“Cree!” he spat out. “I will make them all pay for this deed!”
Windhawk stood up slowly and crushed the armband in his hand. “The Cree nation will know the power of my wrath for what they have done here tonight,” Windhawk said in a ragged whisper. “I will avenge you, my beloved, and my sister!” he vowed softly.
As the day passed, Windhawk and Farley wrapped the bones in a blanket and placed them on the scaffold that they had erected a short distance from the village site.
Windhawk dropped to his knees and raised his face to the heavens. “Napi, take this woman who has brought joy to my heart. Take my sister and the old medicine woman, and I will soon send their murderers for you to judge. When the deed is done, take me to be with my woman, for I do not want to walk this earth without her beside me.”
Farley bowed his head in silent prayer, asking God to bless Joanna’s spirit.
The old man watched with tears in his eyes as Windhawk took a knife and cut a long gash across his stomach. The blood ran freely from the wound. He knew it was the Blackfoot way of showing grief.
It was almost sundown when Windhawk tied Fosset’s reins to the wooden scaffold. A shadow passed across the sun as Windhawk raised his head once more to Napi. “I leave the Flaming Hair’s horse so her spirit may ride to the spirit world…she has a kind heart and will allow Morning Song and She Who Heals to ride with her.”
Since the Cree had taken Farley’s horse, Windhawk allowed him to ride on Puh Pom behind him. As they rode off into the night, each was silently lost in his own grief. They had spoken not a word to each other all afternoon. Farley knew that Windhawk had decided to spare his life.
Windhawk felt the tears on his cheek. His life had no meaning, except for the driving force that cried out for revenge. The Cree would feel his wrath! He would send a hundred Cree warriors to the spirit world in payment for Joanna’s and Morning Song’s lives!
He thought of the child Joanna had been carrying. What if it had been his child? He swallowed a lump in his throat, knowing he would lose his reasoning power if he allowed himself to think in that vein. The uppermost thought in his mind, for now, was revenge. When he had sent the spirits of the men who had killed Joanna and Morning Song to the sand hills, he hoped Napi, in his compassion, would take his spirit to join Joanna’s.
When Windhawk and Farley were out of sight, Fosset reared on his hind legs trying to get loose. The giant horse spun around and pulled hard until the rope snapped. Tossing his silky mane, the horse pawed at the ground, then walked slowly away from the death scaffold.
Joanna and Morning Song had been captives of the Cree warriors for over two weeks. They had been traveling at a fast pace, and always in a northerly direction.
It was now night, and Joanna felt the hardness of the ground beneath her. She had been tied to one side of a tree, while Morning Song was lashed to the other side. They couldn’t see each other, but they both watched the two Indians who slept a few yards away. The moon had risen, and Joanna could clearly make out their faces.
“Joanna, are you still awake?” Morning Song asked in a soft whisper. It was the first time they had been close enough to speak.
“Yes. Are you all right, Morning Song?”
“I…am frightened. Are you? I still do not know what they want with us.”
Joanna was wondering the same thing herself, but she wanted to reassure Morning Song. “Do not worry, little sister. When it is discovered what has happened to us, someone will come to our rescue,” she said, in a voice that sounded much more confident than she actually felt.
“What if our people do not find out what has happened until it’s too late?” Joanna could hear the panic rising in Morning Song’s voice.
“You must be brave and not allow yourself to give up hope, little sister. From what tribe do these men come…do you know?”
“They are of the Cree tribe, from the Canadas,” Morning Song answered in a contemptuous voice. “They are like the dung of the earth!”
“Morning Song, you must talk to me only in English; perhaps the Cree will be unable to understand us.”
“I will do so, Joanna,” Morning Song answered in the white man’s language.
Joanna began struggling against her ropes, and finally managed to slip her hand down far enough to touch Morning Song’s hands, which were tied just below hers. “Do not worry, little sister; so far, we haven’t been harmed.”
“This is true,” she agreed.
