Chapter Eighteen
Anne tensed, placed the two pieces of wood on the fire and hurried to the edge of the lighter area, looked up at the slits in the layered stone. The dim light was strengthening. Dawn was breaking.
It came again, stronger. Not so much a sound, as the suggestion of a sound. A slight quivering… She ran to the log, placed her hands on the earth wall behind it. There was a slight tremble.
The tremble grew stronger against her palms. And then she heard the faint sound. Hoofbeats—muffled by the soft earth of the wooded path. Her heart thudded. If she could hear and feel the hoofbeats of the Indians’ horses, this end of the cave must not be far from the path. The tremble stopped.
She drew her hands from the wall and spun about, ran to the edge of the lighter area and strained to hear any sound of movement. Nothing. Only silence.
And then it came. An ululating cry from a multitude of Indian throats that quavered on the air, rose to a heart-stopping pitch and died away. Hoofbeats thundered, dirt trickled down the wall.
“Papa! Papa!”
Anne snapped out of her paralysis, whirled and ran to Hope.
“P-pa-pa.”
“Shh, baby, shh…” She scooped the toddler into her arms, cuddled her close, cupped the back of her head and tucked her little face in the curve of her shoulder, leaned her cheek against her soft blond curls. “You mustn’t cry, Hope. Remember our game. We only whisper here in our secret place. Shh, shh…”
She swayed back and forth, walked farther into the darkness away from the slits where sound would escape. She placed her mouth against the hood covering the tiny ear and hummed the lullaby she had sung to her baby.
Hope’s sobs stopped. She lifted her head, looked up, her blue eyes awash with tears, her lower lip quivering. “Me no like yell. Me scared.”
She had whispered! “I know, baby. But the yell is only noise, it can’t hurt you.” Then why was she shaking? She tucked the extra length she had left on Hope’s cloak around her little feet. “It is only the Indians playing a game.”
“Like whisser game?”
“Yes. Like our whisper game.”
Hope nodded, cuddled back against her shoulder, sighed the sweet sound of a child yielding to sleep.
Anne walked back toward the stone arch, strained to hear any sound. It was frightening not knowing. She heard the sharp crack of a rifle—muted but distinguishable. Another. And another. Were those war cries, or only her imagination? Her stomach churned at thought of what was happening at the mission house—at the gristmill.
Mitchel! He didn’t know they were hidden and safe. If he returned now—
The strength left her legs. She sank to her knees on the dirt floor, held Hope close in her arms and rocked to and fro, trying to ease the consuming fear.
What time I am afraid…
Yes. Yes, she must trust God. She closed her eyes, whispered into the silence of the stony, earthen shelter.
“Almighty God, don’t let Mitchel come back now. Please don’t let him come back while the Cayuse are attacking the mission. Please keep him safe, Lord. Please keep him safe.”
The light filtering in through the slits was brighter. Was it noontime? Had the morning passed? It seemed like an eternity.
Anne smiled down at the toddler lying on the pallet. “Your arms will feel better soon, Hope.” She pulled the sides of the wool-lined, rubber cloak over the toddler’s treated arms and fastened the ties. “I’m going to do your legs now, so they will feel better, too.”
She lifted the hem of the cloak, unfastened the ties and slipped the footed, cotton-lined, wool pants off Hope’s legs. Her heart swelled at the child’s whimper. She forced a smile. “It’s your turn. What other animals were on Noah’s ark?”
“Chickies.” It was a hesitant whisper.
Anne pushed a tone of teasing fun into her voice. “Oh, no. You already said ‘chickies.’ Pick another animal.” She worked quickly to free the red flannel strips while Hope was distracted.
A tiny, vertical line formed between Hope’s blond brows. “Kitties!” Her round blue eyes brightened. “Me like kitties.”
“Oh, yes. I like kitties, too.” She dipped her fingers into the small crock of ointment she had set by the fire, spread the warm balm on Hope’s knees and ankles, then replaced the red flannel strips and tied them in place.
“I had a kitty when I was a little girl.” She slipped on the small footed pants, tied them and pulled the cloak back down to cover Hope’s legs and feet. “The kitty was black and white, and I called her ‘Fluffy,’ but mother called her ‘Trouble,’ because she kept getting underfoot.
