“You gonna cry for him when he’s crow bait?” Rimmer asked one evening.
Bishop refused to answer, but Jassy stayed awake far into the night, Rimmer’s unspoken threat repeating itself over and over again in the back of her mind.
They’d been on the trail almost a week when the Indians appeared. There were about twenty of them, armed and painted for war.
“Let me talk to them,” Creed said.
“You?” Rimmer shook his head. “I don’t think so.”
“They’re Lakota,” Creed said.
“What the hell difference does that make?”
“They’re my people.”
“Why doesn’t that make me feel better?” Rimmer mused. “Forget it. We’ll make a run for it.”
“Don’t be a fool!”
“What kind of fool would I be to trust you?” Rimmer retorted. “Let’s ride!”
Grabbing the reins to Jassy’s horse, Rimmer raked his spurs across his mount’s flanks.
“Bishop, listen to me!” Creed called, but to no avail.
With a muttered curse, Bishop yanked on the reins to Creed’s horse and urged his own mount after Rimmer’s horse, who was galloping toward a low rise surrounded by boulders.
As soon as Rimmer took off, the Indians gave chase.
Their hellish cries sent shivers of fear skittering along Jassy’s spine as she fought to stay in the saddle. Once, she risked a glance over her shoulder. She could see Bishop and Creed following close behind, and hard on their heels came the Indians, their faces hideously streaked with paint.
And then the Indians started shooting at them, and Jassy stopped worrying about falling out of the saddle and started worrying about being shot.
Rimmer and Bishop both drew their guns and began firing at the Indians, until her ears rang with the sharp staccato sound of gunfire. They had almost reached the point where Rimmer hoped to make a stand when he toppled from the back of his horse.
She heard one of the Indians shriek in triumph, and then the world spun out of focus as her horse went down.
She screamed as the ground rushed up to meet her.
Chapter Twenty-Four
For a moment, time and space ceased to exist, and then, without remembering how it had happened, Jassy found herself lying facedown in the dirt, the breath knocked from her body.
For a moment, she didn’t move, and then she realized the shooting had stopped. Heart pounding with trepidation, she sat up and looked around.
Her horse was thrashing on the ground a few feet away, an arrow through its neck.
Rimmer was dead. Three of the Indians shouted something as they struck his body with feathered sticks.
A few feet behind her, she saw Bishop’s body sprawled on the ground. It was obvious that he, too, was dead. She turned away, choking back the urge to vomit, as one of the warrior’s bent over Rimmer’s body, knife in hand.
Where was Creed?
She stood up, concern for Creed overriding fear for her own safety. And then she saw him, lying facedown in the dirt, the back of his shirt soaked with blood. Several Indians were gathered around him, their faces menacing under layers of hideous war paint.
“Leave him alone!” Jassy screamed, and ran toward Creed.
A warrior wearing three eagle feathers in his long black hair grabbed her by the arm before she reached Creed’s side.
“Let me go!” Jassy cried. She struck the warrior in the face and kicked him in the shins, but to no avail. “Let me go to him!”
“Inila, winyan,” The Indian spoke quietly, but there was no mistaking the authority in his voice, or the fact that he was admonishing her to be quiet.
“Please,” Jassy said. “Please let me go to him.”
The warrior stared at her, his gaze lingering on the beaded choker at her throat before returning to her face.
“Where did you get that?” he asked, his voice sharp.
“He gave it to me,” Jassy replied, too worried about Creed to wonder at the Indian’s use of English.
The warrior looked at her strangely, as if he didn’t believe Creed would give a white woman an Indian-made trinket.
Jassy blinked back her tears. “Is he dead?”
“Not yet.”
Jassy looked over at Creed. Two Indians knelt beside him. It took a moment for her to realize they weren’t going to hurt him, that they were helping him. While she watched, they bound his wounds, wrapped him in a blanket, then handed him up to a burly warrior mounted on a big piebald gelding.
The warrior holding Jassy released her arm. “Go home, winyan,” he said.
