The Soul Survivors Series Boxed Set

by Vella Munn

  "Kill the thieving—"

  One shot followed another, echoing in the icy air. Several dogs who'd cowered near the wickiups now ran among the prancing horses. Their excited yapping and growling caused two of the soldiers' mounts to buck and throw their riders. Luash saw several more Modoc men grab their weapons, watched in horror as the soldiers pushed their way through the knot of women and children to get to the armed men.

  Three soldiers remounted and tried to crowd their horses into a single wickiup. When others joined them, even more braves ran for their houses. Moments later they emerged, rifles held in strong hands. They aimed at the closest soldiers, but instead of firing, began backing toward the corral that held the Modoc horses.

  "Stop them!" the army man who'd been yelling for Kientpoos earlier bellowed. "Don't let 'em—"

  Luash didn't wait to hear the rest. Ignoring her now frozen feet, she ducked behind several women. Taking advantage of the deep gray shadows, she managed to reach the corral without any of the soldiers spotting her. She unlatched the gate and held it open, yelling at the already nervous horses. They charged past her into the middle of the confusion and were quickly mounted by their Modoc owners. As soon as the warriors were mounted, they began galloping toward the hills.

  Cho-Cho was among the last to leave; somehow he'd taken advantage of the confusion and slipped past the soldiers who'd thought they'd trapped him. He extended an arm to Luash, indicating he wanted her to climb aboard behind him, but his horse was moving too fast for her to take a chance.

  "Shoot! Stop—"

  "No! Get the women!"

  She whirled around, looking for whoever had spoken. At that moment she felt a horse push into her and lost her footing. On hands and knees, she stared up—up into a pair of deep gray eyes framed by long, windblown hair nearly as dark as hers. "Don't try anything, squaw," the man ordered. "Get with the others, now!"

  She stood her ground, not because she was not afraid of him, but because she was protected by Eagle. She would not grovel before this soldier with hate in every line of his too strong body.

  Although she felt as if she'd been speared by his dark glare, she took a moment to settle her blanket around her before slowly starting toward the few women and children the soldiers had managed to round up. Only when she was next to Nau'ki and her screaming baby did she allow herself to search for the braves. They were nearly out of sight, galloping hard for a willow thicket fed by a spring creek. In a moment the fog would hide them.

  Several of the army men had taken off after them but were now turning around and coming back. Without exception, they looked to be at the end of their strength, their cheeks scraped red, eyes sunken. Even if they hadn't just finished the long, cold ride from Fort Klamath, they wouldn't want to risk being caught out in the fog by braves who knew the land's secret places far better than they ever would. Across the river much the same scene was being played out; she prayed that soon the two scattered villages would be able to join as one.

  "We've got our orders," Wiggling Ears was saying in English. "And chasing after a bunch of half naked runaways isn't one of them."

  "They shouldn't have gotten away. If someone had kept an eye on the horses—"

  "I told Murray and Rich." Wiggling Ears looked around, then jabbed a finger at two men. "What the hell were you doing?"

  Luash didn't listen to the answer. She cared nothing about foolish men who had ridden in to capture an entire village but instead had allowed armed and mounted Modoc warriors to slip away. As she waited, wondering what the soldiers planned to do next, she forced herself to look at each and every one of the mounted enemy.

  Some of them she knew—at least she recognized their faces. She'd seen them when they came to the reservation and more frequently since Kientpoos's band left it and set up their village here. None of the soldiers had ever spoken to her except to try to buy her favors with trinkets and to call her names that brought back memories of what her mother had endured. She'd been careful not to be alone where one or more of them might grab her. Even now, several were looking at her in a way that made her flesh crawl.

  Didn't these men, these strong and stupid soldiers, know she would kill them—or herself—before she let them touch her?

  "I'm asking you squaws one more time," Wiggling Ears said in broken Modoc. "Where's Captain Jack?"

  Where you can't touch him. It was all she could do not to laugh at Wiggling Ears's stupidity. Did he really think Kientpoos was huddled nearby, waiting to be found and dragged to Fort Klamath? "He will not speak with you," she told the soldier in her practiced English. "He has heard all he wants of army lies."