“There! All done.” She put the crock back in the pillowcase and smiled at Hope. “Are you hungry? Would you like a biscuit?”
The toddler’s eyes lit up. “Me want honey on it.”
Anne picked her up, sat on the log, spread the blanket over her and fished a biscuit out of the bag. “There is no honey for your biscuit. But when it is all gone, I have a surprise for you.”
“Me want ’prise now.”
“Nope.” She tapped the end of Hope’s little tip-tilted nose. “Not until you eat your biscuit.”
A scream split the silence, shrill and full of agony, even muted by the walls of the cave. It was followed by another. A chill slithered down her spine, set prickles rising on her flesh. She closed her eyes, swallowed to control the nausea that swirled in her stomach.
Another scream came, shriller, more piercing than the others. Her stomach roiled, pushed sourness up her throat.
Not Mitchel, Almighty God. Please don’t let it be Mitchel.
“Indians play game.”
She opened her eyes at Hope’s whisper, nodded, swallowed again before she could answer. “Yes. The Indians are playing a game. And we must not forget to play our whisper game. It’s very, very important.”
She sat there with Hope on her lap eating her biscuit, and tried to act as if everything was fine, tried to shut out the agonized screams, and the whoops of the Indians, tried not be sick, tried to pray and trust in God. But, inside, with every scream, every whoop, her fear grew.
“Me all done. Me want ’prise now.”
She managed a smile, pulled a small, drawstring bag from the pillowcase and handed Hope a slice of dried apple.
Mitchel opened his eyes, stared at dirt and dried leaves. He’d gone unconscious again, this time flat out and face down. He frowned, braced himself and dragged his hands back to push himself off the ground. Something pricked his hand. He lifted his head, stared at the snow-covered thicket of bushes around him. He didn’t remember any bushes.
He pushed to his hands and knees, felt a weight on his back. He shoved erect, stared at the horse blanket that slid to the ground. His horse blanket. He dropped down below the level of the bushes, gripped the handle of his knife and scanned the area. There was no one in sight. No tracks in the snow as far as he could see. How long had he been unconscious?
He frowned, glanced up at the sky. The sun was sinking below the hills. An entire day then. The sun had been rising when he’d left the creek to cut across the hills. He’d lost an entire day!
Urgency gripped him. He fought it down. He could not save Hope and Anne if he were killed. He wrestled the fogginess in his head, fingered the blanket. Red Squirrel must have come back to the ambush site and found Eagle Claw dead and him gone. A chill shot through him at the thought of how easily the warrior had tracked him, and how vulnerable he was when found. Obviously, he was not thinking as clearly as he supposed. He would have to be extra cautious, not move until after dark. There was no way to hide tracks across snow.
The shadows from the bushes lengthened. He glanced at the sky. The sun was sinking fast. He would soon be able to move. He looked at the surrounding area, took a bead on a tall tree in the distance, scooped up a handful of snow, swallowed it, held another handful to his aching head and closed his eyes. The throb subsided to a dull ache.
The light against his eyeli
ds faded. It was time to move. He rolled the horse blanket, shoved it out of sight among the bushes, looked around, spotted no sign of danger. He broke cover, crowded against the side of the hill and started in the direction of the mission. His cold, aching muscles protested every movement.
He gritted his teeth and pushed himself to greater speed. Once he reached that tree he knew the area well, and he would be able to stay under cover and still make the mission in a few hours.
He reached the level ground and broke into a lope, blocked out all thought of what he might find. He needed the strength of hope and faith to get him there.
Anne glanced at the fading light filtering into the cave, prayed night would come. The tortured screams had finally stopped, but the whoops and yells of the Cayuse still rose and fell in spurts. She refused to think of what might occasion those whoops of celebration. She only wanted them to stop. Her nerves were raw. If darkness would bring an end to the horror of this day, she would welcome it.
“Papa come soon?”
Tears sprang to her eyes. Her throat constricted. The knots in her stomach twisted into a painful snarl. She couldn’t bear to hear Hope ask for her father and was running out of distractions. She looked at the toddler sitting on the pallet she had used to pad the log and form a back rest for her and forced another smile. “Soon, Hope. Perhaps tomorrow.”