“I’m going with you,” Jassy said.
“No.”
“But he’s my husband!”
The warrior made a sound of disbelief low in his throat.
“It’s true!” Jassy exclaimed, the thought of being left behind in this wild place almost as frightening as the thought of being parted from Creed.
She gave a little start when one of the Indians fired a bullet into her horse’s head, putting the animal out of its misery. And then the warrior was lifting her onto the back of Rimmer’s horse.
She felt the bile rise in her throat again as they rode by Bishop’s body and she saw the raw bloody patch on the back of head. As they rode past Rimmer’s body, she couldn’t help seeing that he, too, had been scalped.
She glanced at the warrior riding beside her. Were they just going to leave the bodies lying in the dirt?
“Aren’t you going to bury them?”
The warrior looked at her curiously. “Bury?”
“You know, bury? Put them in the ground?”
The warrior shook his head, his expression telling her more clearly than words what he thought of such a silly idea. The white men were the enemy, undeserving of a proper Lakota burial. Their blood would nourish the earth, their flesh would feed the scavengers.
“How did you learn to speak English?” Jassy asked, her curiosity coming to the fore now that Creed seemed out of danger.
The warrior looked at her as if she weren’t too bright. “From a wasichu.” He paused a moment. “From the whites,” he said flatly. “At the reservation.”
“Is that where we’re going?” Jassy asked hopefully. “To the reservation?”
The warrior looked at her for a long moment. ”You ask many questions, white woman.”
With a nod, Jassy stared ahead once more, her thoughts turning to Creed. How badly was he hurt? What would happen to her if he died?
They rode all that day, stopping only once to rest and water the horses. Creed was still unconscious, his face deathly pale.
It was dark when they reached the Lakota village. Several men and women gathered around to meet the returning war party.
Jassy watched anxiously as Creed was carried into a large tipi near the center of the village. She stood beside her horse for a few moments, and when no one approached her, she ducked into the tipi where they had taken Creed.
No one paid her any attention, so she stood near the doorway, watching quietly. There were three Indians in the lodge. One of them, a stocky man with long gray braids, sat beside a small fire, chanting softly as he sprinkled some kind of ground leaves into the flames. When a pungent aroma filled the air, he reached for an eagle feather, which he passed through the smoke several times.
When that was done, he picked up a knife and knelt beside Creed. She had thought Creed to be unconscious, but now she heard his voice, low and edged with pain as he spoke to the Indians in their own tongue.
Jassy’s stomach plummeted to her toes as she got her first glance at the gunshot wound in Creed’s chest. To her, it looked enormous. The edges were red and ragged. Blood welled from the wound, trickling down his chest, to be wiped away by one of the other Indians. The stocky Indian, who Jassy had decided was probably the tribal medicine man, began chanting again as he passed the blade of a knife through the smoke, and then he began to probe the wound in Creed’s chest.
Creed swore a
vile oath as the blade pierced his flesh. At a word from the medicine man, the other two Indians took hold of Creed so he couldn’t move.
Jassy turned away, unable to watch, as the medicine man dug the bullet out of Creed’s chest.
The low sound of chanting filled the lodge.
Once, she heard Creed cry out in pain.
And then there was a soft grunt of satisfaction, and she guessed the medicine man had dislodged the slug.
She turned around then, her gaze settling on Creed. His face was pale and he was sweating profusely. His eyes were closed, and she wondered if he had passed out. She fervently hoped so.
She drew back from the doorway as the two warriors left the lodge. The medicine man noticed her then, apparently for the first time. He stared at her for a long moment, and she held her breath, waiting for him to order her from the tipi. Instead, he motioned her to come closer.
“Pehanska,” he said, “Your woman here.”
Creed’s eyelids fluttered open. “Jassy?”
“I’m here.” Hurrying toward him, she knelt at his side and took his hand in hers. “You’ll be all right,” she said, but even as she spoke the words, she wondered how he could possibly survive. His hand was hot where it rested in hers, his eyes were fever bright.