  "He's got no business leaving the reservation. He knows that. Why he thought he could get away with it—come on, squaw. You and the rest of your people are only going to get yourselves into more trouble this way. Can't you see that?"

  Although several of the women warned her to remain silent, she faced Wiggling Ears. Despite his obvious agitation, he shivered and tucked a hand under his armpit to warm it. In this weather, the journey from Fort Klamath must have taken most of a day and a night, leaving the soldiers so cold and hungry that the will to fight must have been frozen out of most of them. If this was what the army's leaders looked like, they would never bend the Modocs to their will. She would remember to tell Kientpoos that.

  "I am not Squaw," she said forcefully. "My name is Luash. And before you came, his name was Kientpoos. I still call him that."

  "Do you think I care?" Wiggling Ears urged his horse closer, but she refused to back away. She sensed that everyone was looking at her now, her people with love and concern, the army men with hatred and lust. "I'm tired of this nonsense. Listen to me, Luash. You tell your leader—whatever you call him—that his running, thieving days are over. All of you are going back to the reservation. I've got my orders."

  Never. She wanted to throw the word back at the man, but she was only one against more mounted and armed soldiers than she dared take time to count. Just as she started to fold her arms over her chest, powerful fingers clamped around her wrist. Startled, she tried to jerk free, but the grip became stronger. She turned, thinking to order whoever had grabbed her to release her. The words died inside her.

  She'd seen those dark gray eyes before. The man who'd called her squaw when she freed the horses was now staring down at her in a way she couldn't understand. A way that made her even more wary. "Get back in line," he ordered. "You want to stay alive, you do as you're told."

  Ignoring the cold fingers that were now cutting off her circulation, she returned the soldier's unrelenting gaze. His short-whiskered face was young, only lightly touched by wind and winter, but his eyes had seen a great deal. Those experiences had made him hard and old before he'd had time to be a youth. The wind captured his long, black hair and lifted it off his forehead. She spotted a jagged scar at the hairline and without being told, knew how he'd gotten it. His hatred of her and her people must be part of his very soul; she would be wise never to forget that.

  "You do not own my heart, white man," she told him in his own tongue, the lessons of the one settler she'd befriended serving her well. "Nor my body."

  "You think you can hold off the United States Army? If you do, you're a fool."

  "You are the one who does not understand." In her mind she saw Eagle. Even now he might be flying high overhead, hidden by morning clouds and mist, protecting her. "There are forces—"

  The soldier jerked her arm in an attempt to herd her back to the other women. She glanced toward where the warriors had gone. As soon as they could, they would return and punish the man who wouldn't let go of her. The man who'd nearly been scalped once and carried that experience deep within him.

  When she looked at her captor again, she saw that his attention was no longer on her but on several of the soldiers. As she watched, they picked up some branches that had been left near last night's council fire and plunged the ends into the smoldering coals until the branches burst into flames.
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  "What are you doing?" the man holding Luash demanded of Wiggling Ears in a voice so deep that his entire body seemed to rumble with it.

  "Giving the squaws a choice. Either they tell me where Captain Jack is or their village goes up in flames."

  "He is not here!" Luash struggled to keep her voice under control. "Do you not understand? You cannot—"

  "Don't tell me what I can and can't do. I'm not going back empty-handed. You got that?"

  "He is not here!"

  "I don't believe you, squaw."

  Why was she arguing with a man who would attack a sleeping village? Although Wiggling Ears continued to glare at her, she simply glared back, silent. Finally he cursed and yelled an order at one of the men who held a burning brand. The man started toward the nearest wickiup.

  "No!" All the women shrieked as one. "No!"

  "Get 'em out of here!" Wiggling Ears ordered. "They're going to march until their feet fall off if that's what it takes to get them back to the reservation. And when their men come looking for them, we'll disarm the bunch of them: Maybe then they'll understand the army means business."

  "No!" Frantic, Luash struggled free and spun away from the man with eyes like a winter hawk. But she was too late. The wickiup burst into flames, dried brush and willow boughs easily catching fire. "No!"