“Listen to me, Morning Song. I can feel the ropes on your wrist…I will try to work them free. It may hurt you, but don’t cry out.”
Joanna could hear a sob break from the young girl’s lips, and her heart went out to her, knowing how frightened she must be. Being a captive wasn’t a new experience for Joanna. It seemed that most of her recent years she had been someone’s prisoner.
Suddenly, Joanna heard one of the Indians stirring. Holding her breath, she watched him stand up and walk toward her.
The Indian was silent as he knelt in front of her and ran his hand down Joanna’s leg. She kicked at him and he cried out when her aim made contact with a vulnerable spot.
When he had recovered, he leaped forward and grabbed a handful of red-gold hair, jerked her head back, and slammed it against the tree! Joanna felt pain explode in her head, and a whimper escaped her throat.
“You will not have long to live, white woman,” the man said in the language of the Blackfoot.
“You are the one who is dead,” she answered him. “My husband, Windhawk, will not rest until he sees you dead!”
She couldn’t see his face very clearly, but she felt him tense. “You are the woman of Windhawk?” he asked in a disbelieving voice.
“Yes, and Morning Song is his sister. If you harm either one of us, Windhawk will not rest until you are dead. I am sure you have heard of Windhawk’s vengeance!”
Joanna didn’t realize what an impact her words would have on the Indian until she heard him waking his friend. She understood enough of their conversation to know both Indians deeply feared the name Windhawk.
Her announcement didn’t have the effect she had hoped for. Instead of letting her and Morning Song go, the Indians decided to travel at an even faster pace until they had reached their own lands, and Morning Song and Joanna found themselves once more on horseback, racing into the night.
By morning, their pace slowed as the horses tired from carrying double weight. The Indians stopped only long enough to rest their horses before starting out again.
Midmorning brought a sudden drop in the temperature. A strong, chilling wind was blowing down from Canada, bringing rain in its wake. Joanna felt wet and miserable—she tried to hold herself stiff and rigid so she wouldn’t come up against the body of the Indian.
Late that afternoon the Indians stopped to make camp. Joanna watched fearfully as the one who seemed to be the leader approached her. She cringed, not knowing what to expect from him.
“I am known as Stalking Wolf,” the Cree said. “Tell me about Windhawk.”
Joanna tossed her head back and met the Indian’s eyes without flinching. “All you need to know about my husband, Windhawk, is that his will be the hand that will end your life!” She was rewarded by the look of fear that came into the young warrior’s eyes.
“I am not afraid of Windhawk.” His words denied the message of fright she read on his face.
The two Indians didn’t seem very old, Joanna thought. Most probably they were young bucks on their first raid. She decided she would play on their inexperience and fear.
“I fear no man! My father, the chief of the Cree, will be well pleased when I bring Windhawk’s woman and sister before him.”
“I say he will not be pleased that you will bring death and destruction down on your village,” Joanna said, looking unafraid into his dark eyes.
He shoved her out of the way and gestured for her to go over and sit beside Morning Song.
Both girls watched as one of the Indians built a small fire us
ing smokeless willow branches, while the other huddled beneath his blanket.
Joanna and Morning Song were forced to watch the Indians eat, while hunger pangs gnawed at their stomachs. After the Cree had satisfied their hunger, the girls were again lashed to a tree, with no protection from the cold rain.
Joanna was thirsty, and it appeared her captors weren’t going to offer her and Morning Song water or food. Since their capture, the Cree had allowed them very little to eat and drink. Today they allowed them nothing.
Joanna raised her head into the rain and felt it running down her face and neck. Although it was raining steadily, she couldn’t get enough into her mouth to satisfy her thirst.
Suddenly, she heard Morning Song scream out, and she strained her neck to look around the tree to see what was happening to her. Joanna saw Morning Song had been freed from her ropes, and both of the Indians were dragging her across the ground.
Joanna struggled with all her strength but was unable to loosen the ropes. She knew the Indians were going to rape Morning Song, and she would have to use their fear of Windhawk if she was going to help his sister!