Her gaze slid to his chest. The medicine man had packed the wound with a poultice of some kind, then covered it with a strip of cloth. “Can I get you anything?”
“Water.”
Jassy looked at the medicine man, who handed her a canteen. Jassy stared at the container, at the letters “U.S.” stenciled on the side. Lifting Creed’s head a little, she held the canteen to his lips.
The medicine man watched her for a moment, then rose to his feet. “You stay,” he said, and left the lodge.
“Jassy, don’t be afraid,” Creed said. “If anything happens to me…”
“Nothing’s going to happen,” Jassy exclaimed. “You’re going to be fine.”
“They won’t hurt you. If anything happens to me, Tasunke Hinzi…the warrior wearing three eagle feathers…will see you safely back to Rock Springs.”
Creed closed his eyes as a wave of pain swept through him. He was badly hurt, and he knew it, just as he knew his chances of survival were slim. But Jassy would be taken care of. She was his wife, and the Lakota would respect that.
“Creed?”
He heard the worry in her voice, and he opened his eyes. “I’ll be all right.”
She smiled through her tears. “Of course you will.”
She sat beside him all that night, wiping his body with a cool cloth in hopes of bringing down the fever, spooning broth into his mouth, covering him with a heavy robe when chills racked his body.
The hours passed slowly as she endeavored to combat the recurring chills and fever. The medicine man came and went several times throughout the night, bringing broth and tea for Creed, offering Jassy a bowl of hot venison stew. He changed the poultice every few hours, added sage and sweet grass to the fire. Once, he sat beside Creed for twenty minutes, chanting softly as he drew an eagle feather through the smoke, drawing it over Creed.
Dawn came, and there was no change. Creed was unconscious now, his face ashen, his breathing rapid and shallow. He was going to die, she thought numbly.
Needing to be alone, she left the lodge and walked away from the village, not stopping until she came to a winding river. Kneeling on a patch of dew-damp grass, she folded her hands and stared at the brightening sky, a prayer rising in her heart as the sun climbed in the sky.
“Please,” she murmured. “Please let him live. I love him so much. Please, don’t take him from me. He’s all I have in the world.”
She gazed at the brilliant bands of color that spread across the sky, thinking she had never seen anything so beautiful. “Please,” she murmured, knowing that a Being who could create such beauty had the power to heal, to be merciful. “Please, I’ll be so good if You just let him live…”
*
The sound of a woman weeping drew him from the edge of eternity. With an effort, he opened his eyes. At first, he saw only darkness, and then he saw Jassy sitting beside him, her head bowed, her hands folded in her lap, her cheeks wet with tears. He gazed at her for several minutes, wondering why she was crying. It was an effort to stay awake, to breathe, to think.
Jassy was crying. He longed to take her in his arms and comfort her, but he lacked the strength. The darkness of oblivion whispered in his ear, promising to shield him from the pain that rocked him with every breath. It was tempting, so tempting. For a moment, he considered surrendering to the darkness. All he had to do was close his eyes and let the blackness carry him away.
But then he heard Jassy’s voice again. She was praying for him, her words thick with tears. She was crying for him, he thought, crying because he’d been hurt and she thought he was going to die.
Summoning all his strength, he moved away from the velvet cloak of darkness. “Jassy?”
“Creed!” His name was a cry on her lips, a cry of joy, of relief. Of love. “How do you feel?”
“Like hell.”
Her smile was bright enough to light a city. “I’ve been so afraid,” she murmured. “So afraid.”
Her hands moved over him, caressing his cheek, adjusting the blanket that covered him, resting on his brow to take his temperature in the way of women the world over.
“I don’t understand why the Indians tried to kill you, and then brought you here.”
“The Indians didn’t shoot me, honey. It was Rimmer.”
“Rimmer! Why?”
“I don’t know. Are you all right?”
“I’m fine. Are you hungry?” she asked. “Thirsty?”
“Thirsty.”
“You need to eat something.”
“Later.”
He drank the water she brought him, then lay back and closed his eyes. He’d been close to death before, he thought, but never this close.
