“Hmm?”
“Do you think Papa will come after us?”
“Of course he will.”
“Is that why Cap’n Sanders ran away? Did he go to fetch Papa?”
Emma closed her eyes. To give Renny hope, she’d told her sister of Derek’s flight into the trees. “Yes, when he saw he couldn’t stop the Indians, he went for help.” Secretly though, she doubted her own words. He’d run long before the Indians had overtaken the coach. While part of her couldn’t blame him, she hated him for it. He’d sworn to protect and deliver her safely to her father. And now, he was her only hope. She prayed he made it to the fort to alert her father of their capture. A sharp command startled her. Wearily, she rose.
Just before dusk, they came upon three warriors camped on the prairie. Yellow Dog shoved her off the horse. She fell to the ground, rolling as best as she could to ease the pain of impact. Struggling to sit, she ignored her throbbing shoulder and watched her captor greet the warrior who came forward. The two warriors communicated with hand gestures and grunts while the other warriors from both sides remained in the background, poised in case of trouble.
Renny ran to her. Emma dropped her bound wrists over her sister’s head to hold her close. “It’s okay, Renny,” she whispered, wishing she could give her sister more than empty assurances. Would things ever be right again?
Seconds turned into minutes. Emma kept her gaze trained on the two groups of warriors. After what seemed like heated haggling, Yellow Dog motioned for her to come to him. Emma held Renny tightly as she stood and went to him. She noted that the other Indian seemed better dressed and neater in appearance. His hair hung braided over his shoulders, and he was clean and young-looking. His eyes brightened with interest when she stopped several feet away. He pointed a long finger at her.
Yellow Dog shook his head. His hand slashed the air in a downward movement. He pointed at Renny. The other warrior frowned. Emma’s eyes grew wide. Cold fingers of fear slithered up her spine. She took a step back, pulling Renny with her when Yellow Dog reached out. Two other warriors held her while Yellow Dog yanked Renny from her arms.
Renny held her arms out to her and whimpered. “Emma!”
To Emma’s horror, Yellow Dog thrust her sister into the hands of the other warrior who carried her away, screaming and kicking. Emma, frozen with horror, watched the two groups of warriors exchange horses. Understanding dawned. Bile burned the back of her throat. Yellow Dog had just traded her sister for fresh horses. She lunged, broke free and ran. “No! Renny! Don’t take her.”
Her sister’s screams tore her heart to shreds. Rage filled her. When Yellow Dog grabbed her, she lashed out, her nails scraping down his cheeks. This time, his punishing blows didn’t stop her. She fought until a final blow of fist ramming into her jaw sent her skidding across the golden grass. She lay there, defeated, her heart shattered, her head pounding from the blows and ears ringing with her sister’s cries, which grew fainter and fainter. Tears ran down her cheeks, and screams of despair tore from her throat. She’d failed her father. She’d promised to care for her sister, but her impatience to reach the fort had cost Renny her sweet, young life. Emma sank into a dark world where there was no pain or fear.
Chapter Four
A large fire lit up the night sky. Yellow Dog’s renegade warriors danced and celebrated around the flames, sending grotesque shadows weaving across the prairie. As the night deepened and thick, slate-gray clouds drifted across the sky, concealing the moon, they passed around a flask of whiskey taken from a slain soldier. The flask emptied and one by one, the band collapsed near the fire or stumbled to tipis where their women waited. Eventually, only two remained huddled by the dying fire.
Nearby, cloaked by the darkness, Striking Thunder’s band of Sioux warriors watched and waited. With no revealing light from Old Woman Moon, the crouched figures blended with their surroundings, their hushed voices harmonized with the cadence of insects chirping into the night. At the sound of a slightly louder series of chirps and clicks, Striking Thunder crept forward, a long knife gripped in his right hand. He paused, waited for the second signal. When it came, he replied softly. Seconds later, Two-Ree joined him.
“What have you found?” Striking Thunder asked, sliding his knife back into the sheath strapped to his thigh.
Two-Ree stuck his knife into the hard prairie earth. “Our enemy celebrates the killing of the white soldiers. They dance and drink the white man’s firewater.” His features twisted into lines of contempt. “They are drunk and do not know we are here. I say we attack and take our revenge. The warriors of Striking Thunder will return to our people victorious.”