And if he didn’t come?
She thrust the thought from her, went to tend the tiny fire. There was wood enough for tonight, and perhaps part of tomorrow. She picked up a small piece of branch, reached to put it in the fire then drew it back. There was a round knob on the end. She set it aside, fixed the fire then picked up the knobby piece of wood and sat on the log.
“I have another surprise for you, Hope.” She dug to the bottom of the pillowcase and pulled out the scissors and roll of red flannel she had brought to tend Hope’s joints. “Watch me carefully, and tell me what the surprise is.” She cut off a short length of flannel, folded it in half and cut a small hole in the center.
She watched Hope’s eyes grow wide and bright with interest, and her heart swelled with thankfulness for the piece of wood that had given her the exact distraction she needed. She raised the hem of her gown, snipped a ribbon from the ruffle on the bottom of her petticoat, then pushed the stick through the hole in the flannel and tied it in place with the ribbon—once under the knob for the neck, and again a short way down on the stick for a waist. Once more she gripped the scissors and with the tip made two tiny circles on the knob for eyes and scratched in a curved mouth.
“It’s a dolly!”
“Yes.” She smiled at Hope’s excited whisper, helped her slip her little arms through the slits in her cloak, and handed her the doll.
“Me gonna—”
“Shhh!” Anne scooped Hope into her arms, hurried into the dark area behind the fire, her heart pounding, her body shaking. She cuddled Hope close, placed her mouth against the hood over her tiny ear. “You mustn’t talk, Hope! Not even a whisper. And don’t cry. It’s very important that you not cry!”
There was a spate of guttural exchanges overhead. Fine particles of dirt fell from the slits in the stone arch. Wavering light danced against the earthen wall. Her heart stopped. Her lungs froze.
A warrior rushed into the cave, a torch held high, his tomahawk raised to strike. He advanced, his moccasins making soft padding sounds against the earth floor.
Torchlight fell on her face, blinded her. She took a breath, slid her hand toward her pocket.
The warrior stopped, lowered the torch, dropped his tomahawk into the leather loop at his side.
She blinked, stared at the puckered scar running across the warrior’s cheek. Barking Fox! Running Wolf’s father.
He pointed at her, covered his mouth with his hand, shook his head, pivoted and ran to the entrance. He shouted what sounded like a command. An answer came from outside. He turned back, again covered his mouth with his hand, pointed at her.
She nodded, raised her hand and covered Hope’s mouth, then her own.
He lowered the torch, ducked his head and disappeared out the entrance.
Hope squirmed, lifted her little face. She leaned down, placed her ear by the toddler’s sweet rosebud mouth.
“Indian play whisser game?”
Mitchel passed the cows, snow-covered, butchered trophies of vengeance scattered over the hills where they’d been struck down and ran on. The moonless night was too dark for him to make out the mission buildings in the valley, but the glow of burning embers, visible through the rapidly falling snow, told him what he would find. Hope, his precious daughter, and Anne the woman he loved, lost to him forever.
His mind told him it was true, that it was no use, but he refused to accept it. He raced down the hill, heedless of the dark, of the slippery snow, numb to the pain in his body.
The mission house was gone, the roof collapsed, only the stone fireplaces, the buttery and part of the Indian room still stood.
He climbed beneath the broken beams and sections of roof not wholly burned, searched through the charred wood, burned his hands and feet on hot coals protected from the snow. They were not there.
He walked by the burned stables and smithy, the fire still going in the forge, and on past the trampled fence of the round corral and the burned sty. He passed the ashes and charred wood of Halstrum’s cabin and moved with wooden steps to the burned gristmill—the blackened wheel tilted at a crazy angle against the riverbank, found what was left of Halstrum and his oldest son.
He turned, headed for the trail that led to the closest Cayuse village. Limping Bear would want Anne as part of his revenge. Hope—Hope he would kill.
Pain, rage, burned in him. He started up the wooded path, stopped, stared at the broken branches on the tree on his right. Indians didn’t break branches. His heart lurched, his pulse thundered in his ears. Had Anne gotten away? Had they chased after her?
