“Perhaps I will bring you back some of the hard candy like I brought you before,” he said, and she looked up with a smile.
“Bring enough for two. I am sure your woman would want some of her own.”
Startled, Hawk only nodded. He wished he had not been so impulsive, and given Deborah into Sunflower’s care. His sister would be distraught when the inevitable happened, and he did not want a rift between them.
He looked up and past her, and saw his father watching them. White Eagle looked grave, and Hawk knew he must be thinking about the coming raid. “Are you certain this is what you wish, my son?” White Eagle asked when Hawk joined him. “I know your feelings about this matter.” After a moment, Hawk said slowly, “I would not shame my father’s house by being thought a coward. I do not make war on women and children as Little Wolf does, but I will fight armed men.” He shrugged. “I have said to all that my heart is not in it. But I will go, and I will count as many coup as Little Wolf dreams of doing.” His voice grew grim. “And when we return, I will meet him with my knife, and we will see if he still speaks of my courage in the same way.”
“You have met him before.”
“And he has forgotten.” Hawk met his father’s eyes. “I will remind him.” A glint of humor and pride flickered in White Eagle’s dark eyes, and he nodded slowly. “It is good. There are some men who learn slowly.” He looked past Hawk, his gaze turning to the far ridges of the mountains. “I feel the winds of change blowing down from the mountain passes, and up from the valleys. We will not remain long in this camp.”
“So you believe, like Spirit Talker says, about the white captive bringing bad luck?”
White Eagle’s lips thinned. “I believe that one day it must end, as do all things. Chief Kwanah has joined with the Kwahari tukhas, and they are making many raids and killing many of the blue coats. White soldiers are angry about the raids, and our young men speak of war when they should speak of peace.” His eyes narrowed on the horizon, as if he could see the future. “There is a new chief at the place called Fort Richardson. He trains his men to fight as the Comanche. He is called Mangomhente by the People. To the white man, he is known as Mackenzie.”
“And you think he will succeed where others have not.” White Eagle shrugged. “That is not for me to say. This I do know—there was a raid on the Salt Creek Prairie, and four of the black men with buffalo-hair were killed. Maman-ti led the raid that time, and took their scalps. There will be more trouble for that deed.” Hawk was certain of it. He knew the white man’s world better than he did his father’s, and knew that the outrage against the Negroes would not go unavenged.
“You said in the council that they should be patient. It is by your leadership that we are still free instead of on a reservation. Have they forgotten already?”
“Like Little Wolf, some men have short memories.” White Eagle’s eyes shifted back to his son. “And now, they call you coward when it is me they would like to accuse. It is not just. I am sorry for it.” Hawk shrugged. “I am accustomed to names. For me, they do not have the same power. I have been called many things.”
“And that, too, is a fault that must be laid upon my shoulders.” Uncomfortable with the discussion, Hawk shifted restlessly, and White Eagle must have noticed. He sought his son’s eyes.
“Spirit Talker was right about one thing—you cannot walk two paths at once. You must choose.”
“I have.” Hawk found his father’s steady gaze compelling. “I came back to the People.”
“But your heart still wanders.” A gust of wind lifted White Eagle’s hair, and the feathers he wore atop his crown fluttered. “I talk too much, like Old Grandmother,” he said after a moment. “I, too, forget. Unwanted advice is like throwing feathers into the wind.” Hawk nodded, but his father’s words stayed with him. He thought of them when he rode away from the camp, painted and dressed for war. And he was glad that Deborah Hamilton could not see him.
Chapter 9
Deborah shivered in the chill of early morning. The days were warm, but when the sun went down, it grew quite cold. She pulled a buffalo robe up to her chin and glanced over at Sunflower.
The girl lay snuggled deeply in her furs, her long hair fanned out in a careless tangle. Sunflower had shown Deborah how to bind her hair in two long plaits, or wear it with fur clubbing it in two streamers over her shoulders.
Since her clothes had become ragged, she now wore a buckskin dress instead of the lighter cotton skirt and blouse.
Traders, or Comancheros, furnished the village with any number of items bought from the white man. Brass kettles, rifles, guns, needles, thread, bolts of calico, anything that was traded in a regular trading post, the Comancheros could provide.