“Before you do this thing, ask the great father to save you—because you are already dead men!” she called out in a loud voice.
The Indian who had told her his name was Stalking Wolf was pushing Morning Song’s dress up while the other one held her arms. She saw Stalking Wolf pause and look in her direction.
“Why do you say this to me?” he asked.
“Have you not heard that Windhawk can see with the eyes of the spirits? Has it not reached your ears that he ate the heart of the white buffalo?”
The younger of the two looked at his friend. “I have heard this of Windhawk, Stalking Wolf. His woman speaks the truth. It is said that if one is the enemy of the great Windhawk, he will die.”
Joanna could read doubt and fear on both their faces. She knew she must press her advantage. “I have heard my husband call the wrath of the spirits down upon his enemies. Your chief would not be well pleased if he learned that you incurred the wrath of Windhawk!” She now saw unbridled fear on the younger Indian’s face and hoped they would leave Morning Song untouched.
“Do not listen to her, Big Hand. She is only trying to gain her freedom,” Stalking Wolf told his friend.
“But what if she speaks the truth, Stalking Wolf?”
“Go ahead and do the deed if you believe this. Do you have those that you love in your village?” Joanna taunted. “I am sorry for you, because when you return home you will find no one alive.”
Big Hand released his hold on Morning Song and stood up. “You can do what you want to, Stalking Wolf, but I will not touch either one of these maidens. I am going home! I believe that Windhawk’s woman speaks the truth. I do not want to see my mother and father dead! You are a fool if you do not heed her warning!”
Stalking Wolf searched Joanna’s face. “You have won, Windhawk’s woman,” he said, standing up and helping Morning Song to her feet.
“What are you going to do with them, Stalking Wolf?” his friend asked.
Stalking Wolf pushed Morning Song toward the tree and lashed her to it once more. “I am going to leave them tied to the tree. If Windhawk has the eyes of the spirits, he will find them. Should they be devoured by wild animals or die of hunger, it will not be at our hands that they perish,” he said, throwing a buffalo robe to Morning Song. “Take this to keep you warm; I will offer you nothing more.”
Joanna didn’t know whether to feel relieved or more frightened than ever. Would she and Morning Song die here in the wilderness and be eaten by wild animals? Already they were weak from hunger and thirst.
Joanna and Morning Song watched the two Cree warriors ride away with a feeling of helplessness. Joanna was glad that she had managed to frighten Big Hand and Stalking Wolf, but she would have liked it better if they had untied her and Morning Song before they left.
Stalking Wolf halted his mount and looked back at Joanna. “Tell Windhawk that you and his sister came to no harm at my hands.” He then turned his horse and rode off into the night, leaving deadly silence behind him.
“Joanna, you saved me,” Morning Song sobbed. “They were going to…to…”
Joanna felt around until she found Morning Song’s hand. “Do not cry, little sister. Be brave…I know we will come out of this yet.”
“Joanna, do you think Windhawk will come after us? What if he comes too late, and we are unable to get free?”
“I believe we should look on the bright side, Morning Song. Just think how much better off we are now than we were with Stalking Wolf and Big Hand.”
Joanna didn’t have the heart to tell Morning Song they might have traded a life of captivity for that of the slow death of starvation. But she knew if she had her choice she would rather die tied to this tree than to have her body degraded by the two Cree warriors.
She couldn’t help but think of the baby who depended on her for its survival. If she died now, Windhawk would never know it was his child she carried. Until now, the baby hadn’t seemed real to her. She felt a mother’s instinct to protect her young, as she felt the child move inside her.
Joanna couldn’t resist the shudder that wracked her body when she heard the far-off howl of a wolf pack.
“Did you hear that? It is wolves, and they are getting closer!” Morning Song said in a frightened voice.
“Yes,” Joanna whispered through trembling lips.
She renewed her struggle but try as she might, she still couldn’t free her hands!
