Bows were notched with arrows. Lances and shields were made ready. Tomahawks and war clubs were wedged loosely under breechcloths so as to be handy when needed.
None of the Pawnees spoke. They all knew what to do. Some would head straight for the clusters of Minneconjou horses, to drive the animals off. Others would rove among the lodges, slaying warriors as fast as they appeared. Still others would seek captives, either women or children, preferably young boys who would be reared as Pawnees.
Anxious eyes were fixed on the eastern sky. The black of night gave way to the dark blue of predawn, and among the teepees there was movement as women who were early risers walked to the river for water.
White Calf exhorted the members of his war party in soft tones, then raised his lance overhead and applied his heels to his horse. In a tight mass the warriors swept out of the wash and down on the unsuspecting village, giving voice to piercing war whoops along the way.
Nate had hoped to be able to escape the Pawnees long before this moment came, but had never been able to. There had always been warriors nearby, always someone watching over him or the horses. In moments, though, the Pawnees would be too busy to give him any thought, and he planned to veer off and cut through the village to the open plain and safety. The only hitch were the Sioux. They would slay him as readily as they would the Pawnees, and if he was taken alive they would torture him for days.
A pair of women heading for the river were the first Minneconjous to spot the attackers. Screaming in warning, they turned to run back but were downed by Pawnee arrows before they had gone three steps.
The war party split, Nate staying close to the medicine man’s mount for the moment. The rumbling of hooves nearly drowned out the shouts breaking out in the lodges nearest the point of attack. He spied a sleepy Minneconjou warrior framed in the opening of a lodge an instant before an arrow imbedded itself in the warrior’s throat. Another warrior rushed into the open trying to nock an arrow to his bow string and was run down by a Pawnee who speared him through the chest.
More yells added to the din. Horses were whinnying, small children wailing.
The Pawnees were ruthlessly efficient. They weaved among the lodges dispensing death with seasoned skill, their arrows accounting for a score of casualties among the Sioux before half the defenders quite knew what was happening.
Some of the Minneconjou women had set up cooking pots outside their lodges. The Pawnees upended every one, took burning brands from the cook fires, and set teepees ablaze. Fanned by the strong northwesterly breeze, the flames often leaped from lodge to lodge or crackled across open spaces to ignite another one. Thick columns of choking smoke soon spread outward, blotting out entire sections of the village.
In the meantime, the battle raged.
So far Nate had not needed to resort to his pistol. An arrow had whizzed over his head, but otherwise none of the Sioux had tried to rub him out.
Only two Pawnee warriors were with Nate and White Calf when they rounded a lodge and encountered a small knot of Minneconjous, men and women. The Pawnees closed, stabbing and slashing in unbridled ferocity, transforming the small open area into a milling swirl of confusion.
It was now or never, Nate reflected, slowing. Working the reins, he angled to the right, galloped past a smoldering lodge, and nearly collided with a Sioux on horseback, a tall man with a barrel chest. The Minneconjou held a bow. Nate saw him lift it, saw the arrow being drawn back to the man’s cheek. In a twinkling Nate leveled the pistol and fired.
The ball ripped into the Minneconjou’s right eye, the impact snapping his head back and knocking him off.
Nate didn’t wait to verify the brave was dead. Jamming the flintlock under his belt, he turned to the left, passed several lodges on the fly, then was brought up short by a wall of smoke.
Changing direction again, Nate sought some sign of the prairie. He spotted Minneconjou women and children fleeing to the west, spotted Sioux and Pawnees locked in life and death struggles. An opening between two lodges on his left seemed the best path to take, so he galloped through it only to behold another Pawnee grappling with a raven-haired woman, striving to pull her up onto his horse. Nearby an elderly woman lay, her skull cracked wide.
Nate was wheeling his horse to seek another avenue out of the village when he realized the Pawnee was White Calf. He assumed the medicine man had found the young maiden from the river until the woman’s lovely face, contorted in grim defiance, was lifted in profile. For a moment he thought he was imagining things, that he’d gotten more smoke into his eyes than he’d thought. Then the tussling pair shifted and he had a good look at her features. A keg of black powder seemed to explode inside his head. The world spun, or his brain did.
