Walks Alone

by Sandi Rog

  Denver City. Almost there. Her new home.

  Her head pounded with each step as she chanted the words. The ground spun. The sounds of locusts buzzed in her ears. Her mouth felt sticky and her head ached. If she didn’t get water soon, she might faint. And if she fainted, would anyone notice? She’d never fainted before. What would it be like? She didn’t want to know.

  “Lord . . . please . . . I need water.”

  Short screams and shouts from all sides snapped Anna to attention. Around them swarmed a colorful parade of Indians.

  “Arm yourselves!” Al shouted from his wagon. He aimed his rifle. An Indian fired, and Al’s rifle dropped.

  Beth’s screams carried through the air.

  None of the other men dared raise their rifles, and no more shots were fired. One man jumped from his wagon, his hands high above his head. Savages bounded onto the wagons, while three others held their weapons on the men. The women and children cried and screamed.

  Two Indians galloped toward Anna.

  Hugging her carpetbag, she tried to run, but her feet took root and held her to the ground.

  Dust and two painted warriors surrounded her in a stunning array of colors. It brought to mind the tulip parades in Holland, with reds, yellows, and blues jumping out at her. The horses tossed their wild heads, and their manes danced with feathers. Paint circled their eyes, handprints waved on their chests, and flashes of lightning streaked across their flanks.

  The Indians circled her, sunlight reflecting off their silver armbands. They looked her up and down. Not daring to turn, she felt the gazes of the savages burn into her back. Their torsos, other than a breastplate made of small tubing, were bare and painted. Quivers slung over their backs with rifles at their sides. Would they use their weapons on her?

  The screams and cries of the settlers faded into the distance, replaced by the horses’ snorts and the crunching of their hooves. She felt as if the entire world had vanished, and only she and the colorful intruders existed beneath the great big sky.

  As they came around again, Anna’s gaze moved daringly to one Indian’s face. Half covered in a black mask of paint, he brought to mind the appearance of a bandit. Only this bandit would likely steal more than her paste jewelry. The mask had a thin, white stripe below it, accentuating the black that covered his eyes. Red stripes of paint slashed across his cheeks and chin as if a knife had taken its pleasure on his face. His bright eyes snagged her attention and held her captive in his fierce gaze.

  The man she’d seen on the bank.

  Unable to move, all she could do was hold her breath and wait for the Indians to do something, wait as her heart thundered in her chest. The screams of the settlers had diminished to cries. Thankfully, no gunshots had gone off. She didn’t dare look toward the wagons. Fear paralyzed her.

  Lord, please keep Beth safe.

  The other Indian moved closer. Long, dark braids draped over his shoulders. Feathers protruded from his head like a fan. He circled her, and the pounding in her head beat faster every time he came a little closer. He held a stick with feathers, and when just a foot away, he jammed the stick into Anna’s hair, painfully forcing it loose from its pins.

  “Take down,” he said.

  Anna dropped her carpetbag. With quivering hands and eyes welling with tears, she untied her small hat and yanked on the pins. Would they scalp her? Hair cascaded over her shoulders and down her back to below her waist. For the first time in her life, shame swept through her for having so much hair. Vanity hoarded all these golden locks, her crown of glory. Greed for this treasure would now cause her demise.

  “Running Cloud!” The Indian with the feathered stick straightened and put his fist to his chest. He pointed at Anna. “You! Walks Alone. Gift to White Eagle.” He pointed to the bandit-looking Indian, the one called White Eagle.

  The meaning of his words slammed into Anna. She’d never get home.

  Running Cloud dropped his feathered stick and dismounted in front of her. Anna found the ability to move and turned to run. He seized her by the hair, jerking her to a stop. He yanked her around and grabbed her arms in a biting grip. She tried to twist away, pushing against his powerful limbs.

  White Eagle dismounted and strode toward them. He was much taller and broader than the savage who held her in his clutches. By his scowl and the fierce look on his painted face, Anna knew she was doomed. White Eagle reached out—Anna screamed. But he grabbed Running Cloud’s wrist.

