Soaring Eagle
STEPHANIE GRACE WHITSON
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
Copyright 1996 by Stephanie G. Whitson, 2017 by Whitson, Inc.
Scripture quotations are from:
The Holy Bible, King James Version.
The New King James Version®. Copyright © 1982 by Thomas Nelson. Used by permission. All rights reserved.
The New American Standard Bible® (NASB), Copyright © 1960, 1962, 1963, 1968, 1971, 1972, 1973, 1975, 1977, 1995 by The Lockman Foundation. Used by permission. www.Lockman.org
All rights reserved. In accordance with the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, the scanning, uploading, and electronic sharing of any part of this book without the permission of the publisher constitute unlawful piracy and theft of the author’s intellectual property. If you would like to use material from this book (other than for review purposes), prior written permission must be obtained by contacting the copyright holder at [email protected]. Thank you for your support of the author’s rights.
The author is represented by Books & Such Literary Agency, Inc., 5926 Sunhawk Drive, Santa Rosa, CA 95409 www.booksandsuch.com.
ISBN-13: 978-1548473037
For Bob
My leader, my example, my beloved, my friend
Acknowledgments
1996 Edition
Now thanks be to God who always leads us in triumph in Christ, and through us diffuses the fragrance of His knowledge in every place. . . . Thanks be to God for His indescribable gift!
2 Corinthians 2:14, 9:15†
Thank you, Bob and Shannon and Max, for hugs and love and willingness to help.
Thank you, everyone, for your kind words and encouragement.
Thank you, Pastor Gil, for allowing me to put your words in Pastor Thundercloud’s mouth.
Thank you, Lonnie, for your continued encouragement.
In a world where parents and teenagers are expected to disagree, battle, and generally dislike one another, I have been blessed with two teenagers who are just that—a blessing. During the writing of this book, they have been especially precious, and I want to say a special thank you to Brooke and Zachary for:
challenging me to be more godly
willingly using your talents and abilities to serve our family
making faces
doing chores
reading what I write and saying you like it.
You are both treasures, and you have no idea how very much I love you and how often I thank God for what He is doing in and through you.
I have one wish for every reader: “May the God of peace Himself sanctify you completely; and may your whole spirit, soul, and body be preserved blameless at the coming of our Lord Jesus Christ. He who calls you is faithful, who also will do it.”
(1 Thess. 5:23-24†).
Books by Stephanie Grace Whitson
Historical Fiction
Messenger by Moonlight
Daughter of the Regiment
A Captain for Laura Rose
A Basket Brigade Christmas (novella anthology)
A Patchwork Christmas (novella anthology)
The Quilt Chronicles Series (3 books)
The Message on the Quilt, The Shadow on the Quilt, The Key on the Quilt
Stand-alone books (not part of a series):
A Most Unsuitable Match
Sixteen Brides
A Claim of Her Own
Unbridled Dreams (now titled Belle of the Wild West)
Pine Ridge Portraits Series (3 books)
Secrets on the Wind, Watchers on the Hill, and Footprints on the Horizon
Dakota Moons Series (3 books)
Valley of the Shadow, Edge of the Wilderness and Heart of the Sandhills
Keepsake Legacies Series (3 books)
Sarah’s Patchwork, Karyn’s Memory Box, and Nora’s Ribbon of Memories
Prairie Winds Series (3 books)
Walks the Fire, Soaring Eagle, and Red Bird
Contemporary Fiction
Jacob’s List, A Garden in Paris, and A Hilltop in Tuscany
Non-Fiction
How to Help a Grieving Friend: A Candid Guide for those who Care
Home on the Plains: Quilts and the Sod House Experience
CONTENTS
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Reader’s Discussion Guide
About Stephanie
Red Bird Book 3 in the Prairie Winds series
Prologue
The battlefield was quiet. Only an occasional shot was still being fired somewhere in the woods about a mile down the valley. Here, an eerie silence prevailed, broken only by the occasional low chant of a victory song as the warriors collected souvenirs from the dead.
Soaring Eagle stood surveying the battlefield. At his feet lay the body of one of the soldiers. The stench of death filled the air. Soaring Eagle closed his eyes and inhaled deeply, reminding himself to remember this victory.
Taking up his knife he crouched down and grasped the soldier’s thick black hair in one hand. The glint of gold stopped the knife in midair. Soaring Eagle tore the bit of gold from around the soldier’s neck, examining it carefully. As he turned it over, it fell open, revealing the likeness of a young woman. Soaring Eagle caught his breath and stared in wonder, not at the young woman, but at the other one—the one whose gray eyes stared back at him from beside the younger woman’s face.
She was older, but the mouth was set in a serious straight line. Soaring Eagle remembered. The hair was held back in the way of the whites, but waves and curls that could not be tamed still framed the face. Soaring Eagle remembered. Looking into the eyes, Soaring Eagle knew. Here, looking back at him, was Walks the Fire . . . his mother.
