Winter Rage (Mountain Times Book 1)

by John Legg

  “No, Zeb,” Strapp said primly. “It wouldn’t be right. Besides, she is more heathen than young lady, and I don’t wish to soil myself with her.”

  “Hell, she ain’t really gonna tear off yo’ pants and show these Blackfeet y’all ain’t got no balls.”

  “It wouldn’t be right,” Strapp said again, prissily.

  “Out here, if’n y’all make a threat, y’all best be ready to back it up. With them fancy duds of yo’s, y’all are too pretty to be took serious. Y’all want somethin’ out here, y’all got to take it.” Willis turned back to Hannah and smiled unpleasantly. “Now, like Ah was sayin ...”

  Hannah spit a piece of jerky at him. Willis got up fast, but Hannah was on her feet first and leaped, ramming her head into the pit of his stomach, knocking him backward. They stumbled, fell and rolled, Hannah using her suppleness and speed against Willis’s bulk and strength. She knew she couldn’t keep up with him for long, but she would not give up.

  The two rolled around on the muddy ground and finally stopped with Willis on top. He howled as Hannah bit his hand. When he jerked the hand up, she squirmed out from under him. He cursed and pushed himself up.

  Hannah leaped at him, grabbed his hair and threw her legs around his middle. He started punching her in the sides, but she yanked at his hair as hard as she could and then snapped her head forward to latch her teeth onto his ear. She clamped her teeth down hard and bit off the top of his ear. She spit it out as Willis howled with pain.

  Blind with rage, he tore her from his chest and flung her to the ground. He touched his ear and his hand came away bloody. “Bitch,” he hissed, evil blossoming in his eye like a summer wildflower.

  Hannah ducked as Willis swung wildly. He missed, and she kicked at his crotch. He managed to turn his thigh and block it, but his face was white. He swung again, and the powerful left sent Hannah sprawling. She bounded up and caught a vicious right to the jaw. She fell again, and could not rise. A bruise was already discoloring her face.

  “Ah ain’t evah had me a woman’s scalp,” he snarled. “But Ah aim to get yours.” He pulled his knife and tested the blade against a thumb. “Maybe Ah’ll take both yo’ scalps,” he laughed evilly. “After Ah’ve had mah fill of y’all.” He slid the knife away and took a step.

  Suddenly two Blackfoot warriors stood between him and the girl. For the first time he noticed that all the Piegans were standing around. Elk Horn stood in the ring of people, watching with cold, hard eyes.

  Willis threw caution to the wind. “Y’all best get out of my way, boys,” he snapped.

  Two more warriors grabbed his arms and pulled him away from Hannah. They dragged him over and stood him in front of Elk Horn.

  “You leave woman alone,” Elk Horn said in English. “She not yours. You not hurt her. She like good horse. Needs gentling. Not beatings.”

  “Y’all just tell these two bastards to let me go. Ah got me some business to take care of with that gal.”

  “You leave alone. You touch her again, you die. But you have much pain—beaucoup de douleur—first.”

  Willis stopped his squirming and cursing, as if he had been dashed with cold water. He remembered where he was, and whose guest he was. “But, Chief Elk Horn, Ah want that woman bad. Ah got to settle some things with her.” Hate and anger dripped from every word.

  “You’ll have woman. Piegan woman. When we get to our land.”

  “Ah don’t want no goddamn Piegan woman. Ah want that little harlot over there.”

  “No.”

  “Hell, all Ah want is a share of her befo’ y’all take her.”

  “White woman mine,” Elk Horn said simply. “You want woman, take Sioux. When we get home, you have Piegan woman. Maybe two. Best ones.”

  “But Ah don’t . . .” He stopped. Yes, he thought. Star Path. He hated Squire, and what better way to get revenge than to take Squire’s woman whenever he felt like it. Squire’s woman would become his whore.

  He had worried at first if Elk Horn and the Blackfoot believed he had killed Squire. But apparently they did, especially since there had been no pursuit. He would be safe. “All right, Chief, Ah’ll take that fat-ass Sioux. Now y’all tell yo’ boys here to let me go"

  Elk Horn waved his men away.

