I had seen San Carlos, the Apache reservation, and been appalled at the poverty in which the Indians lived. Warriors, once proud and free as the wind, sat idly before their lodges day after day, their eyes empty of hope and their spirits broken. The women, even the young ones, looked old and tired. Many of them sold themselves to the soldiers in exchange for food to feed their families. And the children…hollow-eyed, gaunt, listless. Their once bright black eyes were dull, their merry laughter stilled. They did not sing, or play, or laugh. No, I could not send Shadow’s child to the living hell of life on the reservation.
“I’ll think of something,” I promised as I kissed my son’s downy cheek. “Don’t worry…”
It was late when I awoke. Tired as I was, there was no time to waste. Dragging myself out of bed, I dressed quickly, threw some food into a sack, and grabbed a canteen from Joshua’s field kit. Bundling my son in a heavy blanket, I tiptoed out of the house.
Sunny nickered softly as I led her from the corral, hurriedly slipping a bridle over her head. It was a struggle to swing the heavy saddle in place. That accomplished, I made my way to the gates. There were two sentries patrolling the catwalk, and I was pleased to see they were both standing at the far end, talking quietly as they shared a cigarette. Moving swiftly, I wrestled the heavy bar from the big gate, opening it just enough to allow the horse and myself to pass through. Then, with my son cradled in my right arm and Sunny’s reins held tight in my left hand, I disappeared into the shadows. Well away from sight and sound of the fort, I hauled myself into the saddle and lashed Sunny into a gallop.
The wind was cold and damp, and I turned up the collar of my coat, drawing the blanket tighter around my son. In the distance, a coyote raised a lonely lament to the moon. There was menace in the darkness, but the unseen creatures lurking there were not half so frightening as the thought of losing the baby I held in my arms, and I whipped Sunny’s flank, demanding more speed.
With the stars to guide me, I headed for the Dakotas. The things I wanted for my son no longer existed. Not here, in Arizona. Not anywhere. The great herds of buffalo were gone. The old days were gone. And if my son was destined to live out his life on a reservation, then so would I. But it would be the Cheyenne reservation, where he could learn the ways of his people.
His people. I thought of Fawn and New Leaf and Black Owl, and a weight seemed to lift from my heart. If they were still alive, I would not be alone. Shadow’s father would welcome his son’s wife and child. We would be loved and cared for. Black Owl would teach his grandson the things a warrior should know. My son would grow up listening to the old men tell stories of Dull Knife and Black Kettle, of White Antelope and Two Moons. He would hear stories of the great chiefs and thrill to the heroic tales of Sitting Bull and Crazy Horse, of Gall and Hump. He would hear the warriors boast of Two Hawks Flying, the last fighting chief on the plains.
Shadow. Despite the weariness that weighed me down, I suddenly felt much better. I knew Shadow would never live on a reservation under the white man’s thumb, but perhaps Black Owl would know where he was.
Joshua swore softly as he saw the rumpled bed and Hannah’s nightgown on the floor. So she had taken the brat and run away. Damn her! He’d be the laughingstock of the fort now. And damn that Indian, too—even dead and buried, he still held Hannah tight in his grasp.
Jealousy burned in Joshua’s heart. It seemed he had loved Hannah all his life. He still loved her, but she couldn’t see him for dust. He wanted to be nice to her, to spoil and pamper her, but every time he looked into her eyes, he knew she still loved the Indian. Would always love the Indian. No matter what he, Joshua, did, he knew she was comparing him to Shadow and finding him wanting.
Indians! How he hated them. They had been the cause of all the unhappiness he had ever known. He had happily killed dozens, perhaps even hundreds, since joining the Army. Once, he had thought that the shedding of Indian blood would somehow atone for the loss of Hannah’s love and for the deaths of his parents and his brother. And it had helped a little, but killing had not cooled the hatred in his heart. No, if anything, his hatred for the whole red race burned brighter and hotter than ever.