He plunged into the trees, knocking snow off the branches, taking the clearest path. “Anne!” He stopped against a wall of darkness, turned to search the trees, find another broken branch, something to give him direction. “Anne! Can you hear me?” He cupped his hands around his mouth, turned. “Anne!”
“Mitchel! Oh, Mitchel, you’re alive!”
He spun around, saw her emerging from the wall of darkness, Hope in her arms, and rushed to meet them, crushed them in his arms, buried his face in her hair. “I thought I had lost you. Thank God, I’ve found you. Oh, thank God! I thought I had lost you forever.”
Tears of thankfulness stung the backs of his eyes. He tightened his embrace.
“Papa! Me hurt!”
Hope’s cry, muffled from being crunched in his embrace, brought him to his senses. He loosed his arms from around Anne, snatched his daughter up into his arms and hugged her close. “Hope… Oh, Hope, my precious child. I thought I’d lost you.”
Chapter Nineteen
Anne stepped back, watched Mitchel cuddling his daughter close, listened to the agony in his voice as he spoke of losing her.
Tears stung her eyes, clogged her throat. For a moment, in his embrace, she had thought… But that was foolishness. Hope had been in her arms. Of course he had embraced them. Them. Not her. Yet, for that moment, secure in his strong arms, it was as if her heart had come home. But that, too, was foolishness, brought on by the surcease of the horrible, unrelenting fear that he would not return.
She blinked her vision clear, shrugged off the unjustified sense of abandonment and focused on Hope’s happy laughter as Mitchel reined kisses on her adorable face. Her tears flowed, melted the snowflakes landing on her cheeks. Thank You, God, for bringing Hope’s papa back to her.
A tree limb cracked. Her heart lurched. She spun to her right, toward the rustling, crashing sound of movement among the trees, slipped her hand toward the pistol in her pocket.
“It’s all right. It’s an animal. Sounds injured. Probably a wounded cow coming home.”
Mitchel’s warm breath
flowed across her cheek, tickled her ear. She looked up at him and nodded. His gaze held hers, and the shadows in his eyes brought the horrible fear plummeting back to land like a stone in her stomach.
“We have to leave, Anne. We have to travel through the night. I want to get as distant from this place as possible before morning. The Cayuse want my blood. They will come back to search for me tomorrow. And you.”
Icy cold slithered down her spine, crawled along her skin. She nodded, turned toward the cave. “I’ll get our things.” She led him to the entrance, glanced over her shoulder. “You’ll have to duck your head.”
He nodded, winced.
She stopped, turned to him. “What’s wrong, Mitchel? Are you hurt?”
“I’m all right.”
The tension in his face said otherwise. The heaviness in her stomach grew. She hurried into the cave, rushed to the log, rolled Hope’s blankets and the rubber sheeting and stuffed them into the pillowcase.
He followed, stepped around her, looked down at the small fire. “How did you find this ca—ummph.”
She whirled at the odd sound. Hope had her little hand on Mitchel’s mouth.
“Papa in secwet place. Play whisser game.”
He lifted Hope’s hand, looked at her. “Whisser?”
“We played a whisper game to stay quiet.” She stared at his left arm, at the dark stain soaked into the leather around the slit in the sleeve. “You’re wounded.” She shook off the shock, gathered her senses. “Come sit on the log and I’ll tend—”
“Later, Anne. We have to leave.”
She looked at his face, knew he would not relent, knew he was right and hated it. She squared her shoulders, stepped close to him, put down the pillowcase and held out her arms. “I will carry Hope.”
He shook his head, and she saw a flash of pain in his eyes. What was wrong with him?
“I’ll carry Hope. She’s too heavy for you.”
He was wounded, yet willing to take the burden of carrying Hope from her. Phillip wouldn’t even stop racing the horses to protect her and their child. She thrust the disloyal thought away and lifted her chin. “I have managed thus far.” She studied his face, knew she would not win that argument. “The weather is cold, Mitchel. My cloak will cover Hope and holding her next to me will help to keep her warm and lessen her discomfort.”
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