The Trapper

by Jenna Kernan

  She twisted on her saddle to look back at the man she’d seen strike Troy with a club. She memorized his face, studying the eyes and the curve of his mouth, beneath the black paint. The cold fire of vengeance burned within her. For the first time in her life she felt icy conviction that she would hurt this man if given the opportunity.

  The night came and they forged on. She coiled her stiff fingers as they rode by the light of the half moon. The yapping of dogs drew her to alert. Next came the smell of campfires. In the field, strange conical tents silhouetted against the starry night.

  They had arrived.

  Riders mounted on bareback charged from the darkness. Young men, naked save the merest of leather cloths at their waists, whooped as they circled the party. Their cries lifted the hairs on Eleanor’s neck.

  Her nostrils flared as she struggled with her breathing and the dratted corset once more. Troy was right. The thing would be the death of her.

  Faces appeared from the darkness and escorted them through camp. They stopped at a large central fire.

  Her gaze darted around the mass of men and women all staring at her with beetle black eyes. A hush fell, which frightened her more than the piercing cries of the women. Whatever devilish plan they’d formed, she prayed they would not violate her before striking her down.

  A man in a leather shirt, stained dark, stepped forward, stopping before her. She gazed down in astonishment. He looked thinner, as if he had been ill, but she recognized him instantly. He was the man she’d painted at Fort Union.

  It seemed a lifetime ago.

  “Wind Dancer? What are you doing here?”

  “I living here, Medicine Woman.” He raised his hands. “You come down now.”

  She slipped her tired leg over the saddle horn and leaned forward. Wind Dancer caught her about the waist. His eyes went wide at the contact. He looked frightened and released his hold the instant her feet touched the earth. He spoke to the others sending a murmur of excitement through the gathering.

  Facing her now, he drew his knife. She lifted her hands to defend herself and he sliced cleanly through her bonds.

  “You come.” He motioned and the forest of Indians parted.

  She gaped as the leather fell from her wrists. She rubbed the raw skin before trailing after Wind Dancer.

  He led her to a large tent of tanned leather hides. Wind Dancer motioned to the entrance hole that stood a foot off the ground and reached only three feet high. It reminded her of a fox burrow. She hesitated, wondering how to manage such a low opening.

  Wind Dancer motioned. “You go in.”

  Her corset made stooping quite impossible, so she curtsied low. This gave her a view of the solemn men, all peering at her from inside the strange house. Her nerve left her and she lifted her shoulders as if to protect her neck.

  Thoughts of Troy came and she wished fervently he were there to tell her what to do. His advice on Indians came back. They ain’t wild animals. They’re men, like all men, no better or worse.

  She drew as deep a breath as her corset permitted and the stays cut against her ribs. Then she placed her hands inside the burrow and leaned forward until she fell within. A bare-chested man, his hair shiny with grease, motioned to an empty place across the fire. She rose and walked on trembling legs to the spot he indicated, wondering how she would manage sitting upon the ground in her attire. She decided to kneel, folding her feet beneath her bottom until her heels touched the small bustle. Wind Dancer’s entrance was much more graceful. He simply crouched and stepped within, before straightening.

  He addressed the group a moment and then the older men who sat at the place facing the entrance.

  The old man spoke. Eleanor noted he lacked front teeth. His white hair lay in a braid that reminded her of white rope. A string of crimson glass beads adorned the end of the plait.

  The man motioned to someone behind her. For the first time she noticed a woman, young and dark, kneeling in the shadows of the fire. She moved forward with a cup and offered it to Eleanor.

  It was not until that moment she realized how thirsty she’d become. But could this be drugged?

  She dismissed the thought. After all, they did not need opiates to manage her. She nodded her thanks and drank. The sweet taste of ripe berries filled her mouth. She drained the contents and the woman extended a tray of roasted meat. Eleanor felt strange eating before the curious stares of so many men so she lifted her hand to refuse.

  “No, thank you.”