  Out of the comer of her eye, she saw another soldier hurry forward and plunge his flaming stick through the open door she'd come out of a few minutes ago. She'd already started to run toward where she'd left Aga when someone caught her from behind and held her against his hard body. "Aga!" she screamed. "She will—"

  "There's someone in there?"

  The gray-eyed man. "She is old and sick. She is too weak to escape!" She twisted from side to side, but freeing herself from this man's strength was impossible. Smoke filled her lungs; her eyes began to burn. She heard women and children crying, soldiers cheering.

  "Damnation! Stop fighting! You can't help her!"

  Stop? Let Aga die? No! Even as denial washed over her, she knew the man was right. The wickiup burned as if it had been made of dried pine needles and pitch. Unable to stop herself, she began to weep, shaking. She heard her captor's quick breathing and wondered if he'd somehow absorbed some of her horror.

  The ragged sound of her sobs blended with the snap and pop of flames. She trembled in the soldier's all-encompassing grip and watched the wickiup turn into a mass of dark smoke and flames redder than an eagle's eyes. Aga's time for dying had come. No shaman would be called to her side. If the tribe moved on, she would be left behind. It was wrong. Death should be met with dignity, not in fear.

  "No!" Spurred by the inferno before her, Luash began fighting again. "Not"

  "Stop it!" The man squeezed tighter, his grip hard and insistent. "It's too late."

  "Did you hear me, Jed?" Wiggling Ears demanded as he rode up. "I told you to get those women on the move."

  "You don't outrank me, Captain Jackson. You don't even know what you've done, do you?"

  "We've got those thieving Modocs on the run. They'll—"

  "Unless she's lying"—he indicated Luash—"you just burned a woman to death."

  "Serves her right."

  The man called Jed swung around to face the other man. "Don't you ever question me again, Jackson."

  Jackson jabbed a thick finger at her. "If you're taking that squaw's word—"

  Luash felt herself being pushed forward. Her feet were numb; she nearly lost her balance and had to rely on the army man's bulk to keep her from falling. He was staring down at her, waiting for her to repeat what she'd told him. Still, she forced herself to remain silent until she'd gained control over her loathing of everything he stood for.

  His eyes had indeed taken their color from the hawk. He seemed older now than he had earlier, but it might be a trick caused by flame-shadows, by what she'd learned from an old scar. She waited for him to demand more from her, to raise his rifle against her, but instead, he held her firmly in front of him and she returned his intense gaze until she forgot everything except his presence.

  This man who wore his hatred like a war shield was trying to look inside her until he'd exposed her heart, until there was nothing she could keep from him. Didn't he know that a white man would never know certain things about a Modoc? Still, she had no wish to hide the truth from him.

  Yes, she said with her eyes. Yes. You have killed Aga. Robbed her of a dignified death.

  "Damnation."

  "Are you listening to me?" Captain Jackson demanded, his voice a harsh intrusion. "We've got to get these women and children out of here before their braves return."

  Jed's mouth settled into a hard, straight line like a cougar stalking its prey. She could see in his eyes that he wanted to say something neither man would ever forget or forgive and was struggling against those words. As he opened his mouth, flames shot up nearby. Cursing, he spun around, still dragging Luash with him.

  A third wickiup had caught fire. Whether it had been set or sparks from other fires had reached it didn't matter. In that instant of distraction, she ripped free of his grip and sprinted toward the sobbing women. A burst of sound like something from the underworld drowned her cry as the flames spread to yet another house.

  Some of the soldiers' horses, frightened by the quick-moving inferno, began to fight their numb-fingered owners. At the same time, rifle shots cut the air, telling her that the braves had stopped running and were firing at the soldiers. She grabbed a small girl so her mother could more easily carry the baby in her arms and raced toward the willows.

  "Look out! The whole damn village's going up!"

  She didn't care who the soldiers were yelling at. The only thing that mattered was that she and the others were running away from their burning homes, toward freedom. All except for Aga.