  Eyes wide with surprise, Running Cloud turned, releasing his hold on Anna. White Eagle jerked him back and shoved him to the ground. Running Cloud raised his hands, palms up as White Eagle towered over him.

  Anna turned to run, but White Eagle caught her by the arm and swung her around. Screaming, she shoved, but he held her against him. His hair and feathers cascaded onto her shoulder, and his painted face came inches from hers, emphasizing his bandit-like mask, the white stripe beneath it, and the red slashes on his cheeks and chin. Leather and sage assailed her senses as his breath feathered against her cheek.

  “Lord help me,” she whispered, wishing she could faint. Perhaps she did want to know what it would feel like. Now seemed the perfect time to lose consciousness.

  Heavy breathing blocked out the sounds around them. A dangling feather tickled her face. His fingers slid up onto her chin—her breath caught in her throat. They glided across her cheek and tenderly brushed his feather away.

  Their gazes met. Behind dark lashes, warm blue-green eyes swept over her from his gentle, almost sympathetic gaze.

  There was a man buried beneath that mask of war paint.

  ~*~

  White Eagle released a long, slow hiss as his gaze swept over the woman’s face and down his arm where her yellow hair wrapped around his dark skin and silver armband—a stark contrast.

  Despite the fear evident in the pine-green depths of her eyes, he felt as if she could see inside of him, as if her gut knew she saw a man, not a savage.

  From her nose to her chin, her face burned bright red from the sun, and her lips were cracked and dry. This woman needed water.

  Her gaze darted to her carpetbag. “Please,” she whispered.

  He glanced down at the bag. Did it have weapons? He jerked it from the ground. To her obvious dismay, he tore it open. He found a book, The Last of the Mohicans, and photographs. Then nothing of significance, just fake jewelry and other feminine articles. But one item practically burned like fire in his hand—a Bible. He hadn’t seen the white man’s book since he left Denver six years ago. The one his father had. He shoved it back in. No weapons. He stuffed everything else in and handed it to her.

  Relief reflected in her eyes as she hugged the bag.

  White Eagle ambled to his horse, his stride uneasy.

  Distant cries of women and children carried up from the wagons as the other braves rummaged through their belongings. If only that man hadn’t raised his rifle, no one would have been killed. But had their roles been reversed, White Eagle might have done the same.

  He grabbed his water skin and removed the stopper. He walked back to the woman and held it out to her.

  She gaped at it.

  He shook the water.

  She looked at him then back at the skin. Lunging forward, she dropped her bag. After a moment’s hesitation, she snatched the water skin. Water spilled down her chin and over her front. She choked.

  “Slow down,” he said in Cheyenne. “I mean, slow down,” he said again, only this time in French. He shook his head and went back to his horse. “I can’t talk,” he mumbled in English.

  Running Cloud rode up to him on his horse. White Eagle boldly met his gaze. He’d almost forgotten about tossing his friend to the ground. He’d never before laid a hand on Running Cloud, who was more like a brother than a friend.

  “We’re taking the woman,” Running Cloud said in Cheyenne, motioning towards Walks Alone.

  “No.” White Eagle turned to his horse and straightened out the blanket. “I don�
�t want her.”

  “You’re refusing my gift?” Running Cloud’s voice rose as he thumbed his chest. “You knock me down for her, and now you don’t want her?” He turned to Walks Alone, eyes blazing. “Then I’ll take her.” Running Cloud moved toward the woman.

  “No!” White Eagle grabbed the reins, ready to grab more than that if he had to. “I’ll keep her.” White Eagle never agreed with Running Cloud’s ways of war, ravishing innocent women, and if he even laid a pinky on this one, he’d . . . what would he do? Kill his friend? The thought of him touching her made him so livid with rage, he just might. But at what cost? He’d lose his life to the other braves protecting their war chief, and then what would happen to the woman?

  Was he actually contemplating murdering his friend? A friend who had been more like his brother? What had come over him? Sure it was the Cheyenne way to kill a man who touched his woman, but this woman didn’t even belong to him.

  Running Cloud leaned over his saddle. “She’s mine,” he said slowly, laying emphasis on each word, “until you make her yours.”