It couldn’t be, and yet it was! It was impossible, yet there she stood!
Winona!
Chapter Twenty-Three
No sight is guaranteed to arouse the wrath of a man in love more than the sight of his beloved in peril. In the masculine chest beats the heart of a protector, as ingrained in the male nature as stubbornness and pride. So powerful is this urge that many an errant coward has found his courage on the field of romantic valor.
Nate King was certainly no coward. Time and again he’d proven his bravery against vicious men and feral beasts. So he needed no added incentive when he saw the woman he adored being forcibly hauled onto the horse of the man he despised the most of all the men in the world; he vented a Shoshone war whoop and charged, waving his tomahawk aloft.
White Calf looked up in consternation. Blatant amazement overcame him when he saw who was bearing down on him like an avenging fury. He recovered quickly, firming his hold on the woman’s waist as he broke into a gallop and fled.
For Winona King’s part, she was no less astounded. She had about resigned herself to not seeing her family again for a long time, if ever. They had no idea where to look for her, and should they dare penetrate Lakota country they faced certain death if discovered. Plus she had the added worry of her baby. Once it was born, she would be tied to the Minneconjou village until the infant was big enough and strong enough to endure the rigors of a lengthy journey. That might be a year off, maybe longer.
Winona’s despair had known no bounds. For the past week she had cried herself to sleep, convinced her future was as bleak as the southwestern desert. She had prayed to Apo, the Shoshone Father on high, and to her husband’s god, the Lord of Heaven and Earth. But deep down she had never expected her prayers to be answered.
The night before had been typical. Winona had retired early, badly in need of rest after another trying day. Her discomfort was growing. She had a hard time getting around. The littlest exertion left her exhausted. Having Butterfly to help around the lodge was of tremendous benefit.
Then came the morning, and as usual Winona had been tossing and turning, her legs laced with cramps, the baby trying to widen her navel from the inside with its kicks.
The first screams from the east had made Winona sit up and listen. There had been shouts, gunshots, the uproar of a village under attack, sounds she knew all too well.
Butterfly, ever a heavy sleeper, hadn’t responded to Winona’s cries. Winona had to push herself erect and wobble over to nudge the elderly woman. Together they had stood near the doorway, debating in sign whether to stay or flee.
The burning lodges decided them; to be trapped in one would be a horrible end. Butterfly had held the flap while Winona stooped and went out. They had only taken a few steps when the pounding of hooves behind them heralded the arrival of a somber, merciless enemy, a Pawnee warrior who had brought a war club smashing down on Butterfly’s upturned head before she could lift a hand to defend herself.
Winona had tried to run but in her condition it was hopeless. She had glanced over her shoulder, expecting the same fate as the kindly Minneconjou. Instead she had been grabbed, then pulled onto the Pawnee’s mount even though she fought like a wildcat.
On hearing the war whoop she had looked around in sta
rtled surprise. On seeing the source she had felt her heart swell with love even as her mind filled with disbelief. Nate’s reappearance was too sudden, too unexpected. How could Nate be in Sioux country when she had last seen him near the Yellowstone? And what was he doing there in the middle of a Pawnee attack?
Logic fought with reality and lost. Winona automatically reached for him, longing to clasp him close, but the Pawnee bore her away, deeper into the village. She tried to land a punch but she was on her side, facing the horse’s neck. She couldn’t kick the Pawnee for the same reason. Helpless, she clasped her stomach and hoped the baby wouldn’t be harmed by the hard jostling.
Nate saw his wife being swept off and gave chase, oblivious to all else. He only had eyes for her. The Pawnees and Sioux meant nothing to him; it was as if they didn’t exist. The burning lodges, the terrified women and children, might as well have been phantasms. But they weren’t, as Nate found out the hard way when a screeching woman darted directly in front of his horse and he had to haul on the reins to avoid her. As he swerved, another obstacle presented itself, a much more serious one, a Sioux warrior with a long forelock and a lance upraised to throw.
