by Gini Rifkin
“What her mother thought or did is of no importance,” the Reverend declared.
“On the contrary,” Lord Seton countered. “Part of my reason for exploring your country is to learn about the people, and what makes them who they are. King William is working to restore relations between England and America, and he has championed my undertaking most vigorously. Pray, go on, child.”
As the Reverend and Mrs. Dalrymple retreated into angry silence, Blind Deer studied Lord Seton. He was by no means a young man, but he hadn’t quite gone paunchy since leaving the military. His mouth was not generous, but he seemed quick to smile, and his clear gray eyes offered the unwavering gaze of a man with seemingly nothing to hide. At his nod of encouragement, and with all the animation she could muster, Blind Deer recounted the facts as they had been told to her.
“My mother was born right here, in St. Louis. Her father, a purveyor of medicine, was determined to bring the white man’s cures to the West. To that end he and his family along with a small band of likeminded souls set out to do so.”
She couldn’t resist glancing pointedly toward the Reverend and his wife. “I’m told they also brought the message of the white God. But they did not beat their religion into those who came to them—nor beat the devil out of those who resisted.” Old Lady Dalrymple averted her gaze first. The reverend held on a little longer.
Seeming not to notice the conflict, Lord Seton turned sideways in his chair and leaned forward as if eager to hear more. “And what happened next? Is that when they ran into the infamous Blackfoot savages?” Being a military man, he seemed fascinated with the battle aspect of her story rather than her family history, so like any good storyteller she followed his lead.
“Oh yes. On that terrible day, the Blackfoot warriors swooped down upon the harmless group, and all were killed in a horrific battle—except my mother and her best friend. They were captured and led away, each with a rope around their neck. Then my brave father appeared—spear in one hand, war club in the other. He and his companions fought long and hard, driving off the Blackfoot horde. Then my father scooped up one of the bedraggled white women and carried her away to make her his bride.”
“And she willingly stayed with this warrior and his tribe?” The man sounded incredulous.
“Why of course. My father and mother love one another very much—and very often. My three brothers and I are proof of that.”
Lord Seton slapped one thigh and gave a hearty laugh at her insinuation.
The reverend gained his feet, toppling his chair over in the process. “Enough.” He pointed a finger in her direction, “You will leave this room immediately—to be dealt with later.”
She dared to glare back at him. This was her only chance to speak with Lord Seton—her only chance for freedom.
“I can read and write your language, sir.” She blurted out the words, gripping the handle of the cart with cold hands. All appeared stunned at her declaration. Had she made a mistake in revealing her greatest weapon?
Along with speaking the language, her mother had taught her both of these skills at an early age. But here, to aggravate her teachers and old lady Dalrymple, she pretended otherwise. And when they were not watching, she borrowed and read nearly every one of the donated books in the library. Those precious tomes fed her soul and mind many times better than the scraps of food they threw at her to feed her body.
She would miss the books—her only friends.
The reverend unclenched his jaw and appeared about to speak.
“I also have many maps in my head,” she added, cutting him off. The atlas she’d discovered held drawings of 18th Century Europe, hardly useful to Lord Seton, but she’d gained a feel for these types of renderings, wouldn’t such knowledge be helpful?
At wit’s end, she wracked her brain for a means of convincing him to take her along on his journey to the west. Keep talking, keep talking. He liked the story about the battle. Tell him about the other explorers.
“Long ago, Lewis and Clark visited the land of my people—the elders were children then, but they still remember. They still have many tales to tell.”
“Lewis and Clark.” For a moment, Sir Reginald’s eyes glowed with faraway visions, and he whispered the names with reverence usually reserved for deities. “I’ve read their journals—their expedition was extraordinary, legendary. And I’ve heard the tales of Beckwourth, and Fremont.”
“And Charbonneau and Sacagawea.” Daring to say more, she slipped in the noteworthy names. “Like the Shoshone girl who led Lewis and Clark to the far side of the mountains, if you take me along with you, I will help you in your endeavors.”
