The Soul Survivors Series Boxed Set

by Vella Munn

  Jed would have to tell Fairchild it was already too late for him. He, a southerner, had no business—

  Modocs! Even the name added to his restlessness and discontent. They were nothing but a small bunch of hard-headed braves—little more than fifty by most accounts—squaws, and children who'd defied a fort full of soldiers by walking off their reservation and squatting where the settlers didn't want them. If they'd been left alone at Lost River, or if either Major Green or Indian superintendent T.B. Odeneal had thought to warn the local ranchers before the attack on the winter village, he wouldn't be here, attempting to gather information to take to General Canby.

  Since the disastrous attempt at rounding up the Modocs, a number of innocent and luckless ranchers had been brutally killed by revenge-seeking braves such as Hooker Jim, Curley Headed Doctor, and Slolux. Rumors ran rampant about what the widow Boddy had seen when she found what was left of her husband's body. Even Henry Miller, who'd long supplied the Modocs with food and ammunition, had been shot through the heart by bucks hell-bent on scalping every white man they could.

  This desolate chunk of land should have been left to the buzzards. Instead, orders had gone out to send all available Oregon and California soldiers here. To subdue fifty braves? Damnation, didn't anyone know anything about fighting Indians?

  Jed jammed his hands in his coat pockets and paced to the edge of the lake. The Black Hills. Sitting Bull. He could taste his need to be back there with Lieutenant Colonel George Custer and his troops, pitting himself against the savages who'd left him for dead. He knew how to fight Sioux; he'd go to his grave happy if he could run every last one of them into the ground.

  He sure as hell didn't want to be stuck in the middle of this—what did the Modocs call it—the Land of Burned Out Fires. But he'd been ordered here by none other than Custer, who'd agreed with the secretary of war that those at Fort Klamath needed a seasoned Indian fighter acting as advisor while they dealt with the Modocs.

  Jed had advised them, all right. He'd suggested surrounding the two small villages separated by an icy river, slipping in and grabbing the horses, sinking canoes so the Modocs couldn't take off across Tule Lake. But Colonel Green had been hell bent for sending Captain Jackson's troops straight into camp—and look what had happened. Worst of all, Jed's insistence that nearby ranchers be warned ahead of time had fallen on deaf ears. As a consequence, innocent men were dead and war was staring everyone in the face. Hopefully General Canby would heed Jed's argument that it wasn't too late to avoid more bloodshed, but with pressure coming from both area residents and the United States government, he wasn't sure.

  When he turned from the lake to stare out at the seemingly endless lava flow, he had to admit the Indians had been right when they named the land what they had. If there was such a thing as Hades—which there wasn't—it would look like this.

  Why in damnation had the Modocs taken refuge here? How were they going to keep from starving? All the army had to do was wait until the Modocs' empty bellies forced them out of hiding. That was what he intended to convey to General Canby.

  Something pricked at the back of his neck and spine. With his rifle cradled in his arm, he stared into the winter gray afternoon. Nothing moved and he tried to tell himself he was a fool for feeling uneasy. Still, he hadn't stayed alive by being stupid. He wished he had a blacksmith's bellows. That way he could blast away the fog and know for sure if anyone was watching him.

  Nearby, his horse searched for something to eat, his breath a white rhythm. He laughed in an attempt to force himself to relax, if anything was out there, it was probably no more threatening than in eagle.

  An eagle or a woman.

  The thought glided into him, not for the first time. As he'd done before, he tried to shake himself free, but she wouldn't go away.

  She. Damnit, he shouldn't be thinking about the young squaw. All he'd done was stop her from running into the blazing shack, he'd wrapped his arms around her slender yet unbelievably strong body because he didn't want to see her, an Indian, risk her life. Just because her long hair had somehow touched his neck and throat and he'd felt her heart pounding against him didn't give her any call to leave something of herself behind.