Deborah hated the men who had come to the camp, hated their sly grins in her direction. One man, bolder than the rest, stared at her longer and harder than the others. Tall and thin, with lanky blond hair that brushed his shoulders, he gazed at her with hot, lustful eyes that made her feel as if he could see beneath her clothes. He’d tried to talk to her, but she had been quickly rescued by Sunflower, who spoke harshly to the man, saying Hawk’s name. That had given him pause, but he’d still stared at her.
Then she’d overheard him talking to White Eagle, and knew from the glances that he was bartering for her.
But White Eagle refused to trade her, though Deborah had the feeling he would have liked to see her leave his camp. In Hawk’s absence, he would not consider any offers for her, and she was grateful. She’d seen Sunflower’s anxiety, and was more than aware of the hostile glances at her from the others in camp.
It was becoming unbearable.
Even more unbearable was the knowledge that when Hawk returned from raiding, he would expect her to lie with him in his robes. Her time was running out, and she realized she would have to escape before he returned.
The raiding party had been gone for two weeks now, and should be back any time. Her brief glimpses of Judith had been few and far between, and she resolved that the next time she saw her, she would set a time.
“This is crazy,” Judith muttered. Golden strands of long hair cloaked her face as she bent to wash her feet in the swift-moving stream. “We won’t get twenty yards before they catch us.”
“Do you have another suggestion?” Anxiety made her tone sharp, and Deborah felt Judith’s quick glance.
“No.”
“Neither do I. We must go tonight. If I don’t get away before the men return . . .”
Her voice trailed into silence, but it was obvious what she meant. Judith made a faint sound of distress.
“I thought you liked him. Hawk. Your . . . captor.”
“I said he tried to be kind and hadn’t yet hurt me.” A short silence fell, and the rushing waters washed over her bare calves in an icy flow. Deborah shivered, not entirely from the chill. “He frightens me,” she whispered, and knew from Judith’s swift glance that she understood. She turned to look at her. “Judith, I saw—I saw a man grab you one day when we left here. No, don’t back away from me. Did he hurt you in any way?”
“No! No, he . . . not like you mean.” Judith shuddered. “I won’t let them hurt me like that. I’ve seen what the men do, and how they treat some captives, and I swore that I would die before that would happen to me.” Her gaze was desperate. “Do you believe me? I’m still pure, I tell you, I am!”
“Of course I do.” Deborah inhaled deeply. “I didn’t mean to distress you. I was only worried. Do you think we can escape tonight?”
“Yes,” Judith said. She relaxed slightly, and her voice lowered. “We will go tonight. I’m sorry I’m such a coward. I’ll be ready whenever you say.”
“Do you have anything stashed away?”
“A little. It’s hidden from that wretched old hag who lives to torment me. No slave ever worked harder than I have since I’ve been here.” She flashed Deborah a faint smile. “If all I had to worry about was an over-amorous suitor, I’d feel fortunate.”
“Maybe I would, too, if it wasn’t Hawk.” Bending, Deborah washed her hands, afraid she would see comprehension in her cousin’s eyes. It was too near the truth. With another man, she may not lose part of herself, that part that no one could touch unless she allowed them. Hawk had come closer than she dreamed possible.
“Tonight, then,” Judith said softly, then uttered a soft sound of dismay.
“I’d better move along.” Judith moved a little away from her as a Comanche woman came close, berating the captives with a sharp tongue and long stick. Deborah watched helplessly as her cousin suffered several whacks. When the woman moved on, she managed to catch Judith’s eye.
“Tonight—when the moon is highest over the valley.”
Judith nodded silently.
The hours stretched endlessly. Routine chores seemed to take forever, and Deborah was clumsy at everything she tried to do. Several times, she had to remind herself to take it slow and not get too nervous.
Sunflower watched her curiously. The girl was more quiet than usual, and that and the knowledge of what she planned combined to make Deborah’s insides quivery with anticipation.
The tension made her more talkative than usual, and her movements were quick and agitated.