Shoulders sagging, he sat on the edge of the bed and stared at the nightgown lying in a heap on the floor. The gown was soft and feminine, like Hannah herself. She was so beautiful, so desirable. Yet even in the privacy of their marriage bed, he knew she was comparing him to Shadow and finding him a poor second. If only he could wipe the Indian’s memory from her mind once and for all. If only he could win Hannah’s love. There had to be a way.
Muttering an oath, Joshua stomped out of the bedroom and made his way to the parlor. Pouring himself a tall glass of rye whiskey, he downed it in two swallows. He would not let Hannah go without a fight. No, by damn, he would not!
In the morning, he would find her trail and bring her back.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Dawn was flooding the horizon with color when I drew rein in a dry wash. I fed my son, and then fell into a deep sleep. Hours later, his crying awakened me. I fed him again, dug some bread and cheese out of my pack for myself, and drank sparingly of the water. Then, tired and aching, I climbed into the saddle, more certain than ever that I was doing the right thing.
I rode all that day, stopping only to nurse my son. That night, as he stared up at me out of solemn, midnight blue eyes, I gave him his name, as was my right according to Cheyenne custom. And the name I choose was Heecha, meaning Owl.
I rode day and night for a week, and at the end of that time, I was out of food. More rational now that I was out of Joshua’s reach, I realized how foolish I had been to act so impetuously.
Looking back, I realized I should have let Josh send the baby to the San Carlos Reservation. Then, when I was stronger, I could have followed him. At the reservation, I could have hired an Apache warrior to guide us to Pine Ridge. But it was too late for that now.
In despair, I realized that my son and I would probably perish out here in the wilderness. I had no gun to hunt with, and in any case, I had seen no game. The next day I ran out of water.
Ahead lay the cave where Shadow and I once had stayed—the same cave where Joshua had found us. Leading Sunny, I trudged up the hill. There was no sign of the tiny grave where my firstborn son was buried.
Inside the cave, I used the last of my strength to spread a blanket on the ground. Then, cradling Heecha to my breast, I closed my eyes and fell asleep. And sleeping, began to dream…
I was home again, back in Bear Valley. It was spring, and the world was in bloom, fragrant with the scent of wildflowers. My son slept peacefully in his cradle beneath an open window while I turned out a loaf of fresh bread. I was happy, so happy, and I sang as I worked. At noon, Shadow came in for lunch, and I flew to his arms, lifting my face for his kiss.
“Hannah,” he whispered, and the sound of his voice thrilled my soul even as it filled my heart with peace and love. “Hannah…Hannah!” I woke, and still the voice called me. A loud, insistent voice, heavy with impatience and anger. Josh’s voice.
“You little fool,” he scolded. “Where the hell do you think you’re going?”
“Home,” I said wearily. “Home to the Cheyenne.”
Muttering an oath, Josh slapped me, hard. So hard, my ears rang and tears scalded my eyes.
“Get up!” he demanded. I hugged my son closer as I shook my head. “No, Josh. I’m not going back. Tell people I died. Tell them anything you want, but leave me alone. Please, just leave me alone.”
Josh swore as he pulled me to my feet. Face contorted with rage, he grabbed Heecha from my arms and shoved me outside. Corporal Hopkins was waiting at the foot of the hill, and the way he looked at me made me shiver with apprehension. His eyes were as cold and yellow as those of a hunting lobo; he glanced at me and then, with a gesture I could not misunderstand, he drew his forefinger across his throat. I knew then, with crystal clarity, that Josh intended to kill my son before we started back for the po
st.
With a strangled sob, I whirled around and made a grab for Joshua’s pistol. He pushed me away, and I fell to my hands and knees on the rocky ground. I scraped both my shins, but I was unaware of the pain as I sprang at Josh again, my hands clawing at his face.
Suddenly, from below, came the shrill cry of a man in terrible agony. Startled, I glanced over my shoulder in time to see Hopkins fall face down in the dust. A single arrow protruded from his back.
“Indians!” Josh muttered.
Grabbing a handful of my hair, he yanked me back into the protective shelter of the cave.
“It’s not Indians!” I cried exultantly. “It’s Shadow!”
“Impossible,” Josh scoffed. “He’s dead.”
