Had they done it, then? Had they gone out and found themselves a white man to kill?
Why would they tie his hands and feet if he was dead? Why bring a dead man back to camp?
But the answer to the latter was simple. To prove they had avenged the deaths of their friends.
But really, Winter Fawn thought with irritation, a simple scalp would have sufficed.
Then another shout rang out that took Winter Fawn’s attention completely away from the warriors.
“Red Beard!”
Winter Fawn whirled. He rode easily on his big sorrel horse. The wide brim of his hat hid half his face, and he carried a small white girl before him, with an older white girl riding the cantle at his back, but Winter Fawn would have known him if he’d had a buffalo robe over his head and a bear cub before and behind him instead of a girl. She knew those shoulders, that beard, the way he sat a horse. Oh, how she knew them! Shoving her way through the crowd, she rushed to his side. “Father!”
Hunter echoed her cry as he ran to join her.
Before dismounting, her father lifted the small girl from before him and handed her to Winter Fawn.
“This be Megan, and her aunt,” he added helping the older girl slide down, “Bess. They be me guests. Keep them safe, lass. Don’t let your uncle or any o’ his bloody friends get their hands on ‘em.”
“What’s happened?” Winter Fawn asked. “What’s going on?”
He swung down from the saddle and handed his reins to Hunter. There was anger in his eyes. “That’s what I be after findin’ oot.” With a roar of outrage, he shouldered his way through the throng of people who had gathered around the white man.
Winter Fawn was adult enough to understand that these were extraordinary circumstances. She knew the look of rage in her father’s eyes was not directed at her, and that he had serious business on his mind.
But she was also child enough to be devastated that he should arrive in camp for the first time since this time last spring and have not a single word for her other than about the white girls he had thrust at her.
After a brief but hard-fought struggle, the adult in her prevailed. Her father had entrusted the girls to her care. She would keep them safe, as he bade.
But she would also find out what was going on. With a white girl in each hand, she followed him.
Crooked Oak had dismounted and gave the white man’s body a shove. The body slid head-first toward the ground and groaned.
He was alive!
Carson would have debated the fact.
This time when he hit the ground, he felt it. He came to in mid air and was instantly aware of two things: one, that the back of his head was about to explode, and two, that he was falling. Instinct had him reaching out with his hands to break his fall. It was then that he discovered they were bound at the wrists. He thought, for a fleeting instant, that they were numb, until they met the ground with the full force of his weight jarring down on them. The pain knifed up his arms, across his shoulders, and up into his head, where it sliced behind his eyes and blackened the vision he’d only just regained.
Then his head hit the ground, and he tumbled over onto his back. He heard laughter, and someone calling his name.
Where was he? Cold Harbor?
No, that wasn’t right. Petersburg. The siege.
No, not there. It was too quiet for Petersburg, or any other battle site he could think of. He heard no cannon, smelled no smoke.
He opened his eyes to realize that he must, indeed, be dead. Overhead the sky was turning dark, and all around him leering, painted faces stared. It looked real enough. But death was the only explanation for the angel staring down at him. If a man poured enough cream into his coffee, and added just the right amount of bronze and copper, he might come close to matching the color of her skin, but it would take a cool mountain fog to come close to those clear gray eyes. Startled fog, he thought with a touch of hysteria.
Could fog be startled?
Could just the sight of a woman’s mouth make a man yearn to taste it?
He was definitely dead if he was thinking such crazy things. And he was going straight to hell for thinking them about an angel. He couldn’t, for his soul, take his gaze from hers.
Dead. He was definitely dead.
Winter Fawn blinked at the man sprawled at her feet. He was definitely alive. His eyes were open and staring straight into hers.
For one shocking moment, Winter Fawn stared into the most startlingly blue eyes she had ever seen. The deep blue of a mountain lake, or the summer sky at twilight. Captivating. Mesmerizing. And for that instant, Winter Fawn had the unsettling feeling that she was staring straight into her own destiny.
