The Soul Survivors Series Boxed Set

by Vella Munn

  Did he? For years—forever it seemed—Indians had been the enemy. Cunning and bloodthirsty. Ridding the country of them had given his life meaning.

  But he'd been given an eagle feather and kissed a dark-skinned woman and listened as she talked about her people's beliefs and dreams.

  That woman—she might have been watching as his blood stained the ground.

  * * *

  Luash sat with her legs folded under her, barely aware of the victory dance going on around her. It seemed as if Cho-ocks had been dancing forever, but it had only been through the night. The general's scalp hung from the medicine pole, proof, the shaman said, that his medicine was powerful. To Luash, the horrible sight served as proof that the Modocs had done something the army would never forgive.

  Dark figures lit only by firelight briefly caught her attention. They seemed unreal, almost as unreal as what had happened yesterday.

  Was Jed alive?

  Sensing a presence beside her, she turned and saw her uncle. She hadn't spoken to Kientpoos since he'd shot the general.

  He broke the silence. "You are quiet. A silent woman carries many thoughts inside her."

  "I do not know what they are. They tangle—"

  "Do you not? Cho-ocks boasts his power will keep the army from us. Ha-kar-Jim says there is no need for more magic-making because they have lost their leader and will wander away. Which man is right?"

  "What does it matter?" When Kientpoos continued to stare at her, his eyes glittering red from the firelight and maybe from something deep within him, she forced herself to continue. "I do not care which man makes the loudest boast. I believe the army will never allow us to live in peace."

  She expected her uncle to argue; after all, hadn't he agreed to the attack? Instead, sighing deeply, he sank down beside her. For a long time he simply stared at the flames. She did the same, taking a little comfort from what seemed to have a life of its own.

  "I am a dead man, Luash," he whispered. "I said that the other day; I say it again. What I do now matters little because the time will come when the white man makes me pay for what I did."

  "Then why did you?"

  "Why?" He laughed; there was no warmth to the sound. "You are not a man. You do not understand what a man must do if he is to continue to walk tall. Besides, if I cannot live as my father did, maybe joining my ancestors is not such a bad thing."

  Dying not a bad thing? Trying to convince her uncle that he should want to go on living would take so much effort, and tonight she couldn't make herself look into the future. She rubbed the back of her head. She had hit it on a rock, stunning herself, when she'd tried to run to Jed's aid. Although the gesture held Kientpoos's attention, she couldn't make herself stop. "I would have stayed with him. If you and Cho-Cho had not grabbed me, I would have remained with the army man."

  "I could not let you. You understand why, do you not?"

  She did, now. Although she'd fought as he and Cho-Cho dragged her back to the stronghold, she now realized that nothing except her own death would have come out of her attempt to help Jed.

  Nodding, she rocked forward and let her thoughts drift into the flames. For maybe a half dozen heartbeats, she found forgetfulness in the fire's erratic movement. Then her mind filled with the memory of what Jed had looked like sprawled on the ground and the question of whether death or imprisonment—which was worse than death—waited for her uncle. For all of them. Feeling sick, she got to her feet.

  "You hate me."

  "No, never. But—I feel like a storm-tossed leaf. I have lost the shore, lost everything I once knew."

  "No, Luash. It is not so for you; it cannot be!" He drew in a long, dragging breath. "I do not want to think anymore; I have done enough of that for this life. When I die, you will take Whe-cha into your heart?"

  "I love her," Luash said softly. Whe-cha was already in her heart; did Kientpoos understand that?

  "No more than I do." Her uncle returned his attention to the fire. "I regret she is without my seed. Before, I told myself it was better that a child of mine not be born in the Land of Burned Out Fires, but now I wish she had something to remember me by."

  "You are not dead," she said, trying to reassure him, but heard the lack of conviction in her voice.

  "Not yet. Go, Luash. Be alone with your thoughts."

  Although she felt horribly torn, she did as her uncle had ordered and headed into the night, sensing Kientpoos's eyes on her. He was still her uncle; she would always love him. But he had changed—or been changed by forces beyond his control.