Why didn’t he say something? Tears threatened, but she balled her hands into fists and refused to cry. She was a warrior, the granddaughter of a great chief. She would show no fear. Meeting his stern gaze, she stood tall and unflinching.
Finally, the man who held her future—possibly her life—in his hands, turned to face her captors.
“Reverend, Mrs. Dalrymple, I have a proposition for you.”
Chapter Two
The High Uintas, June, 1836
“Shoot again, Kade. Somethin’s still a movin’ in them there pinion pine.”
Kade McCauley took aim in the direction Tucket, his friend and partner, indicated. The blast from the flintlock rifle filled the air, and sulfurous smoke drifted through shafts of morning sunlight. An unsettling whimper came from his intended target, followed by a sudden stillness.
“Damnedest thing I ever did see or hear tell of,” Tucket declared as both men reloaded their longrifles. “Mountain men skirmishin’ with other mountain men. It ain’t natural. It’s hard enough stayin’ alive out here fightin’ the occasional Indian let alone each other.”
“Stop talking and listen,” Kade ordered, straining to hear signs of life from their attackers. The warble of a meadowlark floated on the breeze, and the buzz of insects hummed in counterpoint, but nothing sinister broke the mood.
Hunkering down lower behind the ridge of rocks, he glanced over at their mules and thanked the Lord they remained tethered in the aspen grove to the south. The last of the supplies, and all of the hides they had taken during the season, were in those packs. Those stalwart critters were transporting the future of two men.
The big dog at his side leaned against him and sniffed the air, eager to be on the move. “Easy, Maggie,” Kade cautioned. “We’ll take a look-see in a minute.” People often thought the name Maggie a curious choice for such a fierce animal resembling a blue-eyed overgrown coyote. But he’d raised her since she was a pup and knew her softer side.
“My bad knee’s a killin’ me, Kade,” the older man groused, rubbing the offending part of his anatomy. “I think I’d rather stand up and be shot than tolerate this contortion of a position much longer.”
“All right… I guess it seems quiet enough. Let’s circle around and check things out. I’ll take the left.” He added the last bit out of habit, not because he needed to. He always took the left, and his partner knew he would. It just never hurt to make sure everyone understood the plan when your life depended on it.
As Tucket headed off in the opposite direction, Kade crouched low to the ground and edged around the stony outcropping. When no movement or gun fire erupted, he stood taller and advanced forward. His moccasin-clad feet whispered on the dry earth, and the green branches of new foliage snagged at the worn fringes on his buckskins.
The smell of gun powder still hung in the air, mixing oddly with the sweetness of summer. Too bad he couldn’t enjoy the warmth of the sun without having to worry about his backside.
Nearing the remains of a burned-out cabin, he circled the rubble. Behind a pile of rock, once a hearth and chimney, he found two men—they were dead, and based on appearances working for the British. Each one displayed the Hudson’s Bay Company emblem on his capote and accouterments.
The nearby foliage rustled. Kade took note, gun raised at the ready. Then he relaxed. It was Tucke
t, striding his way with that uneven gait of his. “What’d you find?” he asked, lowering his rifle to cradle it in the crook of his arm.
“One dead man and a woman.”
“A woman?” The thought of a female seemed a foreign idea. He tried not to think about them during the long winters in the high country. “What would a woman be doing out here? Where is she?”
“Yes, a woman. I don’t know, and she’s over there in them pine. You must have got her with your last shot.”
Kade clenched his jaw, and his stomach constricted. “I never hurt a woman before in my life, and now you’re telling me I killed one.”
“Stop a whinin’, she ain’t dead. Bet it was her makin’ that hurt rabbit noise we heard.”
With relief calming his senses, Kade followed Tucket toward a little clearing—Maggie at his heels.
“So far I caught two of their horses and tied them up over yonder.” His partner gave a nod in the other direction as he led the way. “I also heard a commotion in the woods. It’s possible one of them got away.”