“Dulaney! Carson Dulaney, can you hear me?”
MacDougall. Carson rolled to his side and looked around. There he stood, big as life and broad as a barn. Innes MacDougall.
Memory rushed back. Oh, God! The girls!
He saw them then, with the gray-eyed angel. He was shamed that he hadn’t noticed them immediately. The angel—no, not an angel. An Indian. Arapaho? “Megan,” he moaned. “Bess.”
“Yer lassies be fine, lad, that I promise ye.”
The nearest warrior snarled something at Carson and kicked him in the ribs hard enough to knock the wind from his lungs.
By the time he regained his breath, Innes and several of the warriors were involved in a heated argument. As near as Carson could figure, Innes was free, not a captive, which meant he had to be known by these people. Were these the people he’d once lived with? Did he have enough sway with them to get them free?
One warrior, a different one from the one who had kicked him, grabbed Carson by his bound hands and jerked him to his feet. His bound feet. He toppled and fell.
More laughter again.
So, he was to be their entertainment.
Carson had heard stories—who back East hadn’t?—of the torture Indians practiced on whites. He had the sinking sensation that he was about to learn about it first hand.
They got him to his feet again, only this time, instead of letting him fall so they could laugh, they dragged him a dozen yards to a tree, where they tied his hands to a branch almost out of his reach overhead.
“Daddy!” Megan burst from the angel’s hold and ran toward him. The woman, with Bess in tow, chased after her. He wouldn’t think of her as an angel. He wasn’t dead. Yet.
He would have crumpled to the ground in relief at seeing both girls alive and relatively unharmed—if he didn’t count the bruise darkening Bess’s temple and cheek—but being tied to an overhead branch did not permit him to crumple to the ground. And realizing that they’d been brought among the people who were undoubtedly going to kill him stripped him of his relief.
Megan flung herself at his legs and sobbed. “I’m scared, Daddy.”
“I know, baby. I’m sorry. MacDougall!” he bellowed. “I thought you said they were safe, damn you!”
Innes and the gray-eyed woman with Bess reached Megan at the same time.
“Get them out of here,” Carson managed through clenched teeth. “Goddammit, man, get them out of here. Don’t let them see whatever’s about to happen. Promise me. On my father’s soul, promise me!”
“Aye, lad, I promise. They’ll be safe.” To the young Indian woman he said, “Get them away from here. I’ll find ye when I can.”
“Aye, Da. I’ll take them to Grandmother’s lodge, then. ‘Tis where you’ll be findin’ us when you’ve a mind.”
When you’ve a mind? Carson blinked. An Indian who spoke English—sort of—with a Scottish burr?
It dawned on him then that this must be the daughter Innes had spoken of. It fit. Skin lighter than the others, clear gray eyes, and a Scottish burr. As he stood there with the rawhide bindings cutting into his wrists, he thought it was a hell of a time to notice the dignified, confident way she moved, the concern in her eyes, her gentle yet firm touch with Bess and Megan as she led them away.
Bess turned back
toward him. “Carson!”
Carson closed his eyes against the plea on his sister’s face, the terror in her eyes, her voice. He had to trust Innes in this, because he couldn’t bear the thought of anything happening to Bess or Megan. Nor could he bear the thought of them witnessing whatever might happen to him. “Do what Innes says, Bess. Go with her. Take care of Megan.”
Bess stared at him a moment, then turned, reluctantly, and let Innes’s daughter lead her and Megan away.
As soon as they were out of earshot, Carson glared at Innes. “What the hell happened? Aren’t these the same people you said I’d have no trouble with?”
Innes MacDougall ground his teeth. “Aye, that they are.” He couldn’t believe what had happened. Couldn’t believe that Two Feathers, Crooked Oak, and the others had not released Carson the instant they recognized Innes. How dare the bloody bastards attack a friend of his! How dare they not release him and back off at Innes’s demand.
Was he not one of them? Had he not lived with them, hunted with them, had he not married Two Feather’s sister, with Two Feather’s blessing?