  Except for one woman who'd just had a baby, all of the Modocs, children and adults alike, were either dancing with the shaman or watching him. She didn't want to be around people who boasted like small, unthinking children. She looked around for Whe-cha and spotted her heading toward Kientpoos. Kientpoos turned from his conversation with Cho-Cho and extended a hand to his young wife.

  The night absorbed Luash. Although it was colder tonight than it had been for several days, she didn't go back for her blanket before walking out into the lava beds. Within a few minutes, she reached the red rope Cho-ocks had placed around the stronghold. The shaman maintained that all Modocs who remained within its magic circle would always be safe, but she stepped over it without worrying about the consequences.

  Behind her flickered the faint glow of the soldiers' distant camp-fires. Sometimes, when the wind blew toward her, she thought she could hear some of the sounds the enemy made, but tonight there was only the fading thud of dancing feet on rock.

  Guided by moonlight, she made her way around sharp out-croppings formed before the first Modoc set foot on this land. The depression -., some of them large enough to shelter a bear, were black against the lighter surface. The night smelled of sage. If she walked until her moccasins fell apart, she might reach the great mountain where Sun God lived. Then, if she had an eagle's vision, she could look down on Modoc land and feel safe.

  Maybe she would see Jed and know whether he was alive.

  A teasingly cool breeze fanned her hair and lightly slapped her cheeks. When she lifted her head to draw in the clean scent, she felt her body relax. She wanted to take that as proof that she'd somehow sensed Jed, that her heart knew he was safe, but she couldn't.

  "Eagle." She touched her fingertips to the streak of white at her temple. "Please, hear me tonight. End your silence; I need you as I never have before. Eagle. Is he alive? Does he hate me?"

  She stopped, eyes scanning the horizon though tonight it was more memory than reality. There was safety in darkness, safety and a serenity that had been a part of her since she'd first become aware of the difference between night and day. She had heard of whites who feared the world after the sun left it, but cloaked in black, it became a great, peaceful blanket that could absorb her every thought. Maybe sometime it would absorb her as well.

  "Eagle. You see everything; you know everything. Is he alive? Please, is he alive?"

  The sound—like a distant whisper—made itself known. Although she still saw nothing different in the moon and starlit sky, she sensed her spirit's presence. It had been so long since Eagle had answered her call that tonight's gift nearly brought her to her knees. Behind her, her people sang of war and victory; even further away the army spoke of revenge. But neither of those things mattered now.

  Only Eagle did.

  Eagle and Jed Britton.

  As she'd done many times in the past, she stretched her arms upward and waited. Night wind chased across her flesh. Despite its cool fingers, she felt warmed. When silence turned into a steady whisper of sound, it happened so gradually that she couldn't say when the moment came that she knew she was being visited by her spirit.

  He glided toward her, a magnificently dark shape against an ancient background. He seemed motionless, a lifeless and weightless creature borne to her on the wind. Yet she sensed his eyes on her. Straightened and stood proudly so he would be proud of her.

  You have been gone so long. I though
t—I feared your absence.

  Eagle was directly overhead now, a protecting, silent blanket untouched by the forces that kept her rooted to the ground.

  Please. Do not leave me. I need—need you so much.

  One wing dipped slightly and Eagle began a slow, graceful descent. Arms still uplifted, she threw back her head so her hair would flow out behind her. His shape became more and more distinct and she could see the tiny fluttering at the tips of his wings.

  I cannot ask it; cannot say the words. But you must have seen him—the army man. Is he... does he...

  Something fluttered down to be caught on the fabric covering her breast. Trembling, she took the feather between thumb and forefinger and held it up to the moon. With Eagle hovering so close that she imagined she felt his body heat, she understood. The feather was as white as mountain snow; except for a small, dark dot, it was flawless.

  "A small wound," she whispered. "Then he will live."

  By way of answer, Eagle propelled its body upward in a powerful thrust.