  Wind Dancer spoke and the woman withdrew from the tent. He waited until the tent flap swung closed and then addressed the gathering, his voice now loud like a herald and she jumped at the volume change. “This is Charging Buffalo, chief of our tribe. He welcomes Medicine Woman to his lodge.”

  She blinked. “Who is Medicine Woman?”

  Confusion pinched his face as he answered. “You are Medicine Woman.”

  Only then did she recall Troy telling her that the men she painted believed her paintings held some mystic power. “And he welcomes me? I’ve been kidnapped.”

  Wind Dancer looked confused. “What is kin-napped?”

  “You abducted me, stole me from my guide.”

  He translated. Charging Buffalo nodded gravely and spoke a long time. Eleanor remembered her upbringing and did not fidget, though the effort rattled her nerves. Her gaze flashed around the group of bronze men. For an insane moment she wished she had her sketchbook and could capture this assemblage. Who would believe she faced a council of Sioux warriors?

  At last Charging Buffalo ceased.

  Wind Dancer spoke to her. “Rotting Face sickness kills our people. Charging Buffalo say white men not die from this curse, so white medicine protecting them. I come from Fort Union, I have sickness.” He lifted his forelock to show the angry red scars left by smallpox. “But I do not die.”

  Eleanor had the disease as a child, but still she recoiled.

  “Your medicine painting protects me. Charging Buffalo bring you to protect his people.”

  She was about to object and explain that this was stuff and nonsense when a tiny voice within her urged caution. She hesitated and considered her choices as she glanced around at the earnest, serious faces.

  If she said she could not protect them, what would they do? An equally terrifying possibility crossed her mind and her breathing stopped for a moment. What if they discovered her paintings held no special powers? Fear gripped her, closing about her throat like punishing fingers. Perspiration dampened her forehead.

  What would Troy do?

  She lifted her chin and imagined he sat here in her place. She ceased her attentions to Wind Dancer and turned instead to address Charging Buffalo. “What is it you want?”

  She waited for the answer.

  “You do paint the chief and his warriors, then his wives and childrens.”

  Did he say wives? She stared at the man. Had he more than one?

  She managed to close her gaping mouth and draw up her courage. “What do you offer for my paintings?”

  The men discussed this question at length. At last Wind Dancer made their reply. “We will give you eleven horses of your choosing, eight buffalo robes and two slaves.”

  Eleanor blinked, wondering if this was a good offer, at the same time knowing she wanted none of this.

  “I will tell you what I want. Bring the body of Troy Price to this village for a proper burial. Return all our belongings, including my horse. After my work is finished, you will escort me back to Fort Union.”

  The men talked. “What about the horses?” asked Wind Dancer.

  “I have not yet decided.”

  More discussion. “Charging Buffalo asks if you want Price killed?”

  To even speak of this set a white-hot rage afire within “You’ve already killed him. Once is certainly enough.”

  The warriors spoke in agitated voices. Finally she interceded.

  “What are they saying?”

  “Price alive when we go.”
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  Chapter 14

  He fingered the knot and the new scab on the back of his head. He washed the dried blood from his face and neck, then vomited on the bank. The vomiting continued throughout the afternoon as he followed the tracks of the Sioux ponies.

  After sundown Troy lost their trail and had to await the moon’s rising. Then he continued in a zigzag pattern until he found the way once more.

  Lena needed him, so he pressed on until the moon set, finally stopping beside a stream to drink and rest until dawn. He settled against the trunk of a pine as he gnawed on some of the jerked elk he carried in his pouch. His stomach revolted and he lost his meal. Finally he settled for small sips of water from the skin.

  He did not flatter himself that he could rescue Lena from Charging Buffalo. The man had over sixty warriors. But he aimed to die trying.

  They returned for him in the late morning of the second day. Seven braves. Troy lay flat in the long grass thinking that the sun behind him gave a slight edge. They had not seen him yet, but on that course, they certainly would.