  Willis glared at Hannah, then grabbed Star Path by her buckskin dress. Without a word, he stalked away, towing the woman behind him.

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  WHEN they pulled out the next morning, Star Path was in her accustomed place astride her horse next to Hannah. Star Path’s face, Hannah noticed with surprise, was calm. Hannah could tell nothing of the woman’s thoughts by gazing into her eyes.

  It bothered Hannah to see Star Path seemingly unconcerned about being taken by Willis. But she said nothing then, or that night when Willis came by and again led Star Path away like a dog on a leash.

  Finally, though, Hannah could not contain her concern any longer. As she mounted a pony beside Star Path the next morning, she asked, “How can you sit there like nothing happened?”

  Star Path looked serenely at her. “It not so bad as it could be.”

  “Not so bad? It’s worse’n anything.”

  “Worse than death?” Star Path sighed. “There is no hope, if dead. I have clothes, a little food. I am warm at night. Soon I will have a new home, plenty work.”

  “But how can you stand that repulsive creature’s hands on you? And his ...” She shuddered just thinking about it.

  Star Path shrugged. She sat, face scrunched up as she tried to think of the words and then translate them into English before speaking them. “Just close eyes,” she said. “Close here,” she tapped her temple. “Soon it over, and he go away.” She giggled, an incongruous sound from such a dumpy woman. “He not satisfied. Huff, puff, squirt, squirt.” She giggled again. “All done.”

  Hannah did not smile. “But what of love?” she asked. “Don’t—didn’t—you love Nathaniel?” God it was hard to think of Squire being dead.

  “L’on Farouche”—she paused—“is good man. Good hunter. Mighty warrior. With him, always have plenty food, plenty clothes, many riches. And warmth. Yes, he good for keeping warm.”

  “But how . . . ?”

  “When close here”—she tapped her temple again—“can feel nothing. Keep hands away, close eyes. Not see anything, not smell anything. Let He-With-The-Little-Lance”—she giggled once more, and even Hannah could not stop from cracking a smile—“work and work. Huff and puff. I think of times with L’on Farouche. Soon—very soon—Little Lance done. Then he sleep. I move away, sleep, too.”

  She paused, grinning hugely, the action brightening her face considerably, and Hannah realized that while the Sioux woman might have been heavy, she was by no means unattractive. “With L’on Farouche, use hands, nose, eyes, everything. It tres, tres bien. With Little Lance, feel nothing.” Another giggle. “He much less man than L’on Farouche.” She sighed, remembering happily. “L’on Farouche is beaucoup homme.” She held her hands more than half a foot apart, as if measuring, and she laughed, the sound the nicest thing Hannah had heard in a long time.

  “But if you love— loved”—damn, she couldn’t keep this up—“Nathaniel, how can you close your mind to what Willis is doing to you?”

  “Must do what I can. Stay safe. Say no to him, maybe get hurt.”

  Hannah’s face was pained. She didn’t want to have to say this, but she needed to get it out in the open. “It’s because Nathaniel’s dead, ain’t it?” she said, close to tears. “You figure that with Nathaniel dead, you got no place to go, and you might as well at least pretend to enjoy what Willis is doin’ to you, right? Maybe he’ll start treating you nice, and things’ll be better for—”

  She stopped in midsentence, shocked, when Star Path burst out laughing. “What?” she mumbled, befuddled.

  “You think L’on Farouche dead?” she asked in amusement. “But in the tipi . . . his scalp . . . Zeb . . .”

  Star Path laughed some more,
then looked around carefully. “That not the hair of L’on Farouche, Little Flower. No, no, no.”

  “But it . . . How . . . Who . . .” Hannah took a deep breath to steady herself. “How do you know?” she demanded.

  “That not L’on Farouche's hair. Different color. Too short. No gray. And,” she chuckled, “could Little Lance kill L’on Farouche?”

  Hannah did not answer. She just sat in thought, her mind racing from one possibility to the next. “You sure?” she finally asked, doubtful but with hope bursting in her heart.

  “Yes.”

  “Then there’s a chance he . . .”

  “L’on Farouche will come.” She smiled. “He will bring your man, A’ner, too. He save A’ner. They’ll come. You’ll see.”