  White Eagle’s fists tightened on the reins at his suggestion. “I don’t do that, and you know it.” His words were like the low rumble of thunder before a storm.

  Running Cloud arched a brow, a smirk on his lips. He then laughed. “You think that’s what I meant?” He continued to laugh. “Then you’re a fool.”

  The significance of his words poured over White Eagle like a heavy rainfall. He meant for him to take her as his wife. A wife? He didn’t need a wife. He was ready to tear into Running Cloud for that, but he kept his hands to himself. He had to calm down. There’d been enough fighting between friends with Black Bear on the rampage. But how could Running Cloud force him to take this woman as his wife? He ran his hand down his face, trying to contain his fury.

  Clenching his jaw, he shook his head in disbelief. At least the woman would remain unharmed. But did he have to make her his wife to keep her safe?

  White Eagle marched to Walks Alone, seething with fury.

  Spotted Owl galloped up to them, letting them know the other braves were ready to go. Running Cloud took off toward the wagons.

  Now Walks Alone not only hugged her carpetbag but also his water skin. He took the water skin, grabbed the woman’s dainty elbow, and led her to his horse.

  She gasped as they neared the painted beast, and it wasn’t until then that he realized just how large his horse must appear to a woman her size. “Get on the horse,” White Eagle said in Cheyenne. He shook his head in frustration. English. He needed to speak English.

  Realizing she wouldn’t be able to mount without help, he lifted the stiff and proper young lady from the ground. Wide, green eyes looked down on his face. The position reminded him of his father when he’d pick him up and playfully toss him in the water. And just as his father had done, White Eagle lifted her above his head. She weighed no more than a child, and despite his anger, a chuckle rumbled in his chest as the woman, stiff as a board, hugged the bag as if it might keep her from falling. Forcing the grin from his face, he set her on his horse. He then pried the carpetbag from her fingers, and as she protested, he tossed it to Spotted Owl who looked none too happy about having to carry the lady’s belongings—he already had a bag of sugar, and some of the white crystals stuck to the corners of his mouth.

  “I’m not carrying this.” Spotted Owl made ready to toss the bag on the ground.

  White Eagle turned on him. “You will.” He had a feeling that bag was all the woman owned, and he hated the thought of leaving her photographs to the elements. What he wouldn’t give to have pictures of his own parents. Or was that truly the only reason he wished her to keep it? His hand still tingled from touching the white man’s holy book.

  Another scream carried from the wagons, but White Eagle pushed it out of his mind, unwilling to investigate. They should leave.

  He mounted behind Walks Alone, and she straightened. Her feet dangled over one side of the horse, and he sensed she might jump off, so he wrapped his arm around her waist and clicked the reins. The horse galloped away from the settlers. Spotted Owl, Standing Elk, and the other four warriors joined him. To his surprise, Running Cloud galloped ahead with the dead man’s wife in his saddle. White Eagle clenched his jaw. Now he had two women to protect rather than one.

  Walks Alone grasped the horse’s mane then his arm, but quickly released him as if he might bite. Then she grabbed the mane again.

  “Be still. I won’t let you fall,” he said, finally in English, his accent strange and thick. How long had it been since he’d used this language? It was one thing to teach his friends how to speak English, but to think on his feet was more difficult.

  The other braves rode beside them, and she leaned into him but immediately pulled away.

  White Eagle sighed. The settlers were headed for Denver City, but now these two women were headed west.

  Chapter Four

  White Eagle held Walks Alone in his arms as she moved against his chest. She had fought sleep long enough and finally lost the battle.

  He had never seen a woman more tempting and beautiful. Her long hair cascaded over his thigh. He ached to wrap it around his neck and take in its softness. Instead, he gently moved his fingers through her yellow mane, watching it shimmer against his dark skin.

  He found it difficult to have the petite, shapely woman so near and not lose control of his senses. He shifted slightly in an attempt to put some distance between them.

  She snuggled in closer.

