Already the animals were beginning to appear gaunt. It had been intended to allow them to rest and fatten again when they reached safety.
But that was several sleeps away, and Running Eagle and Long Walker had struck a moderate compromise. They had slowed their flight enough to keep the horses in fair condition and still move steadily away from any possible pursuit. All had seemed well, until now. But their mounts were far from the quality needed for this sort of a chase. They had been forced to take animals they could catch, certainly not the best of the herd. The aging gelding ridden by Long Walker was only a shade poorer in stamina than the wind-broken mare which Running Eagle had obtained in the dark.
As long as their flight had been one of subterfuge instead of speed, the animals had been adequate. Barely adequate, of course.
Now escape would depend on speed and stamina. Their pursuers would be well mounted, carrying adequate supplies. Running Eagle and Long Walker would be riding broken-down horses, already suffering from lack of grazing time. They had no supplies and could not stop to hunt.
Their chances of survival seemed to be diminishing rapidly. It was only a matter of time now until the enemy pursuit overtook them.
There would be no bargaining this time. Black Fox, with his strange, twisted preoccupation over the capture of Running Eagle, was dead. Their present pursuers would be looking for vengeance. Vengeance and the need to eliminate the threat of the warrior woman, once and for all, from the prairie.
Running Eagle was exhausted. It was not so much a physical tiredness as the fact that her very spirit cried out for rest. For as long as she could remember, it seemed, an urgency had been hanging over her. She had had no opportunity to rest, to renew her spirit. Always some urgent thing had pressed her to action in which she had no real decisions.
Her vision quest should have provided this pause, she now realized. In some way, as she looked back, she felt that she had misused her vision quest. Her mind had been busy with her plans and goals instead of allowing her spirit guide to find her. She wished that she could try again.
The tired horses clattered over a ridge, and Running Eagle turned to look backward. There, somewhat closer now, came the enemy column. The determined, fast pace indicated that the fugitives had been seen. It was as if the enemy party, bent on vengeance, recognized that this was the last push. Before Sun Boy’s torch dropped below earth’s rim, the end would come.
Her morose thoughts were interrupted by an exclamation from Long Walker. “Aiee! Look!”
He pointed ahead, pulling his horse to a stop. There, crossing the floor of the valley, came another column of riders. They were well-armed, efficient-looking warriors, mounted on strong horses.
Running Eagle pulled her horse to the right and sprinted along the crest of the ridge, followed closely by Long Walker. In a short while they were forced to a stop again. A broken gash across the ridge dropped sharply away to jumbled rocks below.
Again they turned the sweating horses, reversing direction to seek escape. To the right and left the approaching war parties could be seen. Running Eagle held no delusions as to their real possibilities for success. The ridge ended in a long, fingerlike projection above a level strip of grass along the stream. The fugitives would make their way down from the point, but then they would still be between the two groups of warriors and pinned against the stream. Perhaps they could cross.
Another look at the lathered horses told her that this was, at best, an unlikely possibility. Her own mount, in all probability, could not even reach the stream.
Both groups had seen the riders on the ridge now and were veering in that direction. Already the yipping falsetto war cry of the Head Splitters could be heard in the distance.
It could be seen that the newly discovered column of warriors would reach the apex of the ridge’s point well in advance of the pursuit group. The fugitives would have to confront them first Running Eagle turned to look as she rode, evaluating their slim chances against such a well-equipped and efficient war party as this appeared to be.
The leading riders were almost even with them now, though far below in the flat meadow. Their leader appeared to be making signals of some sort with broad waves of his arm.
“Running Eagle!” Long Walker shouted suddenly “Look! They are the People!”
She pulled her panting horse to a stop to better her view of the riders. It was true. The well-armed war party wore the garments and distinctive hair style of warriors of their own tribe. The young chief in the lead was none other than Flying Squirrel.
39
Running Eagle returned the warrior’s wave and turned her horse down the slope.
“Ah-koh, Running Eagle! It is good to see you!” The smile on the face of Flying Squirrel was broad and happy.
“Flying Squirrel!” she cried urgently. “The Head Splitters are just behind us!”