Adrenaline surged through Striking Thunder. “What of the woman?”
Two-Ree spat on the ground. “The woman is in the tipi of Yellow Dog. There is no sign of the girl-child.”
Striking Thunder frowned. He knew from the tracks they’d followed that Yellow Dog had traded his weary horses for fresh ones. He suspected the child had been used as barter. “We will kill our enemy tonight.”
He led the way back to where the rest of the band waited silently. Using hand signals, he positioned his men around his enemy, then settled down to wait for the night to lengthen. Staring into the darkness, he thought of the captured white woman he’d glimpsed earlier before the sun had fully disappeared over the horizon.
He’d known from Black Cloud’s reactions when she’d circled the sky earlier that the enemy was close. His people had a special affinity with the animals who roamed the earth and sky. By watching and learning from them, special powers and knowledge were obtained.
In order to keep from being spotted by his enemy, he’d crawled slowly on his belly to survey Yellow Dog’s camp and there, had witnessed the warrior’s treatment of the woman. She’d kicked and fought Yellow Dog as he’d dragged her to his tipi. She had courage, wasn’t afraid of her enemy; for that, she’d earned his respect. And if the spirits were willing, he’d free her before Yellow Dog did her harm.
Striking Thunder had never desired to take a white woman to his tipi as his father had done with his mother; the illustrious White Wind had once been known as Sarah Cartier. But today, after looking upon this woman’s flame-red hair and pale skin, he’d briefly considered taking her from Yellow Dog to keep for himself. The beauty he saw beneath her blistered and bruised flesh made her a tempting prize worthy of a great warrior, and the spirit he’d witnessed in her was doubly precious. Still, there were other considerations. If he took her for himself, he risked the lives of his people at the hands of the soldiers. No matter how much he wanted her, Striking Thunder could not risk his people. He had his duty to them.
Yet he couldn’t stop thinking of her, which disturbed him. He’d just lost his wife and shouldn’t feel such emotions. Meadowlark had been a good mate, deserving of his loyalty and affection.
Sliding a glance up at the cloud-blanketed sky, he made a decision. After he killed Yellow Dog, he’d see that the woman reached the fort safely. He would ask her to inform the soldier in charge that the Sioux were honorable, that the killing had been done by the Arikara. Yes, that was what he would do. Then he would put her from his mind. With that settled, he narrowed his gaze on the scattered circle of tipis in the distance. He tensed when Yellow Dog stood and left the fire. Filled with the white man’s firewater, he staggered to his tipi. The other warrior had fallen over in a drunken sleep. Striking Thunder forced all thoughts of the woman from his mind and palmed his knife. Revenge for his people would be his.
In a tipi on the outer edge of the village, Emma struggled against the leather binding her hands behind her back. Though her arms ached with effort and bruises covered them, she pressed on. She didn’t know how much time she had before Yellow Dog returned. The camp had grown quiet except for the squeals of women followed by low grunts of their warriors.
Her breathing quickened and a sob rose in her throat. There was no doubt in her mind that Yellow Dog planned to have her tonight. She’d seen
it in his eyes when he’d brought her to his tipi earlier. She shuddered and tried to blot out the feel of his hands fondling her before he’d left. Even the memory made her feel sick and once again, all the stories of what happened to captive women rushed forward and sent stark fear darting through her mind.
Tears ran down her swollen cheeks, stinging in her open cuts and abrasions; her raw and bleeding wrists burned as she struggled against the leather thongs. Sticky warmth continued to slide down her palms but she didn’t stop. With a smothered moan of pain, she finally felt the leather loosen. Filled with a small ray of hope and alert to every sound, she worked frantically to free her hands. When the leather thong fell from her throbbing wrists, she swallowed her cry of relief and set her numb fingers to working on the knots binding her feet. Panic welled when they refused to yield, and she bit her lip to keep from crying out
Hurry. Hurry. The beat of her heart grew louder. Hurry. Finally, the knot gave way enough for her to tear it apart. Free, she jumped to her feet, ignoring the prickling sensation as the blood rushed through her veins. She stumbled toward the tipi opening and freedom. Cautiously, she pushed against the flap and peered around its edge. Suddenly, a large dark shape loomed before her. Emma cried out and stumbled back, her eyes wide with fright when Yellow Dog entered. The drunken warrior swayed from side to side. With a lustful leer, he reached for her. Having nowhere to run and nothing to lose, Emma shoved past his weaving body.