  * * *

  April 14, 1873

  Three days after he'd been shot, Jed strapped on a pistol and picked up his rifle. In the past, his pulse had leapt in anticipation of battle and the end to the nervousness that accompanied waiting and uncertainty. This morning however, he felt only dread—not for himself, but for a black-haired, black-eyed woman. A woman he wanted to hate.

  The supposedly still sick Colonel Gillem's plan was to move all the troops under his command and the Warm Springs Indian scouts as close as possible to the Modoc stronghold before launching an attack. Because he felt strong enough to be moving around and because his wound had somehow given him exalted status, Jed had been involved in the hastily planned strategy sessions. More than that, Colonel Gillem wanted him to be part of the attack.

  The military part of him relished the opportunity to put his years of Indian fighting to work. Though he chafed at Gillem's indecisiveness and the officers' lack of faith in their commanding officer, Jed firmly believed that if the plan—to advance on several fronts—was successfully carried out, the Modocs would be forced from the cover that had served them so well during the winter.

  The part of him that was made up of his heart and his memories—of a woman's voice and touch, of a little girl's doll—hated what was going to happen.

  Jed marched with Battery E when they advanced on the stronghold, keeping up a steady fire while hurrying from one rocky protection to another. Although the effort winded him, he managed to keep up, spending more time on his belly than standing upright. The battery members either seethed at having to wait for the rest of the troops to get into position or spoke worriedly about what it had been like last winter when the Modocs made a shambles of the army's attempt to overrun them.

  Jed reminded the men that they now understood the terrain and that fog no longer obscured the land. Even then, when he should be thinking and acting as nothing except a soldier, a man worthy of General Canby's respect, memories of a dark face and soft voice shattered his concentration and he felt the heat of the feather he kept against his chest.

  He was here to attack, to kill if need be.

  To, maybe, watch her die.

  God!

  No. No God.

  Sniping fire from unseen Modocs kept the battery's advance at less than a snail's pace. At nightfall, Jed reckoned it had taken the nearly four hundred men a good six hours to advance maybe a half mile. If the reports he'd received were correct, three men had been killed and six wounded, statistics that both sickened and heartened him. It could have been worse, he kept telling himself. Tonight the troops wouldn't retreat as they had in the past. Instead, they would camp here and continue the advance in the morning.

  And what would happen then—

  He shook off the thought that had haunted him all day. He was a soldier, nothing but a soldier, not one of those bleeding hearts back East who thought Indians had more right to land than whites with their superior numbers and weapons.

  But because of Luash, he knew her people had walked this land since the beginning of time. Did that give them no rights?

  He couldn't say whether he was glad to see night settle over the lava beds. He was so tired that his legs shook; he probably could fall asleep wherever he dropped, despite the rocks littering the ground—if he didn't spend it thinking about what he was doing.

  Who he was doing it against.

  Mortar fire began as soon as the men were done with dinner. Although the army was still too far from the Indians for the rounds to do any real damage, the Modocs would be kept awake—and nervous—all night. He kicked a jagged rock; he couldn't suppress a smile. No matter what else the morning brought, it would dawn on bleary-eyed men—both Modoc and white. A little while later he heard a shout that made him laugh. In imperfect English, an unseen Modoc was telling the soldiers that their aim was so poor he could stand close enough to a cannon to touch it and still not fear being killed. The Modoc was probably right.

  He might have slept; he couldn't be sure. What he did know was that when dawn finally broke, he was grateful for an excuse to be on the move again, desperately grateful for an end to half-seen dreams that again and again ended in a haze of red. In images of a child's doll.

  Despite frustrating breakdowns in communication and an outright refusal by one major to obey Gillem, the troops finally closed ranks at the lake shore, effectively blocking the Modocs from much of their main food and water supply. When he realized that the whole southern end of the lava beds had been left unprotected thanks to incompetence and misunderstood orders on the part of several officers, Jed was unable to share in the general consensus that the Modocs would be beaten tomorrow, when the final advance on the stronghold was made. He knew he should be furious about the tactical error; instead, he found himself on the verge of praying that the army's stupidity might save Luash's life.

