by Sharon Ihle
The snapping of twigs and branches, the ominous sound of something much bigger than she was, crashing through the trees. Still exhausted, her energy depleted, she found just enough strength to turn her head toward the noise. What she saw transformed her heart to stone, her mind to clay. Dominique rolled her eyes to the heavens and passed out.
Twenty miles to the east, the Seventh Cavalry examined the remains of the Hunkpapa camp.
"Good work, Stoltz." Custer leaned down and tore a rawhide thong from the thistles on a shrub. "They're getting a little sloppy."
"And their numbers are growing," Jacob added, supplying information that was not part of the Lakota plan. "Did you have a chance to look at their grazing circle? This camp supports at least five hundred horses now."
"Well, then," Custer replied, slapping the leather holsters containing his pair of snub-nosed English revolvers. "I guess that's just five hundred more Indian ponies we'll have to shoot."
"And five hundred more Sioux?" Jacob said, barely able to keep the sneer from his lips.
"I doubt that, Private." Custer ran his hand across his ragged auburn beard as he studied the evidence. Then he turned to the group of scouts, amending his orders. "I think it's about time for us to gather up a few of the guides and maybe four companies of men for a little scouting party up river. I'm going to put to rest once and for all these rumors about large bands of hostiles joining together. I have a feeling we're chasing more shadows than Indians." He turned back to Jacob with his final orders. "Private, tell Captain Ruffing I want two more scouts plus you. We'll ride in the morning at five. Go now—be quick."
Jacob saluted, then returned to his mount. He kicked Hammerhead in the flank before he was fully seated in the saddle, then galloped off to the main body of troops. As he rode, he thought of the new danger to his people, of the excellent tracking and trailbreaking instincts the Long Hair possessed. Custer and a small group of men could easily cover fifty miles in one day. The Lakota camp was no more than twenty miles ahead. How could he make certain the scouting party didn't stumble over his people? Over Dominique?
He thought of her, safe and warm in his lodge, and ached to hold her in his arms, to call her his wife. He'd been so sure when he married her that he'd found the perfect way to ensure her safety. Had he instead plunged her into danger again?
To the west, Dominique came to with a start. She was lying face down in the dirt and mud. Her legs felt as if she'd rolled through a cactus patch. Her arms ached and burned; one of them seemed to be covered with something damp and sticky. She opened her eyes, but saw nothing. Thinking back over the day, Dominique guessed that she'd fallen in the river at mid morning, not more than an hour or two ago. Why was it so dark? What was that dank, feral odor? A low growl, coupled with the swishing of leaves and shrubs, refreshed her memory. The last thing she remembered before passing out on the muddy bank was the sight of a huge grizzly lumbering in her direction. If what she had heard above her was that same bear, he was about to bury her alive.
Instinct, and a strong urge to live, clamped her teeth together, cutting off an impulsive scream. Her system shut down, limiting her breathing to a few shallow puffs between long periods of total inertia. Dominique's ears and frantically pounding heart were her only fully functional organs.
When at last the swishing sounds grew fainter and the crashing of branches and tree limbs signaled the bear's retreat into the wooded ravine, she finally allowed herself to take a deep breath of air. Exercising extreme caution, she opened her eyes to survey her surroundings. Dominique turned her head and looked up. Daylight sparkled in filigree patterns through the dirt and leaves covering her.
In a sudden panic, she pushed up on her hands and knees and arose from her shallow grave. Knees knocking, she looked around. She was several yards away from the river. How far had the beast dragged her through the forest after she had lost consciousness? How soon would he return? All was quiet, save for her thundering heartbeat. Terrified the silence would suddenly be broken by the grizzly's return, she quickly made a decision. With no time even to examine her body for injuries, Dominique forced herself to take cautious steps in the opposite direction from which she'd last heard the bear.
She stayed on course with panic supplying the necessary adrenaline for over an hour. Then the rain began. Light sprinkles fell at first, dropping just enough moisture to streak the dirt on her face into a kind of hideous war paint and soak her drying buckskin dress again. Then the skies opened up and she was in the middle of a full-fledged Plains thunderstorm.
Dominique collapsed against the base of a gnarled oak tree and contributed to the drenching of the earth. Her tears fell every bit as hard and relentlessly as the raindrops, and she gave in to her misery. How could God let these things happen to her? Why hadn't he just let her drown in the Missouri the day she first set foot in this savage land? She cried for her papa and her dead mother, and grieved for the loss of her perfect life. She lamented the ruination of her pampered future and the children she would never bear, and the tears fell even harder. What would become of her now? Who would save her?
Then, as quickly as it had begun, the storm passed and Dominique slowly pulled herself together. She looked around, trying to get her bearings, then plotted her next move. She could sit right on this spot and wait for the bear to become hungry again and track his runaway supper.
She could return to the riverbank and toss herself in, completing God's apparent plan for her.
Or she could save herself.