He had broken the chain pulling it from the white soldier’s neck. Now he reached into the pouch at his side and drew out a buffalo sinew. Shutting the locket, he threaded it onto the sinew, tied a strong knot, and drew it over his head. As he pulled it down, his fingers traced the other bit of gold that had hung about his neck for many years . . . never taken off . . . cherished as the last remnant of his mother’s existence.
A shout from one of the other warriors who scavenged the hillside interrupted his memories. Soaring Eagle stood up and replaced his knife in its scabbard, raising his hand to again feel the outline of the cross that hung at his neck. Then, touching the locket to be certain that it was secure, he leaped onto his pony and raced back to the village.
The battlefield was quiet. Distant shots were all that remained of the encounter. Long Hair and his men lay dead. It would take ten days for the news to reach Li
ncoln, Nebraska, where Walks the Fire would hear of it and fear for the life of her new son-in-law and wonder about the fate of her adopted son. It would be even longer before the truth was known.
The son-in-law, MacKenzie Baird, lay dead on the Little Big Horn, while the adopted son, a Lakota brave, rode away with a locket in place of a scalp.
Chapter 1
Our persecutors are swifter than the eagles of the heaven: they pursued us upon the mountains, they laid wait for us in the wilderness.
Lamentations 4:19
“Are they all killed?” Sitting Bull asked.
Soaring Eagle dismounted and approached the chief. “Wicunkasotapelo! (We killed them all!)”
Sitting Bull nodded and turned away. “Then let’s go back to camp.”
Soaring Eagle held in his dancing pony and followed Sitting Bull to where the women scurried about treating their wounded and erecting scaffolds for their dead.
A small cry came from one group of women as Soaring Eagle rode by. A young squaw rushed to his pony. “You are wounded,” she said, reaching up to touch the fresh flow of blood on his arm.
Soaring Eagle sharply withdrew from her touch. Still, his voice was gentle as he answered. “It is nothing.”
The squaw drew in a deep breath and made a face. “Death is in the air here.”
Soaring Eagle nodded and turned to look back at the hill dotted with bodies dressed in blue. “We will need to move the camp.” He urged his pony forward. The young squaw reached out once again. This time she put her hand on his knee and whispered, “I will cook tonight, Soaring Eagle. Perhaps you would like to come to my father’s fire to share the tales of this great victory.” Her eyes shone as she looked up at him. “You have gained many new feathers today. I heard Walking Bear and Lone Wolf talk of you. You counted coup no less than four times.”
He wanted to end the conversation abruptly, but he knew that the group of young women Winona had been talking to were watching. Graciously Soaring Eagle smiled at her as he sought an answer. When it came, it was not what she wanted to hear. “I will not be sharing victory songs tonight.” Gunfire in the distance gave him an excuse. “There are still soldiers up on that bluff. I want to get a shot at them.” Soaring Eagle turned his pony sharply and urged him away, leaving Winona standing in the dust.
“Will he be coming to your campfire tonight?” called out one of the young squaws insolently. “He has a bit of gold from the soldiers. He did not offer it to you.” The voice taunted Winona. “He is too old for you, anyway. You should be hoping for a younger man.”
The taunt had its desired effect. Winona bustled over to the group of young women and hissed back, “Soaring Eagle is the best hunter in our band. He is the bravest warrior—and there is not a man in the village who would dare race his ponies!” As Winona listed Soaring Eagle’s virtues to her friends, a middle-aged woman approached the group.
Prairie Flower scolded the young women. “Hush, now, gossips! What a time is this to be telling silly girl’s tales! There is work to be done here!” She shooed the group away and, putting her arm about Winona’s shoulders, drew her aside.
“You know they say these things only to make you angry.”
Winona kicked at the dust. “They are such children!”
Prairie Flower smiled and patted the young girl’s arm. “They are your age, I believe.” Pausing for a moment, she said in a voice warm with kindness, “Soaring Eagle is a good man. But he is much older than you.”
Winona shook Prairie Flower’s arm off her shoulders and answered defiantly, “The braves my age are fools. They make war to prove their bravery. They make war to bring honor to their families. They make war to win horses. They make war to win hearts. I am sick of war. I want to go where there is no more war.”
Prairie Flower considered the outburst before replying softly, “I do not think there is such a place. We are becoming like the mound of earth that rises from the waters of the Moonshell. All around us the white men swirl, taking more and more of the small mound of earth on which we live.”
Shots rang out in the distance. The small group of soldiers had taken shelter on one of the high bluffs. In the distance the women could see their warriors’ ponies darting back and forth at the foot of the bluff.
Prairie Flower muttered, “I heard them say that they would leave a way open to the east in case the soldiers wanted to get away.”
“Good!” came the response. “I hope they go away. I hope they will leave us alone!” Winona’s face brightened. “Perhaps then Soaring Eagle will come to my father’s campfire—”
Prairie Flower interrupted her, “Perhaps then he will wrap you in his buffalo robe?”