  “You really think so?” Hannah had been afraid to really think that Train was alive. Now Star Path’s words gave her hope.

  “Yes. Will come.” There was no doubt in the Sioux’s voice.

  They rode in silence a little, while Hannah tried to calm her racing heart. Finally she asked, “If Nathaniel’s alive, and he comes for you, what’s he gonna say when he finds out? About you and Zeb, I mean. He won’t love you no more after that. If it happens to me, Abner must never know. If he finds out, he won’t love me no more.” The fear of it ate at her.

  “A’ner good man. He not throw you away.”

  “He’s the best, Star Path. But for him to know another man had me that way, you know, like husband and wife, I’m not so sure. Things like that can change a man’s thinkin’.” She blushed.

  Star Path smiled at Hannah. “You have much to learn, Little Flower. If A’ner want you before, he want you after this. If he not want you anymore, he not right man for you. You speak of love, but you have no faith in your man.”

  “But something like that ...”

  “A’ner strong, like L’on Farouche. He not care what others say.”

  “I hope you’re right, Star Path. But if these Blackfeet try anything with me, they’re gonna have a fight on their hands.”

  “You fight too much, you die. Then A’ner and L’on Farouche have no one to save from Piegans but fat old Sioux.” She laughed, touching the valley between her ample breasts with her thumb. “Me.”

  “I’m afraid the Blackfeet’ll kill Abner before he can get free.” There! She had finally said it, brought it out into the open. It didn’t make her feel any better.

  “L’on Farouche won’t let ’em. He’ll save A’ner and the other. Then they come for you, me.”

  Hannah rode silently as she tried to sort it all out. She was skeptical, but Star Path seemed so positive. Still, there were so many possibilities. Was Squire really alive? Was Train still alive? Had Squire managed to save Train and Li’l Jim? Were they on their way after them? Or had they gone back to the brigade, giving the women up for lost?

  Such thinking was getting her nowhere, so she finally asked Star Path, “Have you known Nathaniel long?”

  “He my man for five winters. Then no more. Been three winters.”

  “Were you married before he came?”

  “Yes. To brave warrior. He-Who-Carried-The-Buffalo’s-Spirit. He killed when Piegans attack village.”

  “I’m sorry, Star Path,” Hannah said softly.

  Star Path shrugged. “Then L’on Farouche come. All good.”

  “Did you ever have any children?” It was a subject that had become more important to Hannah since she and Train had come together. Not that anything was imminent, but she hoped . . .

  “Two,” Star Path said, infinite sadness crossing her face. “Daughter die when she three winters; son only four moons. Both catch disease. Same time. Four winters ago.”

  “Is that why Nathaniel left you?” Hannah asked, touched by the Sioux woman’s grief. Hannah realized that despite what had happened to her family and despite her predicament, Indians were not just savage beasts. They lived and loved, hoped and wanted. They killed and were killed. Like any other people, their young too often died. Their pain at the loss of loved ones was as real as anyone’s else’s.

  Star Path nodded. “L’on Farouche good man. Lakota cut skin, cut hair, yell grief. L’on Farouche not do. He go away. Grieve alone. Then come back. Good man.”

  Star Path went off into a world of her own seeing. Hannah did not bother her.

  Chapter Forty

  Two weeks after Hannah’s intimate conversation with Star Path, smaller parties of Blackfeet began catching up with Elk Horn’s band, straggling in a few at a time. A few days later, Hannah sensed a tension surrounding Elk Horn’s camp as it was taking shape for the night. Soon another band, the members looking weary and dazed, rode slowly in.

  Hannah was free to wander now. The Blackfeet no longer had any fear that she would run away. She drifted around the camp in the swirling of the snow. A cold wind blew from the northwest, stinging her face. She pulled the blanket around her more closely. She had finally demanded that the Blackfeet give her another one so that she and Star Path did not have to share. Sharing was all right at night, when they appreciated the warmth of each other’s bodies—on those nights when Willis left Star Path alone, which was more frequent of late. But they could not share a blanket to ward off the bitter cold during the days.

