell to face Cam's concerned gaze. He ignored another breakfast until Cameahwait shouted at him to eat something, even if it was only a scrap. With the plate nearby he managed to lift his head and scoop some gloopy mess into his mouth and chew slowly.

Adam spent that morning flitting fitfully between sleep and a consciousness tormented by waking dreams. But then the torture started all over again. In the middle of the afternoon, the three men returned. This time they used batons on the soles of his feet. Then, to add to Adam's misery, they hauled him onto toes that could barely take the pain, and beat him until he was unconscious.

In a moment of wakefulness he heaved his wounded body over to the other side of the cell and fell into a haunted stupor. Cameahwait could only watch as Adam lay with his bruised and lacerated back to him, twitching and muttering in his delirium.

But the next day had brought respite. A voice had broken through his anguished dreams. It was a voice from the near past, a rough but kind voice, and one that knew his Indian name. He heard another voice talking to the new one. Cameahwait. Of course, Cam was there, somewhere. The other voice spoke, said his name, said he was Bill Half-Foot. Bill…Bill from the army patrol. From the desert. Adam had managed to pull himself upright, leaning heavily against the wall. Through unfocussed eyes he had discerned the choppy dark hair and fringed jacket that he remembered so well from when Bill had offered a thoughtful ear to his story. Seeing Bill was like spying a welcome oasis in a rain-deprived desert. Adam couldn't help but smile. And when he'd reached out his hand and Bill's warm fingers had caught his own chilled fingers in his, he had relaxed, only a bit, for the first time since the beatings had started. Bill had only been there for a few minutes, but he had said what Adam needed to hear, that he would find Kia, and Adam felt another emotion resurface. Hope. And as he had drifted away into welcome oblivion, he had prayed to any god or spirit that might have been listening, that his nightmare would soon be over.