Thrown off balance by her direct attack, Yellow Dog’s harsh laughter filled the air as he nabbed her long hair. With a hard yank, he trapped her against his sticky, unwashed chest. “White woman belong to Yellow Dog.” He lowered his head.
Emma’s stomach roiled at the smell of his fetid breath and sour body. Turning her head, she shoved against him, willing herself to remain strong. Don’t give in to hysterics. He’s drunk. This is your chance to escape. When his arm slid around her back, forcing her closer, she reached out with her fingers and twisted the tender skin on the underside of his upper arm.
With a roar of rage, he released her. Emma backed away, stepping into the cold ashes of the fire pit. He lunged. She jumped back, but the slanted sides of the tipi stopped her. When he came at her again, she ducked and managed to avoid his arms but fell. He towered over her, trapping her against the hide wall.
When she crawled away, Yellow Dog stalked her for sport. Every time she neared the flap, he shifted until she was scooting back the other way. Desperate, she searched the ground for a weapon. When her fingers closed around a large, palm-sized flat stone, she gripped it and came up swinging. It caught him on the side of his head. Harsh words poured from his mouth. Though stunned and drunk, he pulled his knife from the sheath hanging at his waist. The look in his eyes promised painful retribution.
Emma’s stomach lurched and her mouth went dry. Fighting for her life, she swung again. But this time, Yellow Dog was ready. He kicked her feet out from under her, knocked the rock from her hand and straddled her hips with his knife clenched between his teeth. She screamed and struggled, but though his movements were slower and jerky, she was no match for his strength. In short order, her arms were pinned above her head. His eyes—glazed with drink, lust and revenge—narrowed and, with one hand holding her captive, he palmed the knife and held it above her face.
Emma closed her eyes and held her breath. This was it. She was going to die. Some distant part of her prayed for a swift end while another part desperately prayed for a miracle. Renny was out there somewhere, alone and frightened. She blanched when she felt the blade of the knife skim her throat then move down her breastbone. Suddenly, the sound of blade slashing through her bodice rent the stillness of the night.
She felt him withdraw the blade and, unable to help herself, Emma opened her eyes, then wished with all her might she hadn’t when he lifted his hand in a sudden upward movement. The muscles in his arms bunched when his hand slashed downward. She screamed again and closed her eyes tightly against the expected sharp thrust of cold steel.
It never came. Hearing his laughter, she opened her eyes to see the knife poised a heartbeat from her chest. Her gaze shifted to his face and she realized he was playing with her. Sobbing, she tried to jerk away, which amused her captor even more.
The horror of what this savage planned left Emma reeling with fear. Each time Yellow Dog lifted his hand, she cringed, her eyes on his hands, the tightening and relaxing of his fingers. He laughed and continued the game until Emma thought she’d go mad. Oh please, Lord, she prayed, help me.
Her prayers were answered. An arrow tore through the back of the tipi and flew over Yellow Dog’s head. Startled, Yellow Dog reared back, freeing Emma’s hands as he twisted his torso to stare at the shaft embedded in one of the poles. Taking advantage of his distraction, Emma grabbed the stone she’d dropped and sprang up with her arm swinging.
A look of disbelief came over him when she smashed him on the side of his head with all her might. He fell forward, unconscious. Sobbing hysterically, Emma pulled her legs out from under him and ran through the hide doorway. She smacked into a hard body. Strong fingers reached out and held her immobile. Emma gasped. “No, oh no,” she moaned, staring into the glittering black eyes of another Indian.
Tears blurred her vision. Freedom had been so close. Snatches of moonlight fell to the earth as clouds drifted across the night sky. The pale beams of light revealed a warrior much taller than Yellow Dog. He held her effortlessly, his sheer size alone reducing her to a trembling mass of flesh. Long black hair flowed around his shoulders, shrouding him in stormy darkness. Somehow Emma knew he was dangerous, much more so than the Indian she’d just knocked unconscious.