It was that damn hothead, Crooked Oak. Always wanting to go to war, he was. A dog soldier, and a fierce one. He would use the recent deaths of his friends, if he could, to stir the entire Southern Arapaho tribe to war.
But the bloody bastard wasn’t going to get away with capturing Edmond Dulaney’s son, Innes vowed. “Not while I have breath in me body.”
“What?” Carson asked.
“Just hold tight, lad. I’ll get ye oot o’ this mess, or die tryin’.”
Carson was not comforted. Judging from the looks of those around them, they were all, himself, Innes, the girls, more than likely to die before the sun rose again.
Little Raven sat alone in his lodge, listening to the shouts and cries from without, and praying to Man-Above for guidance. He knew, because the shouts told him, that the six men of the Dog Lodge who had ridden out for vengeance the day before had returned victorious. That they had brought back a prisoner.
What was to be done? He closed his eyes and rocked forward and back, forward and back.
Man-Above, give me wisdom to guide Our People.
Little Raven had been young once. His blood had been as hot as that of those men outside. He understood their need for revenge. He had not been at Sand Creek when the Bluecoat, Chivington, had massacred so many that day three autumns ago, but he knew what had happened. He had been with the main body of Our People encamped several miles from the site.
Never again did he want to lead Our People on a flight for their lives as he’d had to do that day. Never again did he want to have to impose upon the Kiowa and Comanche for safety. Our People needed their own land where they would be safe, where whites would not bother them. Where the hot blooded young men would not be tempted to raid white settlements or accost white travelers. A place where they could hunt their own food without depending on handouts from the Bluecoats. A place where the buffalo roamed free and water flowed sweet and swift. Where their children and grandchildren could grow up knowing only laughter and love and safety, rather than hunger and hate and fear.
Peace. That is what he wanted for Inuna-ina.
Now the dog soldiers had taken a white captive.
There would be a gathering tonight around the central fire. They would smoke, and they would talk. About what was to be done with this white man.
Man-Above, give me courage, give me strength, give me wisdom.
The council fire flared with the addition of a new log, then settled into a steady flame that warmed those closest and lit the night. Sparks danced crazily on the updrafts of hot air.
Crooked Oak waited impatiently as the pipe yet again made its way slowly from man to man around the circle. He wanted this confrontation over and finished, so he could kill the white prisoner. How was he ever to become a great war leader of Our People if he could not kill enemies?
He would have had the white man’s scalp on his lance that afternoon, had it not been for Red Beard. The scalps of the girls, too, although that would not have been as impressive. It wasn’t important to him to kill children, except that if they were ever to wipe the white man off the face of Mother Earth, the children would have to die, too.
But Red Beard had been there. The white man was Red Beard’s friend.
Crooked Oak hadn’t wanted to honor Red Beard’s wishes by not killing the captive, but he could not afford to alienate the man just yet. First he must get Red Beard to give him his daughter.
Two Feathers had suggested that Crooked Oak might come closer to his goal of taking Winter Fawn to wife by letting the captive go. But Crooked Oak thought such an action would make him appear weak in the eyes of Red Beard. Weak and too eager to please.
No, he had to prove his honor and valor by standing up for what he believed in, and what he believed in, everyone knew, was killing the enemy. Once Red Beard saw him as a strong man, a brave warrior able to take care of what was his, Crooked Oak would be able to ask for Winter Fawn.
So instead of killing the captive, Crooked had agreed to let the elders decide the captive’s fate. This was risky, as Little Raven was always speaking in favor of peace, of leaving the white man alone and staying out of his way. The elders would most certainly encourage Crooked Oak to let the white man go.
Unless he could change their minds.
Careful, he cautioned himself as he glanced at Red Beard across the fire. He would have to be careful. He wanted the white man—the one who was his captive—dead. Wanted it fiercely. One less white man to walk the earth.