  He crept perpendicular hoping to get clear of them, knowing they would spot his tracks. It was obvious that they had come back for him.

  Regret hollowed his innards. He wished he could have seen Lena once more. He waited until they were nearly upon him and then leapt from the grass and clutched the nearest man by the leg, dragging him off his pony. The others shouted as he swung up in the fallen man’s place. He turned to face the warriors’ attack. Instead of charging forward, the men pulled up on their reins and waved their hands.

  He charged forward and they retreated.

  Troy knew the Sioux. They did not retreat, especially not when the odds were seven to one. He lowered his reins and stared at the man now standing before him in the grass.

  “Hello, Wind Dancer.”

  “You strike like a snake,” he said swiping the bits of grass from his damp body, then turning his attention back to Troy. “We are searching for you.”

  “Come back to finish the job?”

  “Medicine Woman wants you.”

  Troy rubbed the knot on his head beneath his hat. “Turns out I was headed that way, but seeing as how you killed my horse it was taking longer than customary.”

  “I am sorry. Charging Buffalo say you pick from his ponies.”

  Damn wild, skinny-hipped unbroken mustang. Dahlonega was half thoroughbred.

  “Now, you ride this horse.” Wind Dancer motioned and Troy saw that there were only six braves and seven ponies. He swung off the brave’s horse and handed the rein to Wind Dancer.

  “Medicine Woman is well?” he asked.

  “Yes, but she will not make a spirit painting until she see you not dead.”

  Troy lifted his eyebrows. “That so?”

  “Yes. She is very stubborn woman.”

  Now he understood why he was getting the royal treatment. Somehow his little princess had stared down the Sioux. He was impressed.

  “Best get on then.”

  “We bring our Medicine Man, Red Eagle, for your wounds,” said Wind Dancer.

  The old man dismounted and poked at the knot on Troy’s head. Troy gazed at the man’s sour expression. He looked like he just swallowed a bug.

  “What’s eating him?”

  “He say the spirit paintings are evil medicine. But Charging Buffalo sees the truth.”

  Troy winced as the man pressed harder. Lena’s arrival was stepping on this man’s toes. Troy studied the healer.

  Being supplanted by a woman surely hit hard. Troy wondered what the man was willing to do to regain his authority.

  He knew an enemy when he saw one. Lena needed someone to watch her back and get her the hell out of there as soon as possible.

  The old man gave him water laced with a bitter root Troy recognized as treatment for pain. Then they mounted up and headed north.

  The River Otter band of Sioux summered on the Yellowstone, on a wide plain, inside a bend in the river. He was shocked to see so few teepees staked along the grassy banks.

  “Where are the rest of your people?”

  Wind Dancer’s jaw tightened before he spoke. “Gone to our ancestors, taken by the Rotting Face disease.”

  “So many?”

  “Nearly all. Here a few remain. We need white magic. The council decides that Medicine Woman will protect us from this sickness.”

  Troy knew it would not. This disease once attacked his people in the time of his great grandmother. He knew its power and that if it had destroyed Charging Buffalo’s numbers already, the survivors would not likely sicken again. That meant he and Lena might just live long enough to see the Missouri.

  They rode past the sentries and into the center of the village. Women left their work to gather and stare at the man summoned by the Medicine Woman.

  Troy didn’t know if he should be please or shamed. It sure the hell beat riding in uninvited.

  Then he saw her. She wore that new dress. The pale yellow silk shone like the sun. Her hair hung in sausage curls about her ears, and upon her head was a gauzy little cap with matching silk flowers above each ear. Her skirts were far fuller than he was accustomed to seeing and stuck out about her like a water barrel.

  She beamed at him, as she seemed to float over the grass in his direction. The women moved aside as she came. He slid off the pony and somehow managed not to run the distance separating them.

  She halted before him as if unable to take the final step. He held out his hands and she leapt into his arms. Her wrists locked about his neck and she raised her head and tugged.

