The Spirit Path

by Madeline Baker

  Shadow Hawk scanned the crowd still hoping to find his mother. His nostrils filled with the smell of dust and sweat, of fear and blood. Off to the right a lodge went up in flames. The smoke and the smell of burning hides made his eyes water. His ears rang with the noise of battle, horses whinnying in panic, children crying in terror, women shrieking with fear, the moans of the dying. And over all, the shrill, ululating war cry of the Lakota.

  He killed two more white men as he rode back through the village and then, to his left, he saw Heart-of-the-Wolf making his way toward the timber at the east end of the village and he rode after the frail medicine man.

  Riding up beside Heart-of-the-Wolf, he leaned over the side of his horse, grabbed the medicine man by the waist, and lifted him onto Ohitika’s back, then headed for the cover of the trees, intending to leave the old man there while he returned to the village to search for Winona.

  “Stay here,” Shadow Hawk said, reining the stallion to a sharp halt, but before he could lower the medicine man to the ground, a trio of soldiers rode up behind him, firing wildly.

  “Hang on!” Shadow Hawk shouted. His heart pounding with fear for the old man’s life, he slammed his heels into Ohitika’s sides.

  “The cave!” Heart-of-the-Wolf shouted. “Go to the cave. We’ll be safe there.”

  It was in Shadow Hawk’s mind to refuse. His people were fighting for their lives and he wanted to be there fighting with them. But he could not abandon Heart-of-the-Wolf now. When the battle was over the people would need their holy man.

  Shadow Hawk urged the big calico stallion to go faster. He could hear the soldiers hollering as they continued to give chase. The roar of gunfire seemed to grow closer, louder. He felt Heart-of-the-Wolf jerk against him, heard the sharp report of a rifle, and he drummed his heels into the stallion’s flanks, knowing their only hope was to outrun the soldiers.

  They had reached the hills now. Higher and higher they climbed, driven on by the shouts and gunshots of the pursuing troopers, and then the Sacred Cave was in sight, its yawning maw as black as a winter night.

  Reining Ohitika to a halt, Shadow Hawk dismounted. Ignoring Heart-of-the-Wolf’s protests, he lifted the old man into his arms as if he were no more than a child and hurried toward the entrance.

  “Your weapons,” Heart-of-the-Wolf said as they reached the passageway. “You must not take them inside.”

  Shadow Hawk hesitated only a moment, then he dropped his bow and quiver to the ground and stepped into the shadowed cavern.

  Inside, he lowered Heart-of-the-Wolf to the ground. The old man was breathing heavily now and Shadow Hawk put his arm around the medicine man’s frail shoulders to steady him.

  He tensed as he heard voices, and then he saw one of the soldiers approaching the mouth of the cave.

  “Be still,” Heart-of-the-Wolf admonished quietly.

  “I should have brought my weapons,” Shadow Hawk retorted. “We are trapped in here.”

  “No,” Heart-of-the-Wolf said reassuringly. “Only wait and see.”

  The bluecoat paused a moment at the entrance, silhouetted against the fading twilight, then, with his bayoneted rifle at the ready, he crossed the threshold and stepped into the murky darkness.

  Shadow Hawk held his breath, certain he was about to die, and then he felt it, the cave’s blackness hovering all around him, a living entity armed for battle.

  But there was no battle. Three more steps carried the soldier well into the cave.

  Shadow Hawk stared at the white man, barely visible within the darkness of the cave. For long seconds there was only silence and then, with a strangled sound of pain, the white man collapsed.

  Voices at the entrance to the cavern drew Shadow Hawk’s gaze and he saw the other two wasichu peering inside, apparently calling for their companion.

  Shadow Hawk frowned, wishing he could understand the white man’s tongue. But he didn’t need words to know the two white men were arguing about whether to enter the cave. It was obvious they were bothered by the disappearance of the first soldier, and Shadow Hawk could see by their expressions that the two remaining white men were hesitant to enter the cave, not knowing what waited for them inside.

  After a few minutes the soldiers shrugged and walked away.

  “What now?” Shadow Hawk asked. He turned to face Heart-of-the-Wolf, though he could not see the old man’s face in the thick darkness that surrounded them.