  Didn't she know he hated her kind and everything they represented? They'd killed the only person he'd given a damn about and scarred both his body and heart.

  He should have let her go. What did he care if she turned into cinders and smoke? She hadn't wanted him to stop her, had fought like a wildcat—had left a part of herself imprinted on him.

  No she hadn't! The only reason he couldn't get her out of his mind was that it had been too long since he'd so much as touched a woman.

  Angry, he again concentrated on his surroundings. Not content with encompassing the lake, the fog had spread to the lava beds themselves. The thick, heavy mist, with its ability to muffle all sound, put him in mind of some great starving creature. If he wasn't careful, the fog would wrap around him and swallow him whole.

  He looked down at his legs, surprised to see only a faint wisp instead of the monster of his thoughts. Damnit, what was he doing here? Just yesterday, he'd been with the other officers while they reviewed everything that had been done or remained to be done in order to insure the safety of the remaining ranchers. If they didn't do things right, folks like that slovenly, long-haired reporter H. Wallace Atwell would write more scathing articles about the army for the San Francisco Chronicle and New York Herald and half the world would know what was happening here.

  He still couldn't believe it; here they were in the middle of hostilities with the Modocs and the damn reporters were writing down everything they said or did, getting much of it wrong.

  "We don't have the rest of our lives," Jed had interrupted Lieutenant Colonel Frank Wheaton just this morning. "Give the Modocs one chance to come in for peace talks and if that doesn't work, we starve them out."

  The colonel, who was the district commander, had glared and again reminded Jed that he was following orders from President Ulysses Grant and the secretary of war General Sherman—orders that often contradicted each other and changed constantly. In the meantime, Jed was stuck here with a brain full of knowledge of Indian fighting and no way to use it unless he managed to convince General Canby of his course of action.

  Something caught his attention. After a moment he spotted an eagle gliding in and out of the fog, its heavy body floating effortlessly. The bird, in his prime by the look of his pure white head, hung over the blasted and burned landscape as if he owned it. What the bird found of interest, Jed couldn't say. Just the same, it was strangely comforting to realize there was a creature out there that didn't give a damn that fog and wind and cold could suck the warmth from the Earth itself. The eagle was partly shrouded in gray, so he couldn't be sure, but there seemed to be something on the top of its head, a thin, dark streak of some kind.

  His horse pawed the ground and whinnied impatiently. "What's the problem?" he muttered. "Maybe you think that bird's going to take a bite out of you?"

  When the horse started to wander away, he reached for the reins and held them in his numbing fingers. Once the weak sun set, he'd have to get to the dubious shelter of a tent before night froze his limbs. "We'll go back pretty soon," he whispered. "Soon."

  The eagle had disappeared, not, he told himself, that he cared. Still, he couldn't help wondering where it had gone. He supposed it lived in one of the distant cliffs with others of its kind although the idea of birds of prey co-existing gave him pause. Maybe they were solitary creatures, like him.

  The sound of the wind sliding endlessly down off the distant mountains seeped into him. The cold bore through his bones. Weary, his eyes blurred. He couldn't remember what it felt like not to be here, or why he'd been so damn eager to leave Crawley's Ranch, where army tents were cropping up like spring flowers. Even his horse seemed unreal, a dark, life-affirming chunk against a background of nothing.

  Still, he couldn't make himself mount and get th
e hell out of there.

  After tying his horse to a sage bush, he again walked to the lake. He squatted, his rifle still held in his right hand, and dipped his left fingers into the icy liquid that had been exposed by his mount's restless pawing. He didn't know if the lake froze clear over in the winter, but he wouldn't be surprised. What did the eagles and other birds do if they couldn't fish?

  And why should he care whether some stinking eagle starved?

  Something chased down his spine. Pulled to his feet, he spun around and started toward his horse, but before he could reach it, he caught a movement he knew wasn't a figment of his imagination.