  The little girl clamped her arms around Luash's neck with such strength that she could barely breathe. Her feet felt like stumps and she tried to keep from stumbling. She'd lost her blanket; the cutting wind sliced at her flesh.

  Behind her the village the Modocs barely had finished building burned.

  "Would you look at that! Just like tinder. Whoa! Whoa, damn you!"

  "Let it burn. Serves 'em right."

  Whoever said that laughed. He was immediately joined by others. Despite herself, she stopped running and whirled around. Although several soldiers glanced at the fleeing women and children, no one came after them. Instead, they watched the village burn and laughed.

  A knife twisted in her heart, opened it to pain and grief and hate heavier than any emotion she'd ever imagined. The little girl started to sob, but what Luash felt went too deep for tears. She wanted to scream, to draw back a bow string and plunge an arrow into a white chest.

  One man stood apart from the others, silent, staring at her instead of into the deadly flames. It was the too-strong soldier with the winter hawk eyes, the scarred flesh and soul.

  The one called Jed.

  Chapter 4

  No one could live in this godforsaken place where once the Earth had spewed its fiery innards over everything for miles around.

  True, the first time he'd come out to the lava beds, he had spotted a couple of antelope nibbling on sage and the tough, sparse grasses that somehow found enough soil for their roots, proof that some kind of life could be sustained. But that had been a month ago, before he'd accompanied Captain Jackson and thirty-eight soldiers to Lost River on a fool's mission. Since his last visit, winter had set in for good, and as far as he could tell, even the antelope had taken off for more hospitable territory.

  When his horse dropped its head in an attempt to drink from ice-encrusted Tule Lake, Lieutenant Jed Britton dismounted and climbed a nearby rise, his boots crunching on the few inches of frozen snow with every step. He stood, legs spread to counteract the uneven surface and strong wind, his breath drifting white around him.

  He hadn't told anyone he was coming here, which might have been a mistake. But if he was goin
g to comprehend the enemy and convey that comprehension to military commander of the Department of the Columbia, General E.R.S. Canby, he had to stand where the Modocs stood, listen to the same silence that wasn't silence at all. He had to stare into the naked horizon and try to grasp why the Indians clung to this nothingness. Besides, sometimes a man needed to get away from noise and confusion and endlessly unproductive so-called strategy sessions, even if it meant some distant warrior might spot him.

  Jed fixed on the deceptively level land near him, looking for movement, for stealth, his nerves tuned to messages of danger. He concentrated so fully that he forgot the wind attacking his cheeks.

  When he got right down to it, his life wasn't that important. Despite the deadly attacks on unsuspecting settlers that had taken place in the hours and days following the burning of the Modoc village, he wasn't running scared—unlike nearly everyone else. If the time to die came, he'd face it squarely, not cower like the terrified kid he'd been a lifetime ago.

  Driven to absorb as large an impression of what was happening as possible, he hadn't taken particular pains to hide while making his way here from where the rapidly growing army forces were setting up near Crawley's Ranch in anticipation of further trouble, If any Modocs were nearby, there was no way he could hide because the terrain around the lake was so open. But if the scouts and settlers could be believed, the renegades were holed up in some nearby lava caves.

  Still, was he, like his friend Wilfred said, courting death?

  Instead of trying to find an answer to the question he'd been asking himself for years, he walked back to his horse and absently scratched the animal's neck. He ran his fingers up under the mane to warm them and briefly laid his cheek against a thick-haired, muscled shoulder. Unless he wanted to risk death by freezing, he'd keep the shaggy animal near him.

  The damn fog had a choke hold on the lake, effectively hiding the geese and ducks he knew were out there, along with the eagles he'd noticed his first day in this part of northern California. The predators' voices, discordant and yet in harmony, echoed like cries from the underworld. The days had all run together in his mind, the miserable cold sweeping down off the mountain until he couldn't remember what it felt like to be warm. Longtime ranchers like John Fairchild said that sometimes the fog stayed for the better part of a month, all but blotting out the sun, and that a man better stop thinking about that if he didn't want to go crazy.