  "It's a damnable mess, ain't it?" Wilfred observed as they crouched behind a hastily built rock barrier. "I knew Mason had no love for Gillem, but to deliberately ignore a command—if it was me, I'd be ordering a court marshal about now."

  "Whose? Captain Mason's or Colonel Gillem's?"

  Wilfred laughed. "Maybe both of them. What a hell of a way for us to wind up; we're getting too old for this. Do you think Captain Miller's men will succeed in meeting up with the Warm Springs Indians tomorrow? If they do, and if the Modocs are still in the stronghold, we'll have them trapped."

  "Trapped." Jed little more than mouthed the word. "I don't know. I talked to the colonel about it a little while ago. He seems to think Captain Miller won't have any trouble closing off the south end, but he was wrong about Mason's ability to carry out an order. I think he's wrong about Miller too."

  "How do you feel about that?"

  "I'm army, Wilfred. I know my job."

  "Don't snap at me," Wilfred warned. "I' just saying you'd better take a long, hard look inside yourself. You can't have both her and an army victory."

  Damn Wilfred, Jed thought. If he hadn't let the man get close to him, back when he thought he'd go crazy from nightmares born of the slaughter of eighty men, no one would know what he was going through tonight.

  But maybe Wilfred was right. Maybe answering his friend's question was the only way he'd take that look at himself. Restless, he wandered down to the lake from which the Modocs could no longer take water and watched the rising moon paint it a cool silver.

  Once he'd stood near here with Luash. He couldn't remember what they'd talked about, only that she'd felt warm and alive and wonderful in his arms. When he kissed her, he'd forgotten how different they were and that he'd never be the same again.

  Now he didn't know what he'd become.

  When he could make out the shapes of the birds who'd settled on the lake for the night, his thoughts turned to what she'd said about the countless eagles who chose this area for their winter home but were now gone. Would she ever be able to tell him anything else? That was the question that pounded thr
ough him harder than mortar hitting lava; was their time together over?

  How could it not be?

  Restlessness forced him away from the lake. For a long time he told himself he wasn't going anywhere in particular, just that he needed to work off energy; but even before he faced the facts, he knew. No one questioned him when he climbed over the newly erected rock walls and slipped off toward the stronghold. He wasn't fool enough to walk out in the open or take a direct route to where the Modocs were fortified. Still, heading east, away from it all, he put more and more distance between himself and the army, let the night surround him. Breathed in sage and rock and dirt and spring. If anyone had asked him to explain himself, he wouldn't have been able to. Instinct, he might have said. Following his nose.

  Only it wasn't either of those things, any more than it was a wish to get himself killed tonight. Luash was out here somewhere. Maybe no more than a few feet from him, maybe miles away, heading for distant hills and freedom. No, not that. He felt her presence, felt her fingers on him, felt the warmth of her breath and heard the beating of her heart.

  He had no business being here. Only a fool would sneak unarmed into no man's land when safety lay behind him. But back there waited a sleepless night and an attempt to figure out how he felt about having been shot by one of her braves.

  The moon was as intense and powerful here as it had been back at the lake. He missed the image of the stars reflected in the water and wondered if she'd noticed how close the heavens seemed tonight.

  Heavens. That's not the way she saw things, and neither did he. All right, sky then. Was she looking up at the sky and asking herself if he was doing the same? Maybe—the thought froze him—maybe she didn't know whether he was alive.

  She could be dead. There'd been no reports of Indians being killed, but enough bullets had been discharged since the army began its assault that at least one might have hit a target.

  No. He did not believe that. His heart would have known if something had happened to her.

  His knees throbbed from the punishment he was subjecting them to, but he knew better than to stand and risk exposing himself. When he rocked back onto his heels, he pressed his hand against his side to quiet the not so dull throbbing, then scanned what the moon revealed of the world around him.