  He wasn't alone. Someone had emerged from a distant jumble of rocks and was talking slowly, deliberately toward the lake. The person was so far away he couldn't tell if it was Modoc or rancher or soldier, just that the stranger wore a heavy cape of some kind.

  The newcomer continued his purposeful steps. Twice, whoever it was looked toward him, but the glances didn't last long. Either the Modoc—if that's who it was—didn't set any more store by his life than Jed did, or the Indian's reason for reaching the lake made risking his neck worth it.

  Jed brought his rifle to the ready position. He might be able to hit the intruder at this distance, but that would take as much luck as skill. If this was some chief, Jed would be doing the army a favor by sending one of the Modoc's leaders to the happy hunting ground.

  Just the same, it didn't seem right to bring more death to this place that already felt dead.

  The fur-draped newcomer reached the lake, faced into the fog, and slowly lifted his arms to the heavens. Long, dark hair streamed out behind the figure like a scarf.

  A woman?

  A Modoc?

  Her?

  Step by slow step, as if he was approaching a skittish antelope, Jed began closing the distance between them. She seemed unaware of his presence; maybe all she heard was the sound of ducks and geese, who had been chattering for several minutes. He hadn't gone far when something high above the woman caught his attention. The movement quickly sorted itself into an eagle. Motionless, not believing, he could only stare.

  It was an eagle, maybe the one he'd seen earlier.

  As the great raptor dipped lower, he nearly cried out a warning, but if the woman wanted to become eagle food, that was her affair.

  When he started walking again, his progress was even slower than before, not, he told himself, because he didn't want to disturb the woman and bird, but because until he knew what was going on, he'd be a fool to take chances. Twice he glanced behind him to make sure his horse hadn't been spooked by the creature. When he turned back to the woman, she was staring at him, her wide stance a silent warning.

  She didn't want him to come closer. Well, that was just too bad. After all, he was the one carting a loaded rifle.

  The eagle had wheeled away and the fog had swallowed it. Now it returned, its flight bringing it much closer to the woman. Instead of ducking or trying to run, she extended her arms even more. He thought he heard her say something, but the other birds were now making so much noise that he couldn't be sure.

  He stopped. Once again, the eagle soared away, but not back into the fog. Instead, it seemed to be playing with a breeze, momentarily distracted from the woman. She stood, still and patient, her hair floating weightless behind her.

  Her robe slid off her back and landed in a heap on the ground, but she didn't seem to care. She wore some kind of fiber shift that ended at her calves, leggings, and some kind of moccasins as protection against the cold. The wind flattened the shift against her breasts and waist and hips, revealing a young, slightly built woman whose body nonetheless had enough substance to carry a child.

  For the third time, the eagle pulled its wings close to its body and descended—slowly. The woman threw back her head and stood on tiptoe, actually calling the huge bird to her.

  Fine. Let it kill her.

  Only that wasn't going to happen.

  The eagle dipped one wing toward the ground, nearly touching rock and soil and hiding the woman from view. Trembling a little, Jed sucked in a breath but couldn't remember how to let it out. That damn bird was bigger than the woman, at least it was if its wing span was taken into account. And yet she'd walked out into the open so she could call it to her.

  Call it to her? Impossible! Yet, he couldn't shake the thought, the growing conviction that that was exactly what was happening. He needed to blink, to turn and walk away, damned himself for believing what he was seeing.

  The bird didn't long remain hovering over the woman. Before its heavy body could pull it to the ground, it soared upward again, seeking freedom and mobility in the sky. The woman laughed, the sound soft and alive.

  He lost track of how many times the young Modoc and the bird of prey danced their impossible dance. He marveled at the eagle's agility, which defied both gravity and logic. Yet, that paled before what he was learning about the nameless Modoc. She loved the eagle; there was no other way to express the bond between them. The joy in her laughter, the enthusiastic way she reached out to briefly caress a wing, made him rawly hungry to experience the same thing. She lifted her face so she could feel the press of air the eagle pushed toward her, and he envied her. Once her long fingers brushed the eagle's head as if tracing the ribbon of dark against a white background. A moment later, she caught a strand of her own hair and he saw that in the middle of that black mass was a thin, white streak.