Chapter Sixteen
The Blackfoot village was in deep mourning. The death-chant could be heard for miles across the wide valley. Sun Woman, in her grief at losing two daughters, had rubbed ashes on her face and clothing. She had then whipped herself with a willow branch until her arms and face were covered with deep welts, which bled freely.
“I have lost two daughters,” she chanted over and over. Many of her friends had joined her and were chanting the death cry. Amanda sat with her newborn baby on her lap, crying tears of grief for her friend, Joanna. She was glad that Tag was away from the village and didn’t yet know of his sister’s death. Of course, he would have to be told, and she dreaded his finding out about the horrible way Joanna had died.
Windhawk and most of his braves had left three days ago, heading for the Cree village, seeking revenge. Farley had wanted to go also, but Windhawk hadn’t allowed him to take part in the raid.
The only one who didn’t seem to be grieving was Red Bird. Her eyes were fever-bright as she thought what the death of Flaming Hair would mean for her. Now she was sure that Windhawk would turn to her! After all, he was a powerful chief who needed a wife to give him children and to cook and clean for him.
It was a cold morning and not yet sunrise when Windhawk and his Blackfoot warriors approached the sleeping, unsuspecting Cree village.
Windhawk topped the hill and waved his lance in the air, urging his braves forward. As the sound of thundering hooves reached the people of the Cree tribe there was mass confusion, since they were still in a sleep-drugged state. Arrows flew, finding their targets, and lances pierced the hearts of the Blackfoot enemies.
Windhawk was driven by a force stronger than himself—the power of grief and revenge caused him to show no mercy to the people whom he blamed for Joanna’s and Morning Song’s deaths. His hands were covered with the blood of the Cree, and still he charged forward.
Riding to the middle of the village, he stopped before the lodge that he knew would belong to the chief. He dismounted, threw back the flap, and entered with his knife drawn and his senses alert. His eyes fell on the older man who was trying to get his family to safety through the hole he had cut in the back of the lodge.
The chief had pushed the last member of his family through the slit in his lodge, and he turned slowly to face Windhawk, seemingly unafraid.
“Are you the chief of the Cree?” Windhawk asked, circling his enemy.
The old
man nodded his head. “I am Horse Runner, chief of the Cree. Who are you and why have you swooped down upon my people without warning?”
“You are in no position to ask questions, Horse Runner. I will spare your life so you may tell all who asked why you have felt my vengeance this day. Your people killed and burned my woman and my sister. Count your dead, old man, and know that twice as many will die if you ever come to Blackfoot territory again!”
“Who are you?” the old man asked again, thinking he faced some vengeful young god.
“I ask the questions, old man! Do you know which of your warriors has slain my wife and sister? I believe there were no more than four.”
“I know of none of my braves who have been in Blackfoot territory,” the chief said truthfully, since he had no notion who had killed the young warrior’s wife and sister.
Windhawk reached into his pouch and pulled out the armband he had found in the burned-out tipi and handed it to the chief. “Do you recognize this?”
The old man drew in his breath and with a trembling hand took the armband he had once given to his youngest son. He kept his eyes downcast, fearing the vengeful young warrior would read the truth in his eyes.
“I know not who this belongs to. It belongs to no one of my village.”
Windhawk’s hand shot out, and he jerked the man forward by the shirtfront. “You lie, Horse Runner! I can see by your eyes that you know who this armband belongs to. Deliver these men to me at once.”
The guilty truth shone in Horse Runner’s frightened eyes. “The ones you seek are not here.”
“Are they not among the dead?”
“No, they are not.”
Windhawk shoved Horse Runner away from him. “I know you would not tell me their names if I should ask it of you. I will charge you to tell them for me that they should always look over their shoulders…for the time shall come when they will feel my revenge for slaying my woman and my sister!”
“Who are you?” the Cree chief asked again.
“Tell your people that you have met Windhawk and lived,” he said, turning away and disappearing outside.
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