  His mouth dipped and he kissed her on the lips. When he drew away he found her crying. Confused, he set her aside and tried to step away but she clung like that first morning at the fort.

  “When I saw you lying there, I gave up hope. I thought they’d killed you.”

  “He thumped me good. But I got a head harder than a mountain goat’s.”

  She released him only enough to clasp his chin and study his face.

  “You look so pale.”

  She drew a handkerchief from a sleeve. He stared at the scrap of lace, as out of place here on the prairie as she was. Her hand moved to dab at her eyes.

  “But all the blood. They hit you so hard. And your horse. I’m so sorry. This is all my fault.”

  He didn’t deny it, but she could hardly have predicted how the Sioux would take her paintings. Wild as wolves, the Sioux. His people understood whites. Had lived peacefully with them for nearly three hundred years, but all that fell away with the gold. Damn that filthy metal.

  Lena stroked him. “I’ve never been so happy to see anyone in my life.”

  “I imagine so,” he said, thinking of the terror she must have experienced.

  “Not for that reason. I was afraid, certainly, but the grief when I thought you dead. I don’t know how I survived it.”

  She didn’t look worse for wear, but he didn’t say that. Lena always knew how to turn herself out and he was certain looking so different only helped increase the Sioux’s awe of her. She hesitated, biting her lip as though she were itching to say something more.

  “Well?” he asked.

  “Did I place you in jeopardy? If I hadn’t sent them, would you have reached safety by now?”

  “I was coming after you.”

  Her eyes widened and she began to cry again.

  “Best stop that. You need to appear strong.”

  She lifted a gloved hand to her eyes. The tears disappeared into the cotton cloth. Troy glanced about and saw Red Eagle’s eyes narrow as he watched Lena like his namesake.

  “They want me to paint, but I said I could not until I saw you safe.”

  “Explains why they captured me alive,” he said, scratching under his hat.

  “I also told them that you would negotiate the terms of my work.”

  “What terms?”

  “They offered me eleven ponies and…” She pressed a finger to her chin. “What else?”

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bsp; “Eleven!” He could not keep the shock from his voice.

  Her finger dropped. “Is that a great deal?”

  “I never heard them offer more than five and that was for a captured daughter of a chief.”

  “Well then, I should be flattered.” She leaned forward and whispered. “Troy, they also offered me slaves.”

  He snorted. “You got enough of them in New York.”

  She stiffened. “I beg your pardon. Those men are free.”

  His eyes narrowed. “Lena, you ever work a day in that kitchen of yours? There’s little difference. Your world stands on the backs of others.”

  She shifted uncomfortably.

  Troy drew his arm across his forehead. This was neither the time nor the place for that. “What about your paintings?”

  “They think they will protect them from smallpox.”

  Troy frowned. “I heard. Anybody you paint gets sick while we’re here and it’s all over but the shouting.”

  She worked her hands together as if washing them. “What do I do?”

  “Don’t see no other way but to paint who they say as fast as possible. We can’t hornswoggle them for long. Maybe we’ll get clear before they figure the truth.”

  Wind Dancer stepped forward. “You will paint now.”

  Lena’s smile showed a courage that made Troy’s insides swell with pride.

  “I will.”

  Troy took a position beside Lena as she set up her easel and paints. Red Eagle worked grinding roots into a paste as a woman cleaned the blood from Troy’s head. Soon he had his hat back on. The sticky mash made the cut itch, but he refrained from scratching.

  Lena painted Charging Buffalo first and alone. He stood in his full regalia and Troy admitted he cut a fine figure, every inch the chief.

  He glanced from the light lines and gentle washes of Lena’s paper. As the afternoon wore on she added the bold reds and greens of his costume. She even captured the proud angle of his jaw and the intensity of his eyes.

  As the sun grew hot, Lena retrieved a collapsible parasol, but could not hold this and paint. One of the men lashed the handle to a spear and staked it so as to provide her with shade.