  “We wait until they go away.”

  “I must go back,” Shadow Hawk said. Agitated, he began to pace back and forth. “The people may need me.”

  “No. The bluecoats will kill you before you can reach your weapons. You will be of more value to our people alive than dead.”

  “I should not have broken the silence of the cave during the vision,” Shadow Hawk said, his voice thick with self-accusation. “If I had not failed, we would have known of this battle.”

  “Do not blame yourself. It takes a brave heart to enter this cave. You did well.”

  Shadow Hawk shook his head. His people were dying because he had failed. Perhaps his mother was dead, killed by the bluecoats, while he hid in a cave like a frightened rabbit.

  “I must go back,” he said, starting toward the entrance. “I will return for you when the battle is over.”

  “Wait.”

  The pain in the old man’s voice stopped Shadow Hawk and he returned to the medicine man’s side. “What is it?”

  “You must not blame yourself for what has happened,” Heart-of-the-Wolf said, his voice suddenly weak. “Before this day is over our people will have need of a new holy man. Remember all that I have taught you.”

  “Tunkasila…” Shadow Hawk slipped his arm around Heart-of-the-Wolf’s waist, uttered a soft cry of denial as he felt the warm blood oozing through the back of the old man’s buckskin shirt.

  “There is nothing you can do for me, Cetán. May Wakán Tanka guide your steps until we meet again.”

  “And yours.”

  Shadow Hawk felt his throat grow thick with unshed tears as he lowered Heart-of-the-Wolf to the ground. The floor of the cavern was smooth and flat, covered with a thick layer of fine sand.

  Heart-of-the-Wolf placed a hand on Shadow Hawk’s forearm. “Your mother is well,” he said. His voice was weaker now, barely audible in the hushed silence of the Sacred Cave. “Cetán, the Spirit Woman appeared to me in a dream just before the soldiers came. Listen to her. When the time comes she will tell you what to do…”

  Shadow Hawk murmured the medicine man’s name as he felt the strength go out of Heart-of-the-Wolf’s grip, and he knew the life had gone out of the old man’s eyes as well.

  He felt a sudden warmth, like a summer wind, whisper past his cheek and he shivered, wondering if it was his imagination or if he’d just felt Heart-of-the-Wolf’s spirit take its first step on Wanagi Tacaka, the Spirit Path, which led to Wanagi Yatu, the Place of Souls.

  For a long while Shadow Hawk sat beside the old man’s body. Heart-of-the-Wolf had been a part of his life for as far back as he could remember, teaching him, helping him to be a warrior, answering his questions. And now he was gone. It seemed fitting, somehow, that the aged shaman had died deep within the heart of the Sacred Cave.

  Shadow Hawk fought back tears of grief and anger as he smoothed the old man’s hair from his face, folded the gnarled hands over the narrow chest, gently closed his eyes.

  Softly, his heart aching with his loss, he began to chant Heart-of-the-Wolf’s death song, beseeching the Great Spirit to guide the old man’s steps into the Great Mystery that was death.

  He sat there for a long time, his hatred for the whites churning within him, making his blood burn with a need for vengeance.

  Rising to his feet, Shadow Hawk walked toward the entrance to the cave, thinking to go back to the village, but the sound of voices changed his mind. The soldiers were still out there, waiting, and he had no weapons with which to fight them. He could see his bow lying where he’d dropped it
, and there was Ohitika nibbling at a patch of yellow grass, but he could not see the bluecoats.

  Returning to the rear of the cavern, Shadow Hawk sat down with his back to the wall.

  For a time his thoughts wandered and then he stared at the east wall of the Sacred Cave, wondering if he had the power to summon the spirit of the cave without Heart-of-the-Wolf’s prayers to guide him.

  Closing his eyes, he tried to focus on the outcome of the battle. Instead he found himself thinking of the Spirit Woman, and he seemed to hear Heart-of-the-Wolf’s dying words whisper in the back of his mind. Listen to her. When the time comes, she will tell you what to do…

  But Heart-of-the-Wolf was dead, and he would never learn her secret now…

  Shadow Hawk sat up, torn from the brink of sleep as the spirit of the cave settled over him. As though drawn by an invisible hand, he turned his head, saw the east wall of the cave begin to glow as the square house of a white man materialized before his eyes.

