Slowing, he halted to study the land. As he’d discovered, the maka in this part of the world was unlike any he’d seen before. It had many faces, many moods. Today anger vibrated through the air. Still, he refused to back down. He could not allow his enemy to survive. There were deaths to avenge.
He thought back to the last bloody skirmish, when he’d lost a brother and friend. It was infuriating. Last year he’d tried to exact his revenge, but had not been able. The peace talk had been a fine idea; if nothing had come of them except perhaps the slackening of the Hunkpapa’s guards. Now that it was down, he’d seek his revenge on the treacherous group.
Lightning flashed, and Hawk Eyes saw the lay of the land. Without warning, the smooth, flat ground dropped away into deep, brown gullies that twisted and turned and snaked before him. The sight reminded him of prairie dog tunnels above ground. Just beyond, he spotted flat earth perfect for battle.
Following Many Horns, who saw the same, he raced ahead of his warriors. Where the gullies narrowed, he and Many Horns jumped from their horses and led them across to the other side. His men did the same; then they all remounted.
To his right, in another lightning flash, he saw jagged spheres spike the horizon among tall, flat-topped patches of land. A winding river cut through the earth. He’d never seen a land so filled with drama. Even the banks of the river shifted, from soft earth and green growth to steep banks of rock and overhangs. There was beauty in such land, and Hawk Eyes was suddenly overcome with doubt.
Many Horns called out over a crash of thunder. “Our enemy comes. We are many. We will destroy them.” The young brave flexed his shoulders, loosening them.
Hawk Eyes said nothing. His mind and heart warred. This feud had gone on so long. The first life had been taken by his father, avenging the pride of his mother in having been jilted by Runs with Wind for a white woman. Then Charging Bull had retaliated. On and on it had gone, the two tribes’ leaders striking at each other’s heart and the deaths from each attack fueling the next, and the next. So many lives had been lost in the name of honor, pride and revenge. This was a vicious cycle of war that he feared would never end.
Take a life. Lose a life. When would it end?
It would not end by his killing Swift Foot and his new bride. Logic and the past told Hawk Eyes this. Yet he had no choice. Did he?
Let it be, son, his mother had counseled him just last night.
Do not take more lives, Seeing Eyes, his wife, had added.
Let peace begin with us, both had begged. You have begun peace talks. Let them be in earnest.
As if he sensed his chief’s weakening resolve, Many Horns tightened his hold on his horse’s reins. “They do not want peace,” the brave said. Fury tightened his voice.
Hawk Eyes glanced over at him. The warrior was a few years younger than himself, and he had been the one risking his life in the faux parleys. Did this youth so want to see bloodshed? He sighed. “Do they not? I am suddenly afraid that this attack will do nothing but destroy us all.”
Pausing, he thought of his own small son. At the age of four, the boy was already eager to become a warrior. Over and over, young Golden Eagle begged to hear the story of Swift Foot. Though his tribe felt anger and hatred for the enemy, there was also grudging respect. That day long ago had indeed been a blight in the history of their Miniconjou tribe: not only had they failed to kill the son of Runs with Wind, but the attack had given birth to a legend.
Hawk Eyes still remembered his own fascination with the tale of Swift Foot. And his admiration and pride in the knowledge that someday he would face the boy who had earned such fame.
It was only recently that his mother, weak and fragile with age, had begged him to reconsider. She wanted to die in peace. To know her son lived with peace, not hate and war.
Unfortunately, Hawk Eyes could not give her this. The peace talks had been a trick to set the Hunkpapa off guard, but perhaps something might have come of them. Perhaps. But not after hearing from Many Horns that Swift Foot carried the rage of revenge within him and had sworn to take the life of Hawk Eyes’s son.
Many Horns shifted restlessly. “We will not allow them to kill your son,” he called loudly. The angry buzz of agreement whipped through Hawk Eyes’s warriors like a swarm of angry bees.
Hawk Eyes drew in a deep breath, flaring his nostrils. He released the air through parted lips. “We will protect our own,” he announced, then divided his group into two.