Kade didn’t like the sound of that. He glanced around but saw and heard nothing out of the ordinary.
The female lay on her side, crumpled on the ground like a doll abandoned by a thoughtless child. The earth near her left shoulder was shiny with blood. Kade’s stomach knotted again at the sight of her body, silent and unmoving, her slim frame seemingly so fragile and helpless.
“She’s dressed like an Indian, but under all the dirt I swear she looks like a white woman. What do you think, Kade?”
Kneeling at her side, Kade eased the girl onto her back and raised the sleeve of her leather dress, exposing her shoulder. “If we don’t stop the bleeding,” he muttered, continuing his examination, “it won’t make much difference what she is.”
Tucket drew closer and peered down at the young woman. “Looks like the lead went clean through, right on the edge and not too deep.”
“Missed the bone. Thank providence.” The words Kade offered were more to reassure himself than to inform his friend.
Freeing his patch knife, Kade cut off the cleanest piece of material he could find on his riverboat shirt. He then folded the fabric and wrapped it around the girl’s upper arm. Jerking a couple of long fringes free from the seam in Tucket’s leather pants, he used them to secure the makeshift bandage in place. After the long winter, there weren’t many leather thongs left from which to choose.
The bleeding lessened dramatically. Relieved, Kade sat back on his heels measuring the steady rise and fall of the young woman’s chest. Then shifting his gaze, he studied the remainder of her slim form.
She seemed a patchwork of cultures. Her hair, braided Indian style and decorated with quill work, had a noticeable curl. It was an odd cross between black and brown, as if undecided as to what shade it wanted to be. From her buckskins, it was impossible to tell which tribe she favored. Her three-hide dress and leggings were Flathead, her strike-a-light bag and awl case Cheyenne, and her tack belt Iroquois. She looked like she’d plum raided every trading post between St. Louis and the Sweetwater.
Kade pressed his fingers to the side of her throat to check her pulse, and his forearm brushed across the front of her buckskins. The hard wear and tear indicated by her clothing seemed contrary to the softness he felt beneath them.
“She should do fine unless infection sets in. I wonder what she was doing with a Hudson’s Bay scouting party.”
“Hard to say.” Tucket pondered. “What we gonna do with her, Kade?”
“Guess we don’t have much choice. We sure can’t leave her here.”
“I’ll round up the spotted horse rigged Indian style,” Tucket volunteered.
As the older man circled and crooned and clicked his tongue in an attempt to outsmart the painted cayuse pony, Maggie cautiously crept forward to inspect their unconscious patient. She gave a sniff and rubbed her cold wet nose against the female’s pale cheek.
The young woman’s eyes fluttered opened, then widened as she stared at Kade. He stared back, transfixed by the color of a forest in springtime. When her gaze settled on Maggie, she blanched even more, but didn’t move a muscle, and the stoic defiance in her expression somehow made her seem even more delicate.
“Don’t be scared, miss.” Kade took care to remain unmoving—unthreatening. “We aren’t about to hurt you. Well, at least not anymore. What I mean to say is I’m sorry I shot you.” He grimaced and searched for more suitable words.
She continued to watch him, not reacting at all.
“Can you understand me?”
No answer.
He reached for his canteen gourd to offer her a drink, and she shrank back, even at this mere action. “I just thought you might like to wet your dry,” he explained. “You look a might parched.”
She eyed the gourd and licked her lips but made no other movement.
He held his empty hand out, palm up, and smiled at her. With the other, he offered the gourd.
“You’re thirsty—here.”
She glanced from his hand to the offered water and back to his face. He thought it might be easier to convince his dog to eat porcupine than to get this female to take one swallow of water. “You don’t need to be so stubborn,” he coaxed softly.
Relenting, she tried to sit up, but unable to gain leverage, she fell back with a moan.