  “No!” Shadow Hawk shook his head as the spirit of the cave swirled around him, enveloping him, carrying him away into darkness…

  He woke slowly, his mind and body feeling groggy, and then, remembering the battle, he made his way toward the entrance of the cavern.

  Shadow Hawk paused there for a few moments, listening, and when he heard nothing, he stepped outside.

  The sun was rising over the Black Hills, lighting the edge of the eastern sky, streaking the horizon with brilliant splashes of red and gold.

  He stood still a moment, every muscle tense, but no bullet came to find him as he left the shelter of the Sacred Cave. There was only the soft sighing of the wind as it danced across the hilltop and the answering whisper of the leaves from a nearby pine tree.

  It was then he noticed that his weapons were gone, and so was the big calico stallion.

  Shadow Hawk took a deep breath, his hatred for the white men growing stronger, deeper, with each passing minute. Until today he had thought of them only as a peculiar race, a people who didn’t know where to find the center of the earth, but now he hated them with a rage that was all-encompassing. They had summoned Red Cloud to Washington to talk of peace when they wanted war. They had killed Heart-of-the-Wolf. They had stolen his prized war horse and his weapons.

  He drew in a deep steadying breath, released it in a long shuddering sigh. And then he started down the hillside, wondering if anyone had survived the battle, wondering if he would find his people dead and the village burned to the ground.

  But Heart-of-the-Wolf had said his mother still lived, and with that thought in mind he began to run, his heart pounding with hope and dread.

  He was running down a narrow twisting deer trail, dodging left and right to avoid the prickly brush that covered the hill, when something slammed into his right side knocking him off his feet. He heard the report of the gunshot as he hit the ground. Seconds later a large buck bounded past him and disappeared into the underbrush.

  For a moment Shadow Hawk stared blankly at the bright red blood welling from the ugly bullet hole in his side. His right side, just above his clout. He felt suddenly cold as he pressed his hand over the wound. But there was nothing cold about the blood welling between his fingers. It was warm and wet.

  Hand pressed to his side, he peered down the hill, frowning in confusion when he saw a tall Indian dressed in a skintight white shirt and tight black trousers running up the slope toward him. And beyond the Indian, the square house of a white man.

  His first thought was to find a place to hide, but his legs refused to support him and he fell back, groaning softly, as a swirling red mist hovered around him, pulling him down, down, into nothingness…

  Chapter Seven

  Maggie St. Claire sat beside the bed in the guest room, unable to take her eyes from the man lying beneath the covers. It was incredible, impossible, but true nonetheless. He looked exactly like the warrior in the painting over her fireplace.

  But it couldn’t be him. The man didn’t exist except in a dream she’d had years ago. How many years, she thought, frowning. Five? Six? Even now, she could remember that dream, remember the overwhelming fear that had engulfed her as he thundered toward her, leaning over the neck of a big calico stallion to lift her effortlessly onto the back of his horse. They had ridden away into the night, his arm tight around her waist, his breath warm upon her neck, as he carried her to his lodge.

  Upon waking, she’d gone into her studio and sketched the man in her dream while his image was still fresh in her mind. She’d modeled several of the heroes in her books after her dream warrior and then, impulsively, she’d photographed the finished painting and sent it to her editor, Sheila Goodman, who confessed that the Indian was the handsomest thing she’d ever seen. They had both agreed he was exactly what the hero of her book, Forbidden Flame, should look like. They’d used his likeness on the cover and on several others after that.

  Maggie glanced at the book rack across the room, feeling a rush of pride in what she’d accomplished. Twelve historical romance novels in six years. And the four best sellers were the ones that featured her dream warrior on the cover.

  She looked back at the Indian. How was it possible for this man to look exactly like the warrior in her dream? What had he been doing on her property, clad in nothing but a skimpy deerskin clout and soft-soled moccasins? Thank God Bobby Running Horse hadn’t killed him!