“Go,” he called. He watched one group ride off to the right. He led the rest to the left. Only by forcing Swift Foot’s warriors into smaller groups could he hope to win. It would also give him a greater chance of breaking through the barrier to attack the tribe—to harm Swift Foot’s family as that chief had intended to do to his.
As if holding its breath, the thunder stopped. Even the rain stopped, as if something had suddenly dammed up the clouds. An eerie silence fell as heavily as the rain had moments before. The moon came out, lighting the battleground.
The faint glow of Haani was a sign. Swift Foot gave the signal to meet the enemy. In stead of dividing his warriors in two, he split them in three. He charged forward, confident that none of the enemy warriors would break through and reach his fleeing people.
Grabbing a fistful of arrows from the quiver hanging at his side, he began loosening them. His shrill war cry burst forth and echoed through the night air. The sucking sound of hooves kicking up mud accompanied his warriors’ shrieks and whoops of fury.
Two of his shafts lodged in the chests of oncoming warriors, and Swift Foot smiled grimly when he saw. His third arrow took down a horse. All around him, missiles flew back and forth. The whiz of a shaft close to his ear made him bend low. A loud cry came from a warrior behind him who’d been struck.
Rage welled up in his heart as the distance between him and the enemy closed. Shouldering his bow, he grabbed his buffalo-horned war club and his shield. When the warrior whose horse had gone down rose and swung an ax at him, Swift Foot retaliated. The enemy, sliced by his club’s wicked horn tip, fell in a bloody heap.
The battle continued. Horses tired. Arms ached. Bodies fell. Warriors chased, maneuvered, evaded and clashed. Fighting broke down into groups of two against three. One against one. Four racing after five.
Over and over, Swift Foot alternated between swinging his club and using his shield to deflect blows as he guided his horse through the vicious melee. Smaller groups broke off, and he rode after them, a tight band of warriors at his side to aid him, and keep him safe. He would not let the Miniconjou through to the tribe.
He fought to catch up. Following the four warriors racing past his men, he urged his horse faster. Soon he was alone chasing his foes. One fell when struck by his club. The other three turned to fight.
One of the enemy, dressed and elaborately painted, shoved the horse of another man circling Swift Foot out of his way. “He is mine,” he said in a snarl.
Swift Foot smiled grimly. He recognized Hawk Eyes. “We meet. You will die this day,” he promised. All his years of anger and guilt were forged into a will of steel against this man. He would avenge each loss of his tribe, each injury.
“It is the son of Runs with Wind who will die,” Hawk Eyes shouted.
The two men swung at the same time. Hawk Eyes wielded a club with a large stone head. The force of its blow against Swift Foot’s shield jarred the nerves in his wrist. Pain traveled up to Swift Foot’s elbow. Brought down in a swift arc, his own club tore through Hawk Eyes’s shield.
Again, both chiefs lifted their clubs and brought them down. The weapons slammed against each another. The sharp horn tip of Swift Foot’s embedded itself into the thick wooden handle of his opponent’s club. The force unbalanced both warriors. As one they fell onto the muddy ground, their horses skittering away but well trained to stay close to their masters.
Hawk Eyes stood first, whipping out a knife. Swift Foot did the same. The two men circled each other.
Swift Foot e
yed his sworn enemy. “You spoke falsely of peace. It was nothing more than a trick.” He crouched and waited.
“Ha! It is you who lie. You do not want peace. We came to you.” His dark eyes burned with rage.
“Yes, you came to us. But if you want peace, then why are you here with clubs and arrows? Actions speak louder than words.” Faster than a striking snake, Swift Foot’s knife flashed out, cutting his enemy on the arm.
“I will do whatever it takes to protect my people and my son.” With the same speed and skill, Hawk Eyes jabbed back.
Swift Foot dodged the blade but it nicked his shoulder. Feeling it burn across his flesh, he reminded himself who he was. He was Swift Foot. Powerful. Courageous. No one would ever kill the innocent women and children of his tribe again.