Ready to fight once again for her freedom, her heart stopped when she heard a bellow of rage behind her. Yellow Dog had regained his senses. Terror gripped her in its numbing hold. Oh, God, she didn’t want to die.
A shake of her shoulders snapped her from her numb stupor. “Go.”
The sound of clear, fluent English rolling off this dark warrior’s tongue startled her, but she didn’t take the time to question it. When the warrior shoved her toward the shrubbery, she didn’t need further urging. She ran.
Before she reached the shielding bushes, a burst of activity exploded around her. Battle yells, much like those of Yellow Dog’s band when they’d attacked her coach, sounded, sending shivers of renewed fear down her spine. The high-pitched cries of women and children followed along with the sound of arrows zinging overhead. Glancing around wildly, Emma realized her captors’ tribe was under attack. The screams splitting the air propelled her forward. Looking over her shoulder to see if Yellow Dog was coming after her, she breathed a sigh of relief to see him and the tall warrior circling each other with knives drawn. With the village in turmoil, this was her chance to escape.
Forcing her mind to remain calm, she ducked between tipis to get out of the battle. Breathing hard, she stared out into the dark prairie. How far would she get before someone came after her? Not far. She needed a horse. After a brief hesitation, she ran around the outer circle of tipis and stopped when she came to a horse tethered to a stake in the ground beside its owner’s tipi. No one stopped her as she grabbed the lead rope and pulled the nervously snorting animal away.
Tangling her fingers in the horse’s coarse mane, she bunched her skirts and jumped as if she were once again that carefree child who loved racing bareback across the park. With the sound of battle raging behind her, she galloped off into the night.
Minutes after the attack began, it was over. Drunk on the soldiers’ spirits, Yellow Dog had been no match for the consuming fury that drove Striking Thunder’s blade. Striking Thunder stared down at the body of his enemy. The joy of victory should have been his, but rather than feeling avenged, frustration and disbelief churned in his gut along with anger.
Though he’d killed his enemy, the spirits of the dead weren’t appeased. Yellow Dog had cheated him of happiness by telling him that he’d been paid by soldiers to raid
and cause trouble with the Sioux. Wiping Yellow Dog’s blood from his knife, Striking Thunder shoved the blade back into the sheath strapped to his upper thigh and considered Yellow Dog’s confession. The villain had known death was upon him, known nothing he said or did could avert it. Had he lied just to make trouble?
Not willing to relinquish his hard-earned victory so easily, Striking Thunder searched the tipi of his slain enemy for proof that Yellow Dog told the truth. There wasn’t much to go through. In a matter of minutes, Striking Thunder had found several flasks of liquor, an old rifle and the silver belt buckle Yellow Dog claimed had been given to him as payment. He turned it over. As Yellow Dog had claimed, it had the colonel’s initials etched into the metal.
Yellow Dog had spoken the truth. Clutching the incriminating buckle, Striking Thunder threw back his head. Pain and the fury of defeat erupted from his throat. His loud cry tore through the sudden silence of the night. “Hear me, spirits of our slain. I will set you free. I will avenge your deaths. Hear me. I speak true. Those who speak of peace but act in war will pay.”
With that vow, he stormed from the tipi.
When the soldiers had first come, the colonel in charge had met with him and the other chiefs. He’d assured them that they only wanted peace. Yet now, whenever they tried to meet with the colonel, talk with him, his captain always refused them entrance to the fort. With each passing day, each act of harassment, it had become clear the soldiers wanted the Indians gone at any cost. And now he had proof. The white man with the red hair lied.
Banking his rage with difficulty, Striking Thunder knew nothing further could be gained here. Yellow Dog and his band of warriors were dead and their women and children scattered into the prairie. Taking up his bow from the ground where he’d tossed it in order to fight Yellow Dog, he shot a single flaming arrow into Yellow Dog’s tipi, then whistled loudly, giving the command to go. He glanced over his shoulder one last time. Flames lit up the night sky.
White Flame Page 5