She could pull herself up on her own two feet and go in search of the closest thing she would find by way of protection in this harsh land—the Hunkpapa camp.
Knowing this was her only real option, Dominique struggled to her feet and made a quick survey of her battered body. Rivulets of water ran off the hem of her dress and down her scratched and scraped legs, but she was able to stand and walk with just the slightest pain. She tried to raise her right arm, and winced as the muscles running up along her shoulders balked. She slid her hand across the back of her neck and found it tender and swollen. Where had she received that injury? Further investigation revealed several deep clefts, but none felt as if her skin had been pierced. Had the bear clamped her in its mouth and dragged her by the neck? She shuddered at the thought, at how close it had probably come to snapping her fragile bones.
A stickiness in her bent elbow diverted her attention, and she finally looked down at her arm. Angry grooves of torn flesh still weeping bloody teardrops greeted her vision. The bear had clawed her. Repulsed, Dominique shuddered again, then looked away from the wound. She would have to resume her journey now or die. The scent of her blood, her fear, would soon bring the scavengers— and probably the grizzly as well. It was time to go. Time to think about her life and the strange turns it had taken of late, time to wonder what part she would allow others to play in her suddenly uncertain future, however short it might be.
Using the river as her guide, Dominique trudged through the hills and valleys and the impossibly crooked trails running parallel to the Little Missouri. As she walked, the unseasonably warm sun beat down against her damp hair and buckskins, giving her an eerie ghostlike appearance as clouds of steam rose up from her body. By the time she found her way back to the camp, Dominique was not only dry—she was also in control of her own destiny, and she had made an unshakable decision about the course of her life.
Pausing at the outer perimeter of the camp, she caught her breath and searched through the village for the one face that had given her the strength to go on. When she found it, she straightened her shoulders and held her head high. Then Dominique Custer DuBois marched through the center of camp and headed for the group of squaws standing around the cooking fire.
As a rapidly approaching figure got within range of her vision, Spotted Feather looked up and gasped. "Many Quills? We were certain that you had fallen into the river. I thought you had drowned.”
"I'm sure you did, you lying red bitch."
&n
bsp; Then Dominique drew back her fist and drove it into the Indian woman's chin.
The other women backed away, buzzing among themselves, but none offered to help their fallen friend, and none thought of attacking the crazy white woman.
Taking advantage of Spotted Feather's confusion and her loss of equilibrium after the stunning blow, Dominique leapt onto the squaw's chest and straddled her body. She grabbed her wrists and pinned them to the ground, then drove her knee into the woman's throat. Keeping enough pressure on the spot to cause Spotted Feather to choke for air, but not enough to kill her, Dominique held her firm.
"Listen to me, you red bitch, and listen good. Your answers will determine whether you live or die, understand?"
Gagging as she tried to make a reply, Spotted Feather managed to nod.
"Good," Dominique spat. "I'm here to tell you I've had it with you and your miserable back-stabbing friends." She shot a vicious glance at the others, knowing if they didn't understand her words, they could certainly understand her mood. Then her scathing glare dropped back down to Spotted Feather. Increasing the pressure of her knee, she said, "Do you have any idea how easily I could kill you right now? Do you know I'm within one inch of snapping your scrawny neck, you bloody red—what is it you like to call me—dog face?"
With considerable difficulty, Spotted Feather again managed to nod.
Unmindful of the crowd of warriors as well as squaws who had gathered around, Dominique went on. "Then if you value your life, you'll listen up and listen up good. I'm not interested in killing anyone, not even a piece of garbage like you, but I guarantee if you ever look, touch, or talk to me again, you had better be prepared to do a better job than you did on me at the river. Understand?"
Dominique stared down at the squaw, waiting for an answer, then noticed the bulging eyes and protruding tongue. She eased her knee back and shook the woman's wrists. "Understand that I'll kill you if you ever come near me again?"
Through a hoarse gurgle, Spotted Feather said, "Yes."
"You'd be wise not to forget it." Dominique released her and got up off her body, shooting an afterthought at the squaw as if it were a spear. "Bitch."
Again straightening her shoulders, Dominique lifted her chin and began to stomp through the camp. "I've had it with all of you," she shouted at no one in particular. "I'm not taking any more orders or doing any more of your disgusting jobs—you hear?" As she passed by a crudely constructed drying rack with strips of buffalo meat draped across it, she lashed out with her bloodied arm and sent it flying into the mud, jerky and all.
Continuing her tirade as she approached Jacob's tipi, she raised her voice a notch. "And if any of you don't like it, that's just too damn bad. I invite anyone who disagrees with me to come to Redfoot's tipi. I'll be more than happy to tangle with any one of you yellow-bellied cowards." She turned and punctuated the announcement by kicking a parfleche across the campsite. As if blasted from a shotgun, buffalo chips scattered in all directions. With a triumphant nod, Dominique whirled around and stepped through the opening of Jacob's tipi.