“It gets so dusty in here,” she chattered, sweeping at the piles of dust drifting over the pallets with a small grass broom. The stiff grass brushed over the hard-packed floor of the tipi in a brisk motion. Deborah coughed at the rising dust and caught Sunflower’s skeptical gaze on her. It made her even more talkative, and she felt as if she was on a helpless tide.
“We haven’t really cleaned, not like I used to clean at home. Oh, I know you can’t understand most of what I’m saying to you, but I feel so restless tonight. Every spring and fall, we would always take out our carpets and beat them, and air out the draperies over the windows, and clean cupboards and windows . . . I know you must think me silly, but it’s a long-standing tradition where I come from.”
Deborah paused, inhaling deeply to calm herself, and managed a smile.
Sunflower smiled back, though a bit uncertainly.
“Tsaa nuusakatu?” she asked softly. When Deborah only stared at her, she gave her a bright smile, nodding her head up and down vigorously.“Tsaa nuusakatu?” she repeated.
“Ah . . . happy? Am I happy? Is that what you’re asking?” Deborah’s throat tightened. “How do I make you understand? I can’t be happy away from everything I know. Though I admit I have no one who really cares about me in this world, except perhaps Judith, I can never be happy— tsaanuusakatu— here.”
Sudden tears stung her eyes, and Deborah looked down at her hands.
She was still holding the broom, and she set it down carefully.
“Ke tsaa nuusakatu?” Sunflower said softly. “No happy?” Deborah gave her a startled glance. “No. No happy.” To her dismay, the girl’s eyes filled with tears. Deborah felt awkward and uncertain. She was so gentle, so sweet, so unlike many others she’d known, white or Comanche, that Deborah felt dreadful for having hurt her.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “But I can’t . . . explain.”
“Tosa Nakaai—no happy?” the girl said slowly.
“Hawk—he frightens me. He’s so fierce, so arrogant, so determined.”
Agitated, she said in a rush, “I know you don’t really understand because I don’t myself, but your brother terrifies me, though he hasn’t hurt me. I can’t explain. Oh, how do I make you understand?”
“Tuhupu—Tosa Nakaai?” Sunflower seemed startled.
Deborah didn’t understand what she meant and lifted her hands.
Sunflower chewed on her lower lip a moment, as if troubled. Then she looked back at Deborah. “Ku?e tsasimapu,” she said, and pointed to the scalps hanging from the lodge pole. “Aitu?” Not quite understanding, Deborah said slowly, “Scalps. Bad—oh. Yes.
It is bad where I come from to take scalps. Kee! Aitu.” Sunflower nodded understanding at last, and Deborah put out a hand to her. The girl smiled faintly, and whispered, “Haitsíi. Deborah. Ohayaa.
Haitsíi.”
“Yes —haa. Deborah, Sunflower, dear friends.” This was harder than she’d thought. She’d never dreamed that Sunflower would grow so fond of her. Or that she would grow so fond of Sunflower. For an instant—only an instant—Deborah considered confiding in the girl. Then she knew that she could not. In spite of the language barrier, they could understand one another fairly well. And she knew that Sunflower would feel compelled to stop her from trying to escape. Her farewells would have to remain unsaid.
Stretching and yawning, Deborah made a great show of being sleepy, and crawled into her robes. Beneath the robes, she changed back into her cotton skirt and blouse. She would not take the dress Sunflower had so generously given her. It would be left behind. Her legs brushed against some hide pouches filled with dried meat and vegetables. She had hidden the small store of supplies earlier. They were not much, but if they did not find a fort or homestead or white man within the first few days anyway, they would probably be found or killed.
It was not a comforting thought to consider, and Deborah found it difficult to pretend to sleep as the fire died down and the tipi grew dark.
Outside, the wind blew a constant refrain through the trees, and she could hear the unmistakable sounds of the camp preparing for sleep.
Another noise intruded, and for a moment Deborah could not decide what it was. Then the walls of the tipi shuddered, and she realized it was raining.
Rain. Dismayed, she lay in the dark and tried to come to a decision. It would be difficult enough to find their way by the light of the moon, but with clouds hiding it, she would be as lost as if in a snowstorm. Rain. After months with only the scarcest amounts, it rained now, when she and Judith were to attempt escape.