Around and around the two men circled, striking out and slashing at each other. Around them, similar hand-to-hand combat took place. The skies once more filled with clouds. Reflecting the violence on the ground, lightning exploded overhead. The white-hot fury of the heavens matched the bloodred rage on the ground. Rain burst through the clouds, turning the ground scarlet.
A jagged bolt of light slammed into the earth, blinding Swift Foot. Its force threw him to the ground. Overhead, a menacing rumble grew to a low roar as if the very spirits were ready to vent their wrath. Warriors on both sides shook their heads and glanced fearfully up at the flashing heavens.
Slowly Hawk Eyes backed up until he reached his horse. Swift Foot did the same. While he didn’t fear his enemy, he did fear the wrath of the spirits. A second sizzle sounded, followed by the bolt of heavenly fury slamming into the earth. All the warriors scattered.
Hawk Eyes mounted. “We will finish this at another time,” he promised. Then he whistled, a shrill sound.
At the given signal, the Miniconjou scooped up their dead and injured and rode off while Swift Foot’s warriors retrieved their horses. Swift Foot mounted, ready to go after his foes, but the driving rain made it hard. Then he took note of the number of injured and dead.
He bellowed in anger. Instinct made him reach for his bow, but he stopped himself and got himself back under control. It was too late. The slick ground and the blinding rain made it unsafe to pursue the enemy. He might ride into a trap. And the exhausted state of both his men and their horses made it a bad strategy even without the rain and darkness.
When they were sure their enemy was gone, Swift Foot and his men fanned out and collected their fallen. Breathing heavily, the young chief jumped down from his horse each time he came across a wounded member of his tribe. Pain tore through him. More lives lost. He’d seen the enemy littering the ground; they had lost a large number as well. That should have given him a small feeling of victory, but all he felt was an empty, hollow ache.
“So much waste. So much loss,” he murmured after calling a warrior over to load up several of his fallen comrades.
By the time all of his men were accounted for, Swift Foot’s mood had turned black. The loss to his people had been great: ten dead, four injured so severely, he knew they’d die of their wounds. And of the others, just about every man had an injury—some small, some great. One man’s wounded arm would render him useless for fighting forever.
Kneeling in the mud with the storm pounding angrily over head, Swift Foot felt his tears mingle with the rain. His chest hurt; his lungs burned. Grief left him paralyzed.
“Get up, my son,” a voice commanded.
Swift Foot glanced up at his uncle. “Is my life worth so much loss?” he asked.
“It is not for you to put a price on.” Charging Bull’s eyes closed wearily. The man’s shoulders slumped with exhaustion.
“Is it right that one person cause so much pain, my uncle?”
Charging Bull drew himself up. “You were chosen a long time ago. You have no choice but to do the job you were born to do. You are a leader.”
The smell of mud and blood stung Swift Foot’s nostrils. “Yes, I am a leader. I’ve led my people to their death.” Without another word, he stood and walked to his horse.
As he mounted, he heard another ravaged cry of grief. Another warrior had been found.
“Nooo! Nooo!” The cry rivaled that of the howling wind.
Swift Foot rode over, through the rain, to a group of warriors kneeling on the ground. Lone Warrior was there, bent over an older man. The brave threw his head back and bellowed with the red rage of a buffalo bull.
Swift Foot sucked in his breath. Lone Warrior’s father, Tall Shield, lay there. The man was still, his lifeless eyes unblinking against the steady downpour. Staring at his father-in-law, Swift Foot bowed his head. Small Bird’s father had died in battle.
“He is dead.” Kills Many Crows’s harsh voice brought a hush to the battle-weary men.
Swift Foot motioned to three of his warriors. “Load him. Carefully.”
“This is your fault,” his cousin continued. “You brought bad spirits to our people—and now to those who joined us. Many die be cause of you.” Hatred blazed in the young man’s eyes.
Night Thunder nudged his horse between him and Swift Foot. “We have wounded who need to be treated. Now is not the time to lay blame. This war began before the birth of our chief.”
Kills Many Crows glared at Swift Foot. “Yes, but he is the one who will destroy us all. Think upon that.” He jerked his horse around and rode off.