“Dead?” I stared at Joshua blankly. “When? Where? Who told you that?”
“No one, you little fool. Did you really think I’d let him go?” Joshua’s hollow laughter echoed eerily in the dim cavern. “I had Hopkins kill him. He’s been dead all along.”
“No!” I shrieked. “No, he can’t be!”
He can’t be, I said to myself. The arrow lodged in Hopkins’ back belonged to Shadow. I knew it did, because I had seen dozens of similar shafts when we rode the war trail together. Every warrior made his own arrows, and each arrow bore the mark of its maker. Shadow’s feathers were always black, the shafts striped with red and black, exactly like the one that had killed Hopkins. I could not be mistaken.
Joshua thrust Heecha into my arms. “Here, take the kid.”
Dropping to his knees, Joshua crawled to the entrance of the cave. “Damn,” he muttered irritably. “I can’t see a thing.”
An hour passed, and nothing moved on the desert floor. High overhead, a lone black buzzard hovered in the air. Soon another joined it, and then another. With easy grace, they floated lightly to the ground, to become the awkward, ugly birds of prey they were. With clumsy, hopping steps, they made their way to the corpse. Soon hooked beaks and long curved talons were rending the Corporal’s flesh. Sickened, I pleaded with Joshua to shoot the birds—to do something, anything, to scare them away.
“Don’t be a fool,” Joshua snapped. “Hopkins is beyond caring, and I’m not wasting good ammunition on a bunch of vultures.”
Another hour passed. I nursed Heecha, silently praying that Man Above would help us get safely away from Josh. I feared Joshua’s hatred for Indians had destroyed his reason, and I feared greatly for my son’s life and for my own.
My hands were shaking with nervous tension as I changed Heecha’s clout. Joshua remained at the cave entrance, his gun drawn, his eyes restlessly searching for Hopkins’ killer.
Another hour crawled into history. The birds had gorged themselves and left long ago. The stench of Hopkins’ mutilated corpse drifted up the hill, as did the sound of the hundreds of flies that were swarming over what was left of his corpse. The two cavalry mounts stood at the foot of the hill, heads drooping, tails swishing lazily. Nothing else moved.
Finally, about five o’clock, Joshua decided it was safe to venture outside. Setting his hat on his head, he gestured at Heecha with his gun barrel.
“Leave the brat here,” he said curtly.
Clutching Heecha to my breast, I took a step backward. “No, Josh. I won’t leave him.”
My heart began to pound heavily as Joshua started toward me. Closing the short distance between us, he unsheathed his knife and laid the finely-honed blade against my son’s tiny throat.
“Put him down, Hannah, or I’ll kill him.”
Woodenly, I laid my son down on the rough ground and lovingly covered him with a blanket against the night’s chill. I knew Heecha would die soon enough, with no one to care for him, but I could not bear to see him killed before my eyes.
“Let’s go,” Josh growled, and forcibly propelled me out of the cave.
Gun in hand, eyes darting warily from side to side, Josh followed me down the hill. We were almost to the bottom when I felt a warm rush of wind past my cheek, heard the quiet swish of an arrow, and then the dull thud as the shaft pierced Joshua’s right arm, just below the elbow.
Josh grunted with pain and surprise as his arm went numb and his gun fell from nerveless fingers. A soft oath escaped his lips as a lone warrior rose up from the dusty brown earth.
It was Shadow. Hard and lean, naked save for a wolfskin clout, he moved catlike toward us as my hungry eyes lovingly devoured every inch of his lithe copper-hued frame.
Excitement fluttered in my stomach as I waited for Shadow to take me in his arms and hold me close, but he made no move in my direction, and when he did look at me, his eyes were hard and cold.
Joshua’s face went white, as if he had seen a ghost. “You!” he hissed. “You’re supposed to be dead!”
“Before the sun sets, you will wish you were dead,” Shadow remarked flatly. Without warning, he loosed a second arrow. “You will wish it many times.”
Josh groaned as the shaft pierced his left arm. Drops of bright red blood dripped from his wounds, staining the ground at his feet.