Without thinking, he eased forward. Encouraged when she didn’t shy away, he helped her to prop herself up on her good arm and carefully held the gourd to her mouth. She never took her gaze from his face as she drank thirstily.
Fascinated, he watched the water glisten on her full lips. Her long graceful neck arched with every swallow. When she finished, her tongue darted out to capture the last bit of moisture.
Abruptly, she pushed the canteen aside and sat up straighter, glancing around as if she were trying to figure out what had happened.
“They’re all dead,” he informed her. “I’m sorry if they were kin or friend to you.”
“They were devils. I am glad they have gone to meet their God.” Her voice was cold, and her words were heavy and hard like stones hurled in anger.
Kade arched his brows in surprise, and then narrowed his eyes in suspicion. This woman was one heck of a puzzlement. She dressed like an Indian, rode with the English, and spoke American better than most people he’d come across. Kade had a feeling, a deep curiosity shadowed this female sure as the night followed day.
He corked the canteen gourd. “Want to tell me your name?” Trying to appear nonthreatening, he leaned back on his elbows and stretched out his legs, crossing them at the ankles.
“Here they call me Blind Deer.”
“What do they call you other places?”
“We are not other places.” An insolent stare accompanied her words, and by the set of her jaw, he figured it was useless to pursue the issue.
“My name’s McCauley. Kade Finnean McCauley.” He nodded toward the skittish pinto still running wild. “That’s Tucket over there trying to round up your pony. Why did the men you were with want to kill us?” He slipped the vital question in with the mundane in the hope she would be caught unaware and give him a straight answer. He needn’t have worried.
“You are free trappers?”
He nodded, staring at her mouth and the healthy color creeping back into her cheeks.
“Then there is your reason why. In this basin you must work for the Company, or you do not work at all.”
“Hudson Bay?”
“Yes. I have only been with them a few days. They are less than animals.”
“Where were they heading?”
“To their main camp north of here. I was to be a surprise for the man in charge of the Fort. Now he will have an even better surprise when they do not return at all.”
The bitterness in Blind Deer’s voice disturbed him. She was a might young to speak with a hatred sounding so many years in the making.
“Did they hurt you?” He was almost afraid to hear
the answer.
“They beat me once when I tried to run away. But they never touched me otherwise. They told me their leader always got to be first with the women. Then they promised, in great detail, how each would have me later.”
Kade sat up, stifling the curse running through his mind. The thought of her being violated by men, who saw her as a commodity to be used and traded, made the gorge rise in his throat.
Out of breath, Tucket returned, interrupting the grisly visions her words had inspired. Gasping for air, the older man leaned over forward, stiff armed, with his hands braced upon his thighs. “I can’t catch that spotted critter for love nor money, Kade. He’s wilier than a rogue fox.”
Blind Deer gave a low whistle. The paint horse came to attention and trotted in their direction, halting a few yards away.
“Well, I’ll be switched.” Tucket went ramrod straight, then a smile brightened his face. “Do you suppose she could teach me to do such with my mule?”
“No.” Blind Deer shook her head. “Mules are stubborn, like people. They do not belong easily, nor answer to another’s call.”
“She speaks American.” Tucket’s words rang with surprise.
“That she does, partner.”
“Well I’ll be. Wasn’t expectin’ that.”
Kade grunted in agreement and gained his feet. “We better get a move on. There could be more unfriendlies around.” Figuring to give Blind Deer time to take everything in, he strode toward the enemy’s horses, Tucket at his side.
He retrieved the food pouches from the saddlebags and handed them to his partner. “No use letting the perishables go to waste. But we don’t have time to tarry. A collective grave is the best we can do for these wretches. And shallow to boot.”
“It’s poor doin’s for sure.” Tucket stacked the eatables off to the side under a tree and untied a shovel from one of the horses. “But for likes of these no-accounts, it’s better than they deserve.”
Kade gathered some stones. “Keep an eye out for the one who rode off. Although, I reckon he’s well on his way to report what happened.”
****