  Hannah found Star Path, who was off gathering firewood. She pitched in to help her. Together they drifted toward Elk Horn’s lodge, which sat near the center of the camp in the cover of aspens and pines. They continued to pick up stray pieces of wood so they would not be noticed—or chastised.

  The Blackfeet gathered in Elk Horn’s lodge, and soon Hannah and Star Path were the only people left in the cold. They moved close to the painted lodge, feeling its warmth through the skin walls. They could hear quite well.

  They snuggled deeper into their blankets and took turns peering through the small space where several sinew stitches had split allowing two hides to separate a fraction of an inch.

  Elk Horn sat in the place of honor. Around him were other warriors of his band. Opposite him was a short, stocky Piegan, whose long, black hair was touched with gray. Two eagle feathers hung from the crown of the Piegan’s head. Seated near him were his warriors. The few women and children that had traveled all this way sat against the walls of the lodge. A pipe was being passed around, with each Blackfoot taking a few puffs, blowing the smoke in the four directions, and then toward Mother Earth and Father Sky.

  “Where are the two white-eyes?” Elk Horn demanded of Big Tree after the pipe had completed its rounds.

  “They are gone. Taken into the wind and the night.”

  “How was this done?”

  “L’on Farouche. ”

  A startled rumble rippled through the Blackfeet. Willis’s face did not change, but there was a hunted look in His eyes. Strapp stared fearfully at him, then at Elk Horn, then back to Willis.

  “He came a bad spirit on the wings of the night. First he frightened the horses; then he took the white-eyed ones. They vanished.”

  Hannah was surprised she could understand so much of the Blackfoot language. And as she sat in the icy wind, the snow stinging her face and then melting on it, she could feel—and hear—her heart thumping loudly against her ribs.

  “L’on Farouche is dead,” Elk Horn said tentatively.

  Big Tree shrugged. “He was there. He did as I have said.”

  “You couldn’t stop him?”

  “Our medicine couldn’t stop a spirit.”

  Elk Horn nodded, accepting it. No one could make strong enough medicine to fight a spirit. “Do the white-eyes come?” he asked.

  “We have seen no one on our trail.”

  A shudder of excitement had splashed through Hannah when she learned that Train was free. But her joy faded when she heard that Train—along with Squire—was not following her.

  “No worry, Little Flower,” Star Path whispered. “They’ll come. L’on Farouche is no spirit. He bring your A’ner. They not follow close. Not want to be seen. But they come. L’on Farouch
e always come back.”

  Hannah felt better. Somehow, she knew Star Path was right.

  Big Tree’s news brought changes. The Piegans pushed harder, racing against time, the weather—and a spirit.

  All the Blackfeet knew, though none would voice it, that even though no one had seen the two white men on their trail, the spirit of L’on Farouche could very well be leading the two white-eyes at this minute. More scouts were sent out, and the night guard on the horses was increased. Privately, most of the warriors made medicine, hoping that collectively it might be enough to keep the malevolent spirit of the ferocious L’on Farouche at bay.

  Hannah was happier now, until she realized from the excitement around her one day that the Blackfoot village that was their destination was very close—perhaps less than a day’s ride.

  When they finally rode into the village, Hannah was surprised by its size. Even when Elk Horn’s forty or so people added their lodges to the others, the village still looked small—eighteen lodges, she counted when all the tipis were up.

  The encampment was nestled among bare cottonwoods and willows in a big curve near the headwaters of Muddy Creek. The trees offered some protection from the wind and the snow. The rim of the camp was within feet of the riverbank, so there was always a supply of fresh water, even if the women had to chop through the ice every morning before they could bucket it up. Brown grasses under the cottonwoods provided forage for the horses, and wood from ponderosa pines nearby fed the fires.

  The camp was a whirling mass of excitement and confusion as the travelers set up their lodges and talked of their hard journey. There was also grieving in the camp as those who had lost a son or brother or husband or father wailed for all to hear. The caterwauling and the self-multilation by the survivors sickened Hannah.

  And under it all ran a thin current of fear. There were times when Hannah would catch Elk Horn or Big Tree or one of the other warriors looking up at the sky or back the way they had come, as if they expected to see something there. Fear was in those eyes.