More riders were approaching, pulling to a stop, shouting and singing, “We ride with Running Eagle!”
How quickly things change, the girl thought briefly. But now, they must prepare quickly.
“My friends!” she shouted. “There are Head Splitters on the other side of the ridge. We must hurry!”
There was a chorus of shouts, but she held up a hand for silence. In the pause that followed, the distant yipping cry of the Head Splitters came floating across the prairie.
Then an idea struck her. The Head Splitters, on the other side of the ridge, were not yet aware of Flying Squirrel’s party. In a short while they would burst around the point of the hill, believing that they were in hot pursuit of two fugitives on exhausted horses. Even at the time the humor of the situation struck her. But they must hurry. Rapidly she outlined the situation.
Running Eagle and Long Walker once again called on weakening horses to lope toward the stream, a few hundred paces away. They rode slowly, attempting to save the animals for a last burst of strength. As they neared the thin strip of trees along the bank, a victorious shout came from beyond the hill. Now the two were in full view of the approaching enemy party.
They paused and, as if in confused terror, turned to retrace their course, striving to return to the slight protection of the hill. The leading riders were gaining rapidly and pressed ahead, wishing to achieve the prestige of counting first honors against the fabled pair.
It is likely that, as the Head Splitters rounded the point of land, the last thing the leaders saw was a closely massed party of mounted warriors, poised for attack. A shower of arrows emptied saddles, and yipping war cries changed to screams of the wounded.
The next rank of attacking Head Splitters paused in confusion. Some turned back, others stopped, and a few pushed forward. Riderless horses milled around in confusion.
Into this melee thundered the main thrust of the People’s charge. Young warriors lowered lance points or fitted arrows to bowstrings and urged their horses forward.
In the center of the attacking line rode Running Eagle and Long Walker. The war cry of the People swelled across the meadow.
In the face of this organized and completely unexpected attack, the Head Splitters turned and ran. Their leaders were already unhorsed, dead or dying, and complete confusion reigned. The greatest desire of many inexperienced young warriors was now to escape. A few tried to stand and fight, but they were quickly overrun.
The People rode up and down the little valley, making certain that no remaining enemy were able to pose a danger.
Running Eagle had stopped after the first clash, out of concern for her staggering horse. She dismounted, using her bow with great effectiveness when opportunity offered. Long Walker stood at her side, ready to protect her against any threat.
Dust hung in the air, and its taste was dry and bitter. As the excitement and urgency of the situation began to calm somewhat, Running Eagle’s exhaustion became overwhelming. She resisted the impulse to run from the scene. She had not slept for two days, during which there had been constant physical and emotional exertion.
; True, there had been a moment of exhilaration when she and Long Walker were able to decoy the Head Splitters into the trap, but it was gone. There was no joy in the victory.
She looked across the meadow, at the still forms in the grass. There was none of the triumph she had once felt. Even the satisfaction of revenge was absent. There was only the smell of death.
She looked down at the weapon in her hand. It seemed foreign to her nature. In that moment she realized that it was over. She was finished with vengeance, with the trail of war. If she fought again, it would be only for defense.
Warriors began to return, singing and yelling, carrying captured weapons and leading riderless horses. This would be a great victory to be remembered in song and dance for many generations.
And in their songs of victory the main theme recurred, that of the invincible warrior woman who escaped the enemy and led them into a trap. Always the triumphant chorus ended with the same phrase: “We ride with Running Eagle!”
With a sinking heart, the girl felt again the desperate, trapped emotion, the feeling that she had no choice in the matter. She squared her shoulders and raised her hand with the bow and arrows in acknowledgment of their song.
40
It was nearing evening now. The People had moved a short distance upstream to make camp and allow the Head Splitters to recover their dead. The defeated enemy party could still be seen in the distance, lifting and carrying away their fallen.
The casualties among the People had been light—a few minor wounds, and one man killed in the first charge. The enemy had been far too concerned with running after that.
Camp fires were blossoming in the gathering dusk. Running Eagle beckoned to her companion. “Come, Walker. Let us talk.”