“Creed?”
“I’m okay, Jassy. Just tired.” He felt her take his hand in hers. “Don’t worry, honey. I’ll be all right. Why don’t you get some sleep?”
He tugged on her hand, pulling her down beside him, his arm slipping around her shoulders to draw her up against him. Minutes later, he was asleep.
Lying there beside him, her head resting on his shoulder, Jassy offered a silent prayer of thanks to all the gods, both red and white, for sparing the life of the man she loved.
*
He did not make a good patient. He was too weak to do more than sit up for a few minutes at a time. He knew it, but he didn’t like it. Being idle made him irritable. He didn’t like having Jassy wait on him hand and foot. He didn’t like being bedridden. He didn’t like the fact that he couldn’t even get up to relieve himself.
He snapped at Jassy and growled at Mato Wakuwa, the medicine man, until they both threatened to let him lie there and rot. Tasunke Hinzi came each day to visit, and Jassy learned that Tasunke Hinzi and Creed had been childhood friends. Sometimes she sat near Creed while the two men reminisced about the old days, before the army had attacked their village and taken the survivors to the reservation.
Now was one of those times.
Jassy listened as Tasunke Hinzi spoke of the time on the reservation, unable to believe that the Indians had been driven from their homeland and subjected to such inhumane treatment. She had always been taught that the Indians had been sent to the reservations for their own good, that they were housed and fed and clothed. But Tasunke Hinzi told a different story.
The days at Standing Rock had been hard, he said. There had never been enough food or blankets. The old ones had longed for home, and they had sickened and died at an alarming rate. The children had been hungry all the time. The women grieved; the men grew angry. After a few months, the warriors began to leave the reservation. One by one, they had slipped away, and after a while, the women and children had followed. When he was old enough, Tasunke Hinzi and some of his friends ha
d also run away from Standing Rock, anxious to fight for their homeland, to regain their freedom, their pride. Their small band of renegades had grown steadily larger as the years passed.
“We will never go to the reservation again,” Tasunke Hinzi said vehemently. “We will live here, or we will die here, but we will never again submit to the wasichu.”
Tasunke Hinzi glanced at Jassy. She had discarded her wasicun winyan clothing for a doeskin dress and moccasins. Her only adornment was the choker at her throat. He remembered it well, remembered Pehanska’s pride when his grandmother, Okoka, had made it for him. That had been long ago, he thought sadly. Long ago.
Abruptly, Tasunke Hinzi rose to his feet. “Ake wancinyankin ktelo, kola,” he said, nodding at Creed, and then Jassy.
“Tanyan yahi yelo,” Creed replied. “I’m glad you came.”
Jassy watched Tasunke Hinzi duck out of the lodge. He treated her with respect, but she couldn’t help, wondering if he harbored a secret dislike for her because she was white, because her people had stolen his land and murdered his relatives.
Later that day, Mato Wakuwa came in to check on Creed’s wounds. Mato Wakuwa didn’t speak much English, but he always had a smile for Jassy, and as the days passed, she grew more and more fond of the old man.
Sometimes, when Creed was asleep, she went outside to sit in the sun. Mato Wakuwa could often be seen sitting outside his lodge surrounded by children and adults alike.
This day was no exception. Sitting with her back against the lodge, Jassy watched the faces of the children, smiling as their expressions changed from awe to humor.
She glanced up as Tasunke Hinzi approached the lodge.
“Hau,” he said, dropping down beside her.
“Hello.”
“How is Pehanska?”
“Much better, thank you. He’s asleep just now.”
Tasunke Hinzi nodded. “Rest is good.”
“What is Mato Wakuwa telling the children?”
Tasunke Hinzi listened for a moment, and then smiled. “He is telling them the story of why people have five fingers.”
“Stories, really?”
“Han. He is telling them that, in the beginning of the world, there were only animals. One day, no one knows why, the animals held a council and decided to make people. All went well with their design until they came to hands.
Lakota Renegade Page 21