Having already used his pistol, Nate had to rely on the tomahawk, which was usually a close combat weapon but could be thrown with fair accuracy if a man knew how. Since first acquiring his, Nate had idled away many an hour tossing it at targets and had perfected a near flawless toss. So on seeing the warrior dash out into the open, Nate arced his right arm in a fluid motion that sent the tomahawk flying end over end.
The Minneconjou with the forelock started to whip his throwing arm forward when the keen edge of the tomahawk bit into his forehead above the nose, cleaving the flesh and the bone underneath as if both were so much butter.
Nate went around the falling body. He saw that White Calf had gained ground on him so he didn’t even try to reclaim the tomahawk. Winona came first. Nothing else mattered.
The medicine man had witnessed the Minneconjou’s death. He lashed his war horse with his quirt, attempting to go faster. A child ran in his path and he ran the boy down without a second thought. He had to get away. Once safe, he would try to figure out why the bearded one had turned on him.
A large cloud of gray smoke blotted out the lodges to the left. White Calf was going to bypass it until an idea struck him. Smirking at his own cleverness, he changed direction, plunging into the smoke.
Nate saw, and cursed. Seconds later he entered the cloud at the exact same spot and instantly was unable to see farther than the end of his arm. A towering triangular mass loomed out of the gloom. He turned the horse, narrowly missing the teepee. Another and another appeared. Each time Nate swerved past them with inches to spare.
White Calf had disappeared. Frantically, fruitlessly, Nate probed the smoke. If he lost them now he would never see Winona again. He tried listening for hoof beats but the general bedlam made it impossible. Although he breathed shallow, his lungs began to burn, his eyes to smart.
Suddenly the drifting gray veil thinned and Nate saw a rider. Angling to intercept, he drew his butcher knife. As his mount burst into fresh air he realized the rider was a Sioux, not a
Pawnee, an elderly man who shouted orders to the panicked Minneconjous. A chief, Nate figured, and would have left the man alone had the Sioux not spied him and lifted a lance.
Nate flew past, his arm lashed out, flicked once. A crimson slash blossomed across the chief’s throat, from ear to ear. The Minneconjou stiffened as blood gushed and a stupid expression came over his face.
Nate saw no more because he was flying toward another rider barely visible through the lodges. He pursued, trying to make headway in the midst of the pandemonium, being careful not to collide with fleeing women and children and to stay well shy of armed Sioux warriors. By this time a stream of Minneconjous and animals flowed westward, women driving their prized mares before them with fear-struck children at their sides and yapping dogs in attendance. Warriors ran to and fro, still largely unorganized, clashing here and there with Pawnees.
Nate glimpsed the prairie, watched the rider he was after clear the last lodge. His pulse quickened when he recognized the medicine man and saw Winona trying to free herself. He came to a clear avenue between the lodges and gave the horse its head. This proved a costly error.
From out of nowhere came another rider, this time a Minneconjou armed with a tomahawk. The warrior’s horse plowed into Nate’s, the shock bowling both animals over.
Nate leaped clear with a hair breadth to spare, rolling as he hit. He pushed erect, spun. The Minneconjou was on him before he could raise the knife. He leaped backward and the tomahawk fanned his face. Shifting on a heel, he speared his blade at the warrior’s midsection but missed.
Meanwhile White Calf was getting farther away. That thought goaded Nate into gambling his life on his reflexes. He feinted, deliberately exposing his chest but keeping his left arm close to his waist. The Sioux took the bait and swiped at Nate’s ribs. Nate twisted, seized the warrior’s wrist, then buried his knife between the man’s ribs.
There was no fear in this Minneconjou, no weakness at all. Mortally stricken, he nevertheless wrenched on his arm while clawing at the knife hilt. Slowly his eyes became vacant and he slumped earthward.