“Shadow, don’t,” I whispered.
“Keep out of this, Hannah,” Shadow said brusquely. “It is between Berdeen and myself. You have no part in it.”
Feeling as though I were talking to a stranger, I crossed the distance between us and laid my hand on Shadow’s arm. “Please don’t kill him. It isn’t right.”
“You love this man so much you would beg me for his life?” Shadow demanded scornfully. “You are a foolish woman, if you think I would spare your lover after all he has done.”
“He’s not my lover! I’ve never loved anyone but you.”
“You lie!”
“No, it is the truth. I only married Josh because he said he would let you go free.”
“None of it matters now, Hannah,” Shadow said tonelessly.
“What do you mean, it doesn’t matter? I love you, Shadow. I’ve never loved anyone else. Only you. You must believe me!”
Something that might have been joy flickered in the depths of Shadow’s fathomless black eyes as he read the truth in my face, then it was quickly gone.
“He must die,” Shadow said.
I knew better than to argue with that hard, cruel tone of voice. It was not Shadow speaking now, but the warrior Two Hawks Flying, and I knew nothing I could say or do would deter him from killing Josh. It was a matter of pride, of honor. The same sense of honor that had taken him away from me once before, when he left me to fight with his people.
Joshua screamed as Shadow callously ripped the arrow from his left arm. He fainted when Shadow jerked the shaft from his right arm.
Face impassive, Shadow staked Joshua out where he had fallen and stood there, unmoving, until Joshua regained consciousness. I stood beside Shadow, wondering what he was thinking. Was he remembering that day long ago at this same place? Was he remembering a tiny baby and an unmarked grave? Was he remembering Red Wind? Or was he remembering the long ride to Fort Apache, and the days he spent in a tiny cell?
With a low moan, Joshua opened his eyes. He glared defiantly at Shadow, his expression filled with pain and hatred, nothing more, until he realized what was in store for him. Then, and only then, did I see fear in his eyes.
“I leave you the death you once planned for me,” Shadow said tonelessly. “And I take back what is rightfully mine.”
“Hannah, for God’s sake, stop him,” Josh croaked. “I’ll do anything you say. Anything.”
I turned away then. Much as I had grown to hate Joshua Berdeen, it grieved me to see him in pain. I shuddered to think of the agony he would suffer before he died, and yet I could not help feeling that he had brought it all on himself. All the pain and hatred he had so callously meted out was coming home to roost at last.
While Shadow stripped the rigging from the two cavalry mounts and turned them loose, I ran up the hill to the cave.
Inside, I scooped Heecha into my arms and hugged him close before scurrying back down the brush-covered slope.
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Shadow’s expression turned sour when he saw the blanket-wrapped bundle in my arms, and I could not help grinning when I thought how surprised he would be when he learned the child was not Joshua’s, as he supposed, but his.
Shadow had stripped Josh of his clothing and boots. Blood continued to ooze from Josh’s wounds, and I hoped he would bleed to death before the animals came. Sweat stood out on Joshua’s brow, caused more by pain and fear than the heat of the day. Great clouds of black flies had deserted Hopkins’ stiffening corpse to swarm on the fresh blood dripping from Joshua’s wounds.
A wolf howled in the distance, and its predatory cry sent a shiver down my spine. The scent of blood would draw them to Joshua, and he would be powerless to fight them off. A horrible picture loomed in my mind of yellow fangs rending still-living flesh. I could hear Joshua’s screams of agony, taste the fear in his mouth as the wolves closed in, see his wild struggles, feel his helpless despair. It would be a cruel death, and even though I realized Josh had planned a similar fate for Shadow, I was appalled at the prospect.
I turned pleading eyes toward Shadow, but he shook his head. “Berdeen dies, Hannah,” he declared sharply. “I know you do not approve, but it is the way it must be.” Shadow lifted me into the saddle, handed me Sunny’s reins, and then swung aboard his own horse. It was a tall spotted stallion, the kind favored by the Nez Perce Indians. Side by side, we rode away from the hill. I did not look back.
Reckless Heart Page 28