Swift Foot dismounted to help the other warriors and his brother-in-law lift the body of Tall Shield.
Lone Warrior shook his head. “No. Do not touch him. I will take care of him.”
Nodding, understanding the other man’s pain, Swift Foot turned his attention to the others and supervised the last of the loading of the dead and wounded. When it was done, they all started back.
He sat his horse tall as he rode, trying to lead his exhausted warriors with a show of pride, but inside Swift Foot felt defeated. At the moment, it all seemed too much for one man to bear; the war, the resentment, the hatred. As he stared up into the clouds, blinking against the assault of rain, even the storm seemed too much.
Sunshine. Peace. Gentleness. Love. He yearned for those things—needed them, or he feared he’d break like a dead, dry twig under a boot.
“The enemy retreated. They ran from us,” Night Thunder said.
Swift Foot stared at his friend. “They retreated, yes. But they ran from the wrath of the spirits. They will return.”
Victory was theirs today, but death had made it hollow.
Chapter Eight
Small Bird rode for what seemed like hours. The storm continued to unleash its power, as if in retaliation for the battle taking place somewhere behind her. As she had so many times she’d lost count, she glanced over her shoulder. Where was Swift Foot? Was he all right? She also thought about her brother. And her father. And the others.
Shortly after leaving camp, they’d headed away from the river, which flowed deeper and faster from the rain. The land rose, then fell into shallow gullies that were starting to fill with water, then rose again up and out of them to become more flatland. Finally, when Small Bird feared she’d fall asleep on her horse, the group stopped at the ridge of a deep, dark ravine. The rain had stopped, but the moon had not returned. They made their way carefully.
The two warriors riding on either side of her dismounted and rolled away three huge boulders. To Small Bird’s surprise, a hidden path led down into a chasm. One of the warriors remounted and urged his horse first down the trail.
Small Bird urged her mount forward to watch his progress as he skillfully made his way down the side of the ravine. At the bottom he rode off. They waited in silence. A few minutes later he returned and signaled.
The warrior beside her nodded. “It is safe. Go, wife of my chief.”
The rain had slicked the earth. The path looked treacherous. Small Bird took a deep breath. Huge boulders on either side of the trail made the cleared area just wide enough for her animal. As the rest of the ravine was rocky, this one pa
th seemed out of place; she realized that Swift Foot’s warriors had cut it.
“Go now,” the warrior behind her said.
Small Bird nodded and gently coaxed her mare to descend. The horse slipped halfway on the slick ground but quickly regained its footing. It faltered once more before they reached level ground. At last safe, Small Bird let out a huge sigh of relief and glanced around. The moon had come out of the clouds once more.
Tall cottonwoods grew along yet another river. Although narrower than the stream they’d camped along that morning, this one looked deeper. She moved onward, following the warrior ahead of her. Drenched and sick with worry, Small Bird tried to keep her attention on the rock-strewn ground. She hated not knowing what was happening with Swift Foot and the rest of the men.
Behind her, women, children and the elderly or maimed continued to descend into the hidden valley. Their horses’ hooves churned up the narrow path, turning it into a sticky quagmire, and the long journey had shortened tempers of both beast and human. Children fretted and bickered, mothers snapped, dogs whined and horses tossed their heads in protest. The two warriors in charge sent fierce looks to everyone to reinforce the need for silence. The enemy could be near.
A collective gasp behind Small Bird made her stop and look back. A long line of refugees stretched up the side of the ravine as yet more of the large Hunkpapa tribe continued to pick its way down. Small Bird held her breath when she spotted a horse sliding midway down. The animal struggled to regain its footing. At last he did, and a great sigh of relief feathered the air.
Turning back to the seemingly endless ride, Small Bird tried not to think of her husband, or any of the others. She rounded a bend and stared. The land dipped gently and widened into a full canyon. “Is this where we will camp?” she asked.
One of the warriors answered: “Yes. Our enemy will not be able to find us. There is also a secret path out, should we need to flee. The ground is also far from the top. We will wait here for the others.”
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