Nate turned toward the horses. His had sustained a broken leg, the shattered bone jutting through its skin, and was thrashing on the ground in pain. The Sioux’s had regained its feet but was too shaken to run off. He ran to it and vaulted onto its back. Grabbing the reins, he lit out after the Pawnee medicine man who by now was a scarecrow figure in the distance. He wondered how his wife was holding up, and mentally vowed to make the Pawnee suffer the agony of the damned if she was harmed.
Winona, to this point, was doing well. She’d been scratched and bruised and her stomach was queasy from the motion of the horse, but she’d been spared serious harm. Try as she might to break loose, she couldn’t, so she had given up the effort to conserve her strength. Since she couldn’t see the village, she had no idea whether Nate still pursued them. The strident screams and angry shouts, rapidly dwindling, gave the impression of wholesale slaughter taking place, and she feared greatly for his life.
Winona wondered why the Pawnee had stolen her when there were so many younger women in the village. And in her state! She guessed that in all the excitement he simply hadn’t noticed. She was wrong, though.
White Calf had indeed seen that she was pregnant and been about to pass her in his search for the maiden from the river, or any maiden, for that matter. Time was pressing, since soon the Minneconjous would rally. He’d about made up his mind to forego finding a woman when Winona’s strikingly beautiful features caught his eye. A shrewd judge of men and women, he’d detected a vibrant lust for life in the way she moved, the way she carried herself. She was special. And being pregnant was a bonus, not a detriment. The child, if a boy, could be reared as White Calf’s own son. If a girl, later in life she would fetch a handsome dowry when she was married off, provided he didn’t grow tired of the mother and cast her aside first. So, acting on the spur of the moment, White Calf had snatched the woman.
Looking back, the medicine man saw no trace of the mighty Sky Walker. He congratulated himself on having outwitted his enemies and scoured the plain for fellow Pawnees. To the southeast a large herd of stolen horses raised clouds of dust. He saw his men on the outskirts, goading the animals on. He also saw a bunch of Minneconjous on their heels.
To the east a thin strip of vegetation rimmed a gully. White Calf galloped under slender cottonwoods, then paused. The grassy slope inclined gently. He rode to the bottom and headed northward, pleased at the turn of events. The Minneconjous would concentrate on the other Pawnees, leaving him alone.
Winona heard her captor laugh lightly. Twisting her head, she saw him clearly for the first time and inwardly flinched at the cruelty dancing in his eyes. Something told her she’d have been better off with the Sioux. She tried to twist further, to lo
ok for Nate, but her belly stopped her.
Had she been able to turn, Winona would not have spotted him. Nate King had seen the medicine man gain the gully but had elected to swing wide of it and ride parallel to the strip of vegetation, just out of earshot. He pushed the Sioux war horse to its limits, confident he could outdistance the Pawnee who was burdened by Winona’s weight.
In a mile the gully curved westward. Nate reined up at the bend and screened his eyes with a palm so he could scour its length to the south. The medicine man had yet to appear. Dismounting in the high grass, he hurried to a willow and tied the horse. Then he went over the rim to a narrow shelf eroded by rain. Here he laid flat, the bloody butcher knife in front of him.
Presently the gully echoed to the thud of hooves. Nate coiled, one hand gripping the edge of the shelf. The Pawnee rode into view, Winona still over the horse. White Calf halted at the bend to look back.
Nate dug his toes into the soil for added purchase. Like a mountain lion poised to spring, he glued his eyes to the medicine man as White Calf advanced. He wished he could alert Winona so she’d know what he was about to do and could brace herself. Then the paint trotted under the shelf and he sprang.
The Pawnee would have been taken completely unawares if not for Nate’s shadow passing over him. He glanced up, eyes widening, and elevated his war club, deflecting Nate’s knife a heartbeat before Nate slammed into him. They tumbled to the slope, just missing Winona. Both landed on their shoulders and rose, a yard apart.
Nate would rather have had his tomahawk. A knife against a war club was an unequal contest since the war club was bigger and longer. With the aim of ending the fight swiftly, he stabbed at the medicine man’s stomach.
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