  Maggie’s gaze wandered over the Indian again, noting the long black hair, straight black brows, hawk-like nose and strong, square jaw. His skin was like dark copper, smooth and unmarred except for two faint scars on his chest and the ugly wound low in his right side.

  Such a wonderful physique, Maggie mused. He had a build to rival that of Fabio, the gorgeous Italian hunk who appeared on so many of Johanna Lindsey’s book covers. The same broad shoulders and powerful arms, a face that was beautiful yet utterly masculine.

  Maggie shook such thoughts from her mind. This wasn’t one of her romance novels, this was real life. Beautiful or not, handsome or not, she wanted nothing to do with him or any other man. She’d been hurt once in the game of love, she didn’t intend to risk her heart a second time.

  With the ease of long practice, she turned the wheelchair around and rolled silently out of the spare bedroom.

  Going to her desk in the spacious oak-paneled den, she sat in front of the computer, trying to concentrate on the love scene she’d been writing before Bobby hurried into the house, his words running together as he told her he’d shot someone. Maggie had immediately called the doctor in Sturgis, only to learn that he was out on an emergency and wasn’t expected back until late that night. Maggie had told his answering service that she was having a little emergency of her own and then hung up. Thank goodness her housekeeper, Veronica Little Moon, had been at the ranch when Bobby brought the stranger home. Veronica had tended the man’s wound, assuring Maggie that he’d be all right even though he’d lost a good deal of blood, warning her that he might have a bit of a fever before the night was over. Veronica had offered to stay and sit with him, but Maggie had sent Veronica home. Veronica had a hardworking husband and two teenage sons to care for. And if Maggie needed anything during the night she had only to pick up the phone and call Bobby, who lived in the guest house out back.

  Maggie grimaced. Bobby, who wanted to be a warrior and couldn’t tell a man from a deer!

  Maggie stared at the blue screen of her computer, but it was no use. She couldn’t stop thinking of the man in the other room, couldn’t stop wondering who he was, where he’d come from.

  Veronica had called the Sturgis police and told them what had happened. An hour later, Lindsey Hollister, the Chief of Police, had come out to look around. He’d questioned Bobby and concluded it was a hunting accident and then he and Veronica had agreed it would be best not to move the injured man unless there were complications.

  Hollister’s only concern had been the fact that the Indian didn’t have any identification, but in the end he’d deci
ded that the redskin was probably wandering around drunk and that, sooner or later, someone would show up from the reservation to file a missing person’s report and they’d find out who he was and where he belonged.

  Hollister had hung around the rest of the afternoon, shooting the breeze with Bobby. He had accepted Maggie’s invitation to dinner, then lingered for two cups of coffee before heading back to town, apparently convinced that the Indian was out for the night.

  With a shake of her head, Maggie turned off the computer and made her way into her bedroom. Undressing, she slipped into her nightgown, then unbraided her hair. In bed, she stared up at the ceiling, plagued by a sudden loneliness as she recalled what day it was.

  Blinking back tears, she closed her eyes. It had been two years and six months since the accident that left her crippled and unable to walk. The doctors had told her it was all psychological, that there was nothing wrong, with her legs, that she could walk if she tried. It was guilt, they said, guilt that kept her tied to a wheelchair, guilt because she had lived and Susie had died.

  Maggie swiped at the tears cascading down her cheeks. Stupid doctors! Did they think she liked being in a wheelchair? Didn’t they think she’d walk if she could? Of course she felt guilty because Susie had died. Who wouldn’t feel guilty if they’d caused an accident that took their younger sister’s life?

  A sob tore at Maggie’s throat. She’d been driving too fast, laughing at some silly thing Susie had said, when they rounded the curve. Laughing so hard she hadn’t even seen the oncoming truck until it was too late. She’d jerked the steering wheel to the right, barely missing the truck. She’d known a brief moment of relief, and then the car spun out of control, sliding down the embankment, crashing into a tree. Susie, who never wore her seat belt, had been thrown out of the car. Knowing her sister needed help, Maggie had crawled up the hill to the road where she’d flagged down an oncoming car and then she’d fainted.