The two strolled together along the stream. Long Walker was very quiet. The silence was clumsy, but neither could find a way to approach the subject that weighted heavily on both their minds. Both knew this was a time of decision. Long Walker had raised the question many times and now would not do so again.
In truth he was afraid to do so, afraid that he had already lost her. He had seen the thrill of excitement in her eyes when the enemy followed them into the trap. There was little doubt that she was impressed by the songs of devotion by her followers. No one could fail to be flattered.
Walker felt much of the same hopelessness that the girl had experienced. He, too, had had little choice for many moons. Now he was wondering. Could he look forward to little more than a lifetime of following Running Eagle, protecting her as best he might? He could not see himself settling down in his own lodge with any other woman. Yet Running Eagle seemed always more unattainable.
The girl, in turn, was equally troubled. She knew that she had repeatedly caused Long Walker to be hurt deeply. She had no wish to hurt him more. There was also the very real danger that the decision she had made in the twilight of the prairie evening would drive him forever away from her. She hesitated to risk this possibility, so she, too, remained silent.
They walked along the stream, listening to its soft, rippling conversation with the overhanging willows. The creek tumbled across a white gravel bar and sank softly into a still pool ringed by rushes on the opposite bank. A great frog tentatively voiced his booming call from somewhere in the deepening dusk.
The sky in the west was still red, but the noises of the prairie were changing. Bird and insect songs of the daylight hours were giving way to the sounds of the night. A fish splashed in the still darkness beneath an overhanging willow. Further away a night bird began his mournful chorus. A coyote called his chuckling wail from a distant ridge, and his mate answered from another quarter.
Near the gravel bar a fallen sycamore lay, and the two sat on its trunk to rest. Running Eagle absently picked up a stone from beneath her feet, toying with it in her hands.
“Walker,” she began, “we must talk.”
He nodded, miserably.
The girl hesitated, not knowing where to begin. One could not just blurt out such things, things on which their entire future depended.
She held the stone in her palm. It was comforting to hold, smooth, round, and still warm from the sun. It fit nicely in her hand. Gently she held it against her cheek, feeling its smooth surface and comforting warmth.
“What is that?” Walker inquired.
Meaningless conversation was better than the awkward silence.
“Only a stone. I thought I might keep it.”
She smiled at him in the almost darkness, still rubbing the stone against the skin of her cheek. “It will make a good cooking stone.”
For only a moment Long Walker was silent, trying to be certain of her meaning. Then he gently took the stone from her hand, held it, and hefted it. He smiled.
“Yes,” he agreed. “Shall I help you find more?”
Also by Don Coldsmith
Buffalo Medicine
Daughter of the Eagle
Follow the Wind
The Long Journey Home
Buffalo Hunt
The buffalo now stood still, facing the girl called Eagle Woman. She rode the gray horse slowly forward, and the cow blinked suspiciously, then turned to run.
The run was straight away. Eagle Woman held tightly with her knees and let the finely trained horse approach on the animal’s right side. It was a difficult shot, impossible, almost. The girl concentrated on placing her arrow precisely as the brown blur of the moving form darted past. At the same time the horse had begun to drop its haunches in a sliding pivot Momentum carried the rider forward, over the horse’s head, to crash heavily on the ground. Men rushed forward. The cow lay kicking, but the other form on the grass was still.
Long Walker was the first to reach her, cradling her head in his lap. Dully she smiled at the young man.
Another hunter rode up and dismounted. “Well,” he commented, “at least she made her kill!”
Long Walker had reached the height of his tension for the morning. He looked up indignantly at the speaker. “Stupid one!” he shouted. “This is her third kill! Did you make three kills today?”
This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious or are used fictitiously.
DAUGHTER OF THE EAGLE
Copyright © 1984 by Don Coldsmith
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book, or portions thereof, in any form.
A Forge Book
Published by Tom Doherty Associates, LLC
175 Fifth Avenue
New York, NY 10010
www.tor-forge.com
Forge® is a registered trademark of Tom Doherty Associates, LLC.
eISBN 9781466820951
First eBook Edition : May 2012
EAN 978-0812-57970-3
First edition: January 2003
First mass market edition: July 2004
Daughter of the Eagle Page 16