  Eagle and woman, sharing—sharing what?

  "Go! Fly free! Take my gratitude and heart with you."

  He hadn't heard her speak before. The sound was as musical as her laugh, strong, filled with life. And she was speaking English; for his sake?

  "Eagle. I thank you."

  She wasn't shrieking with helpless disbelief today, but he knew that voice. This was the woman he'd prevented from running into the burning hut. The one who'd been hovering at the edge of his emotions ever since.

  Although she continued to stare after the eagle, the creature didn't return. Finally, she reached down for her blanket, wrapped it around herself, and faced him. It was then that he saw she held a large, dark feather in her bare hand.

  He must have come closer without knowing it because he could now look into her big, dark, shining eyes—eyes alive with a message so deep he couldn't begin to understand. She didn't say anything, but her stance told him everything he needed to know.

  She wasn't afraid of him or the weapon he held. But neither was she comfortable with his presence. She simply watched; there was no other way of describing it. He wondered if she would try to run if he charged her. Maybe. If her long legs were any indication, he would be hard pressed to overtake her. And if he aimed his rifle at her—he almost did that just to see what her reaction would be, but he'd been privy to something incredible between her and the eagle and didn't want to ruin the impossible thing they'd shared.

  "What are you doing here?"

  Her English was accented, but he had no trouble understanding her. "I have every right," he shot back, surprised because he suddenly felt defensive.

  "This is Maklaks land, Modoc land. It has been since the beginning of time."

  "Not anymore, squaw."

  She straightened, pulling her blanket closer against her. "You do not call me squaw, white man."

  He nearly told her he could call her whatever he wanted, but if he did, they'd argue and that wasn't what he wanted. "What's your name, then?" he asked, when what he wanted was an explanation for the impossible thing he'd just witnessed.

  She didn't answer right away. He sought through his memory, trying to remember whether he'd ever had an honest to goodness conversation with an Indian woman. He didn't think so. "Do you remember me?" he asked. "At your village—I stopped you from burning to death."

  She shook her head, her eyes seeming to fill with wisdom and beliefs he couldn't grasp. "Aga would have left this world in peace and dignity if the army had not attacked sleeping women and children. I will
never forget that. And yes, I remember you, white man."

  The way she said the last two words made them sound like a slap. Jed knew she didn't want him to come any closer, and because he didn't want her running away—for reasons he couldn't begin to understand—he stayed where he was. "I'm Lieutenant Jed Britton of the U.S. Army."

  "Jed Britton. Lieutenant Jed Britton." She tapped her chest. "Luash."

  Luash. The name was music, a whisper on the wind. "That's your Modoc name. What do settlers call you?"

  "I have no other name, white man."

  "Not white man. Jed."

  Something that might be a smile touched her lips. "Do you understand?" she asked. "You are called one thing, and want no other name. It is the same for me."

  So he'd blundered. It was just that the settlers and soldiers had given the Modocs names, names like Captain Jack, Hooker Jim, Shacknastyjim, and Curley Headed Doctor. "Luash." Jed tried out the word, liked the way it felt on his tongue. "Does it have a meaning?"

  "Mist."

  That fit. "Who named you?"

  "I did."

  "You did? Not your father?"

  "My father does not own me, Lieutenant Jed Britton."

  "Your husband?"

  "I have no husband."

  Not married? But she was fully grown. Most Indian girls took a husband shortly after their puberty ritual—at least that's how things used to be. Nowadays, with everything changing for the Modocs, he wasn't so sure. Maybe her husband had been killed or had run off with another woman. No. Not that. A man would have to be crazy to want a different body to curl up against.