  A sigh escaped her full lips, the kind a man would want to kiss, drawing his attention to the slight upward curve of her nose. He fought the urge to run his forefinger along its freckled bridge, fearing she might awaken. Her thin brows, a tad darker than her hair, didn’t arch quite as sharply now that she slept.

  What was a woman like her doing alone in a land like this? She didn’t wear a ring, and there was no indentation of one, showing no signs of having been married. Her clothing told him she didn’t come from any of the Western Territories or States. Why had she been walking alone so far behind the other wagons? Was a relative awaiting her arrival in Denver City? He hoped not. If she didn’t show, they might come looking for her.

  “It’ll be dark soon,” Running Cloud said. “We’ll camp tonight on Rocky Ridge. It’ll be safe there.”

  White Eagle nodded, fearful of what Running Cloud intended to do with the woman on his horse.

  After they had left the settlers, White Eagle, Running Cloud, and the rest of the braves had started off toward the west, but as soon as Walks Alone fell asleep, they had turned south, traveling along the hogbacks. The rolling hills looked like giant loaves of bread he recalled the whites serving at his father’s table. Now they were just beyond the hogbacks west of Denver City and climbing into the Rocky Mountains.

  “Black Bear will return to our village,” Running Cloud said. “We need to be prepared.”

  White Eagle agreed, contemplating the dangers that lay ahead for both the women.

  “I’m honored to have you at my side.”

  White Eagle didn’t look at his friend. He knew Running Cloud was trying to make it up to him for forcing the woman on him. He ignored him and continued to run Walks Alone’s golden mane between his fingers.

  “Because you saved my life at Sand Creek, I call you White Eagle and my brother, but maybe you prefer receiving Walks Alone over the gift of my blood.” Running Cloud’s brow rose. “I’m not as exciting to look at.”

  White Eagle grinned then forced a frown, remembering he was angry with him.

  Running Cloud’s expression became serious. “The Great Spirit of the Sun has touched your woman. The people of our village will accept her. I’ll make sure they do,” he said. “Song Bird will be pleased that you’ll finally have a woman to share your blanket.”

  Now it was easy for White Eagle to be angry. He didn’t want a wife. Sure, they’d been watching the settlers for a few days, and he’d enjoyed watching
Walks Alone soaking in the river. Despite that, he’d never shown any intention of taking her.

  “Now you can have what you saw,” Running Cloud said.

  White Eagle suspected the next several weeks were going to be very difficult on the Eastern-bred Walks Alone. But how much more difficult would they be on him? He had simply smiled when he laid eyes on her, and now she was in his arms.

  “White men treat their women like dogs.” Running Cloud motioned to Woman Of Sorrow’s bruised eye.

  The slender woman sat stiff in Running Cloud’s saddle, not saying a word or daring to look to the side. Her hands trembled when she reached up to brush a loose strand of dark hair behind her ear.

  “This time she’ll have a better husband,” Running Cloud said, his mouth set in a rigid line.

  Woman Of Sorrow was pretty, and White Eagle understood why Running Cloud would want her. But as a wife? Did that mean he wouldn’t ravish her? Running Cloud didn’t understand that white women were not gifts to be taken or given away. Sure, it was common to steal women from enemy tribes and force them to marry, but this was different. White Eagle knew that anger still raged inside Running Cloud towards the white man. So, if he intended to marry her, why? He’d killed the woman’s husband. Was it out of honor or duty that he took her? Maybe he was taking Woman Of Sorrow as his wife to benefit the tribe?

  That was it. Running Cloud planned to marry her as a means of securing safety from the white man for his village. If the war chief were to take a white wife, there was a greater chance that the village wouldn’t fall under attack. He recalled Running Cloud voicing those very words just days earlier when they’d spotted Walks Alone by the river. Yet, if news of her kidnapping got out, that could make the situation worse. Either way, he knew Running Cloud would abide by his word and treat the woman with respect as he would any other Cheyenne bride.

  That was a relief, but for the first time ever, White Eagle regretted not becoming war chief when it was offered to him. Had White Eagle become war chief, Running Cloud would be beneath him, not the other way around, and both these women would be on their way to Denver City right now.