Once inside, she felt her bravado waver. Legs wobbly, her breath coming in short gasps, Dominique sank down onto the buffalo rug. She sat there trembling, and prepared to meet her end. Surely when the others, Spotted Feather in particular, got over the shock of what she'd done, they would come for her. They would string her up, perhaps stake her to the ground, and practice unspeakable tortures on her. In spite of the grim thoughts, Dominique smiled. She was ready for them now. She hadn't been before. They couldn't hurt her anymore.
And then a tall figure appeared at the entrance of the tipi. In a voice that sounded very much like that of Chief Gall he said, "Please come outside, crazy one. I wish to speak to you."
The end was near. Dominique slowly got to her feet. After stopping a moment to smooth her tousled hair, she took a deep breath and adopted a solder's stance. Then, her manner reflecting nothing but pride, she stepped through the flap.
"What is it?" she said crisply.
Wrapped in his summer blanket, a necklace of bear claws protruding through the opening, Gall stared at the white woman. The setting sun seemed to funnel up from her glorious halo of hair, lighting the afternoon skies with streaks of red and gold. Smiling his appreciation, he finally said, "You have had some trouble today."
Through a short chuckle, she said, "If you could call being attacked by a totally insane squaw and an enraged grizzly, trouble, then yes, I guess I had some trouble today."
Gall's thick brows drew together at her words, then he scanned her body. Seeing the deep grooves on her arm, he let his breath out in a whoosh. "You have been set upon by a great bear?"
She shrugged. "Looks that way, doesn't it? I don't know what really happened. I saw a bear coming, and I fainted. When I woke up, he was burying me. Then he left."
"You must have great medicine to have survived such an attack," he said, his awe complete.
Again she shrugged. "Maybe he didn't like the way I tasted." Cocking her head from side to side to ease the ache in her neck, she pressed on. "Surely you didn't stop by to inquire about my health. What do you want?"
"I come about your troubles with Spotted Feather. She has admitted her attack on you at the river."
Dominique's breath whistled out through her teeth. Here it comes, she thought, staring down at the damp earth.
Accepting her silence, Gall went on, trying to explain. "She had hoped Redfoot would bring his marriage blanket to her. When my son chose you for his wife instead, even I wondered about the wisdom of his choice."
"His wife?”
Unaware of the reason for her confusion, he nodded solemnly. "Yes, daughter. On the night he wrapped you in his marriage blanket and took you to his tipi, I prayed to the gods that all would be well in your union. I see now the wise choice my son has made. You are a very strong, brave wife for a warrior such as he. You and my son will create many fearless children."
Her head spinning, Dominique couldn't speak, could barely think. She scanned her memory, trying to remember something, anything, that would have given her a clue about a marriage between them, but she was blank. Jacob had said only that he wanted to protect her, that he would make certain the others knew she was his woman. If what Gall said was true, he'd certainly done that.
Shaking her head, she said, "I don't know what you want of me, what I'm supposed to do."
"I come to make things right for the wife of my son. That is all."
She cocked her head. "Sir?"
"I come to inform you that Spotted Feather has been severely punished. Her jealousy has nearly cost the life of my son's wife. We are at war now. We have no time for jealous women in our camp. I have banished her from our village." He pointed to a spot near a stand of trees.
Turning slowly, for suddenly every joint and muscle in her body seemed to cry out in pain, Dominique searched the perimeter of the camp. Finally she spotted the lonely figure of a woman sitting hunched in a ball.
She looked back at Gall. "How long do you plan to make her stay out there?"
"She is banished. She may not return to our camp, ever.''
Dominique wheeled around for another glimpse of the figure, then back to Gall. "But the soldiers are coming. She'll die alone out there."
"Spotted Feather has her knife. She will be able to choose when and how she dies."
"No. You can't do that, it's not right."
"I am Gall, chief of the Hunkpapa. I do what I must."
Dominique slammed her hand onto her hips and began tapping her toe, in spite of several sharp jabs of pain. "And I," she began to lie boldly, "am the crazy white woman who wrestled a grizzly bear and won. Think about that. I had a monster by the throat, screaming the worst imaginable threats in his face, and he ran away."
Dominique waved her arms in spite of the pain, hoping to convince Gall, "I scared the hell out of that bear, don't you get it? I do have powerful medicine. I just didn't want you to know about it. You shouldn't argue w
ith a powerful person like me. It's bad medicine. Let me take care of Spotted Feather. I'm the one she hurt so I should be the one to carry out her punishment. I demand the right to be in charge of her." She set her jaw and narrowed her eyes, daring him to disagree.
Gall worked at his sternest expression, but his eyebrows wavered between confusion and amusement. Women, white women in particular, never spoke to him in such a manner, never dared even to think the thoughts this one had just voiced. He ought to banish her along with Spotted Feather. It was his duty to teach her a very important lesson: to hold her busy, busy tongue. But as he stared at her, at the determination in her big brown eyes, he knew he would never be able to do it. How did Redfoot manage with this one?