But he wanted Winter Fawn, too. She was there, seated behind her father. Firelight flickered copper and bronze across her face as she cautioned the two young white girls beside her to quiet. Crooked Oak would have felt her presence even if he hadn’t seen her. He always knew when she was near. She was that important to him.
His vision had been clear. One day he would be a great leader of Our People, his lance heavy with the scalps of his enemies, and Winter Fawn would be beside him. He must have her for his vision to come true. The only thing standing in his way was Red Beard.
As Two Feathers passed the pipe to him for the second time, Crooked Oak brought it to his lips and drew deeply. As he lowered the pipe and blew the smoke to the winds, his gaze met that of Red Beard. The man appeared calm, but his eyes were filled with anger.
Yes, Crooked Oak reminded himself, he would have to be careful. And if caution did not work, he would have to eliminate this obstacle. For Crooked Oak would be a great warrior. He would kill many enemies and lead his people to greatness, with Winter Fawn beside him. He had seen it in a vision. It would come true. He would make it come true. Red Beard would not be permitted to stand in his way.
Across the fire, Innes Red Beard MacDougall saw the flames leap. Not the ones from the pit in the center of the circle of men, but the flames in Crooked Oak’s eyes. The man was fair to bursting with anger at having his fun cut short.
Well, that was just too damn bad. As long as Innes had breath in his body, the bloody bastard wasn’t gettin’ his hands on Edmond Dulaney’s son.
O’course, he already had his hands on Carson. The lad was tied several yards away to a tree. It scraped at Innes’s pride. He imagined it did that and more to Carson.
The need for a drink threatened to strangle him. Just a small one. A nip would do to steady his nerves, keep his hands from shaking. He kept those hands clasped over his knees so no one would notice their trembling. He couldn’t afford to put a weapon like that into Crooked Oak’s hands.
Patience, patience, Innes cautioned himself. He would have his drink as soon as this was settled. First he must be patient, be silent until it was his turn to speak. The Arapaho, like any other tribe he’d known, and he’d known a few, thought it rude to just jump into a conversation before the niceties of smoking and silence had been observed.
And it was silent. No talking, no restless movements, except from the two young white girls
seated with Winter Fawn in the first row of women at Innes’s back. It was a tense silence, a hushed expectancy.
Finally, when the pipe made its way back around the circle again, Little Raven spoke.
“Four suns ago three of Our People rode out to hunt a deer.”
A low murmur rose, then quickly fell.
“The Bluecoats killed them.”
A woman somewhere near the back of the gathered crowd cried out in grief.
“Their women cry,” Little Raven said gravely. “They cut their hair, score their flesh.”
Another murmur swept through the gathering.
“Yesterday some of our men rode out to avenge these deaths.”
Crooked Oak raised a fist in the air and punched the night.
Little Raven turned his somber gaze on Crooked Oak. “Tell us what happened.”
Crooked Oak felt his chest swell. To be asked to speak was a great honor and proved his importance to the band. “We rode for hours,” he said, his voice deep and strong. “There were no white men along the track they usually follow. Late in the afternoon we heard the noise of an approaching wagon. We hid behind some rocks and waited. When the wagon appeared, we attacked.”
“Yet you did not kill them,” Little Raven said.
Crooked Oak met Red Beard’s gaze squarely. “No, we did not. Red Beard, who had been traveling with them, said the man was his friend. Out of honor for his position in our band, I stayed my hand. I could have taken the white man’s scalp. I had my knife at his head. But I did not.”
When Crooked Oak did not continue, Little Raven asked, “Why have you brought the white man here?”
Innes couldn’t help the way his chest swelled with emotion. To Little Raven, there was only one white man in the camp, and that was the captive. To Our People, Innes was not white. He was Red Beard. Husband of Smiling Woman. Father of Winter Fawn and Hunter.
Little Raven’s continued acceptance of him, when he only visited once a year now instead of living with them, humbled him and gladdened his heart. With a few notable exceptions, he thought with a glare at Crooked Oak, these were good people. He was proud to be considered one of them.
Winter's Touch Page 4