Winona smiled as Prairie Flower hugged her and then pushed her toward her father’s tepee. “Go! There is much work to be done. Soaring Eagle said the camp would have to be moved, and I think he is right. Your mother will be expecting you to help her.” The two women scurried off and made ready to move amid the sounds of the distant skirmish.
All that day and into the evening, shots continued to be fired. Sitting Bull, Soaring Eagle, and many others charged to and fro, daring the bullets from the soldiers on the bluff, while the eerie sound of mourning songs and shrieks of grief from those in camp who had lost loved ones in the battle rang out. The soldiers on the bluff were unnerved by what they thought were the sounds of victory dances. But the Sioux did not rejoice. Too many of their own had been lost that day.
When Sitting Bull returned to camp, he called his young warriors to him, noting with satisfaction that they had obeyed his warning. He had had a vision of a great victory less than two weeks before they had camped here on the Greasy Grass. When he shared the vision, he had warned his people: “The victory will be a gift from Wakan Tanka. Kill the soldiers, but do not take the spoils. If you set your heart on the goods of the white man, it will prove a curse to this nation.”
Sitting Bull stared around the campfire at his young followers, and he was glad. “You have done well. But my heart is filled with sadness at what I have seen around us. Guns, Army horses, and white men’s clothing are everywhere.” Sitting Bull pointed an accusing finger at Soaring Eagle who had just approached the group crouched about the campfire. The gold locket shone in the light of the fire. “You have taken the spoils. Now you will be at the mercy of the white man. You will starve at his hands. And the soldiers will crush you.”
Soaring Eagle answered harshly, “I believed your warning, Sitting Bull. It seemed right to me. I have taken this because it was something very dear to me. The soldier who wore it seems close to me, now, and I am sorry for his death.” As he spoke Soaring Eagle removed the locket to open it. While he fumbled with it, two of the younger braves nudged one another and snickered.
Finally, Soaring Eagle managed to open the locket. “I do not know its meaning, but this is the one we called Walks the Fire when she was among us. It has been many moons since she was among us, but I called her Ina then. I think this other one must be the sister Prairie Flower told me of when she came back from the fort.”
Soaring Eagle paused. It had become very quiet about the fire. Every eye was on him as he held the locket out to Sitting Bull. The chief took it and examined it carefully, turning it over and over in his palm. He looked from the faces in the photos to Soaring Eagle and back again many times. At last Sitting Bull snapped the locket shut and returned it to Soaring Eagle. “Perhaps Wakan Tanka will consider this truth and save you from the punishment that will come upon our people.”
After the brief council around the fire, the Lakota hurried to complete their burials. The next morning, the newly armed warriors gathered and made a last charge against the entrenched survivors of the battle. With many new guns and much ammunition scavenged from the dead, they grew hungry for more blood. But the women of the village were striking the last of the tepees, and Sitting Bull had his way. Charging up and down the long line of young warriors he shouted, “It is enough! They came against us. We have killed mo
st of them. If we kill them all, they will only send a bigger army to punish us.”
Soaring Eagle reined in his pony and followed Sitting Bull back toward the village. Prairie Flower had already struck the tepee and waited only for the appearance of her adopted son before heading toward the Big Horn Mountains. When Soaring Eagle rode by her and took his usual place at the head of the long procession, she shouted encouragement, “It was a great battle, my son. Tonight we will have a victory dance.” Winona walked by her side, and as Soaring Eagle glanced their way, her face lit up with a hopeful smile.
But Soaring Eagle did not join the victory dance that night. While his friends rejoiced, he withdrew to the tepee he once shared with Walks the Fire, his widowed mother; Old One, his grandmother; and Prairie Flower, their good friend. His mother had been abducted by Howling Wolf many moons ago. Howling Wolf had died in the same blizzard that had wiped out any hope of ever finding Walks the Fire. Old One had gone on to the next life not long after that. Now there were only Soaring Eagle and Prairie Flower. Prairie Flower had joined the circle of women dancing about the fire.
As the shadows of dancers played on the skins of the village tepees, Soaring Eagle sat alone, staring at the faces in the locket.
Chapter 2
O my God, my soul is cast down within me.
Psalm 42:6
Mama’s room was dark. Her favorite quilt still covered the bed, and a small pine table at the side of the bed still held her Bible. The dresser was nearly bare, just as it had always been, except for the wedding photo of MacKenzie Baird and his new bride LisBeth. In the dusky light, LisBeth moved across the room and picked up the photo. Tears welled in her eyes as she cradled it in one hand, tracing the pattern of roses that trailed down the side of the gilded frame. LisBeth walked to the window and pushed back the heavy curtains. Afternoon light flooded the room.
Footsteps sounded in the hall. Joseph hesitated at the door, a worn carpetbag in hand. LisBeth turned quickly and smiled through her tears. Looking down at the photo in her hand, she found no words to say. Joseph set the carpetbag down just inside the door and retreated down the hall, returning a few moments later with the rest of LisBeth’s baggage.
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