Perhaps by midnight it would be gone. There was nothing to do but wait.
Charred stubble was evidence of a recent prairie fire as the armed, painted braves rode leisurely. Over a hundred warriors straddled their favorite war ponies. Kiowa, Comanche, Kiowa-Apache, Arapaho, and Cheyenne rode side by side. Four Kiowa—Satank, Satanta, Addo-etta, and Maman-ti—led the raid. The site for an attack had been carefully chosen.
Hawk had listened silently the night before as Maman-ti made magic for the warriors. After consulting his oracle, the owl, he told them of his prophecies. Maman-ti—meaning Owl Prophet—was very powerful and had much influence. He had predicted that there would be two parties of whites to pass near them. They must not attack the first group, but allow it to pass unharmed. The second group could be attacked and easily overcome.
Salt Creek Prairie stretched in a wide belt for about three miles, studded with a large hill and bracketed at each end by a thick stand of trees. It was a favorite area for raids, as any party traveling across that open ground would be easy to cut off from the shelter of the timbered groves.
Hawk knew it was a Butterfield Stage trail and frequently used by wagon trains as well as travelers. A likely route for their purposes. The warriors had waited an entire day the day before, and had allowed one group to pass below them without harm. Recognizing the formation, Hawk had thought it just as well. The column had traveled in the style of soldiers, who would have put up a fierce fight.
Now he waited with the others on a large, flat hill, watching the trail below. The sky was cloudy, promising rain, and a soft wind blew, making feathers dance. Impatient warriors and horses were restive, and the sun rose slowly to the top of the sky. It was early afternoon, and none had yet passed.
Then one of the men made a soft exclamation, and Hawk felt a peculiar twist in his belly. A wagon train came into view, traveling west. They were only a half-mile from the silent, watching raiders.
Hawk counted ten wagons and twelve teamsters. These men had no chance at all, even if more hid in the wagons.
Wind blew, and dark clouds scudded across the sky. No one moved or spoke. It wasn’t until Satanta lifted a bugle he kept co
nstantly with him and blew a charge, that the band broke into wild whoops and streamed down the hill toward the surprised wagon train.
Hawk dug his heels into his gray stallion’s sides and rode down with the others. The thunder of hooves and the wild screams made his blood run fast and his heart pound with excitement. Forgotten were his doubts, his mixed emotions about his heritage. Now he thought only of the moment, the thrill of the chase. All his aggressive instincts were given free rein, and he was one of the Comanche, riding with them, surging forward to count coup and take risks. Shots rang out wildly, and Hawk saw the frantic teamsters try to circle their wagons. There wasn’t enough time. Addo-etta and another Kiowa cut off the lead mules, frustrating their attempt. Bullets whizzed past Hawk, but none came close. The teamsters were making desperate efforts to rally, but the outcome was foretold.
Spying Little Wolf on the left flank of the attacking party as he guided his horse toward the wagons, Hawk altered his direction. His big gray pounded over the parched earth. Dust rose in choking clouds. Screams and whoops filled the air, and there was the smell of sulfur and death all around him. Hawk leaned forward, guiding his mount with his knees, and sent the well-trained animal toward a wagon. The mules had been cut free, but one lay dead in the traces. He leaped his horse over the tongue of the wagon, lifting his coup stick in one hand.
“A-he!” he shouted, touching one of the teamsters with the end of the foot-long stick. The man swerved to fire at him, and Hawk’s deft maneuvering sent his horse out of the way. A bullet spat near his ear, singing through a feather in his hair. Hauling back on his reins, Hawk turned his horse, raced toward the wagon again. He could see the man’s face, contorted with fear and rage, and reached out to tap him again with the stick. “A-he!”he bellowed again, meaning “I claim it!” The wagon and its spoils would be his after the fight was over. Wheeling his gray stallion, Hawk saw Little Wolf’s snarling face and flashed him a triumphant smile. Then he sped toward another wagon, this one bristling with men and rifles, and rode straight up to it, touching it with his coup stick and shouting A-he!
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