Taking her hand in his, he closed his eyes, shaking his head in silent denial as he dropped to his knees drawing Maggie down beside him. His village had been destroyed, the lodges burned. And what of his mother…
The darkness grew heavier, thicker, making it difficult to think, to hear, to breathe. The images in his mind grew sharper, and he saw the shadow of a black hawk flying away from the Paha Sapa leaving the Black Hills far behind; and even as he watched an eagle swept past the hawk heading north.
He felt himself being drawn into the darkness. As from far away, he heard Maggie’s voice calling his name, felt her hands clutching his arms, begging him not to leave her.
For a moment there was nothing but swirling blackness, and then, slowly, he opened his eyes to find Maggie kneeling beside him.
“Mag-gie.” He lifted her to her feet and then, her hand in his, he walked toward the entrance of the cave only to come to an abrupt halt as his foot struck something.
He knew immediately what it was.
“Heart-of-the-Wolf,” he murmured.
And knew he’d come home.
Chapter Twenty-Five
They found the dead soldier near the mouth of the cave. Maggie couldn’t help wondering how she’d missed stepping on it when she ran into the cavern the night before. The body had been mauled by predators and she pressed a hand to her queasy stomach as she followed Hawk outside.
It had been midnight when she entered the cavern; now the sun was shining brightly. Turning, she glanced down the hill. Her house was gone and in its place she could see the ruins of an Indian village.
She shook her head. It wasn’t possible, she thought, and then she laughed silently. She hadn’t had any trouble believing that Shadow Hawk had come to the future, but she simply couldn’t accept the fact that she was now in the past.
And yet there was no other explanation. She had known it when they stumbled across the medicine man’s body. Shadow Hawk had told her that Heart-of-the-Wolf had died in the cave. It accounted for the fact that their horses were missing too. Not missing, she amended. They were still there, on the other side of time.
She slid a glance at Shadow Hawk, all thought for her own welfare suddenly forgotten. He had come home to find his home destroyed, his village in ashes.
“Come,” he said.
“Wait,” Maggie called. “Shouldn’t we bury Heart-of-the-Wolf and that soldier?”
Hawk shook his head. His people did not bury their dead in the ground. “Heart-of-the-Wolf will rest well enough in the cave. As for the soldier…” He shrugged. “The coyotes can have him.”
She would have argued with him, but Hawk had already started down the hill and after a moment, she followed him, her mind reeling with the knowledge that she had traveled through time, that she might never see her home again. She thought of all the novels she’d written about white girls who had been captured by Indian warriors. On paper, it all seemed romantic, being carried off by a tall handsome savage, but she was sorely afraid that reality would not be quite as wonderful as fantasy. It was one thing to write about skinning a deer, living in a hide lodge, carrying water from the river, and another thing to do it.
She stood in the shade of a blackened pine while Shadow Hawk walked through what was left of his village, stopping now and then to pick through the charred remains of a lodge.
It was quiet, so quiet, as if the whole earth were in mourning. People had died here, died violently. The thought sent a shiver through her.
Finally, after what seemed like hours, Shadow Hawk returned to her side carrying a bow and a quiver of arrows that he’d found lying in the dirt outside one of the lodges. There was a blanket over his shoulder, the edges scorched. A bone-handled knife was stuck in his belt. He carried a waterskin in his left hand.
Maggie made a gesture that encompassed the ruined village. “Hawk, I’m sorry.”
He nodded curtly, afraid to speak for fear his anger would roll out in a loud scream of pain and anguish. Before he died, Heart-of-the-Wolf had assured Shadow Hawk that his mother was alive and well and he clung to that promise, his only thought to find her.
He sent one last look at the village, at the blackened poles that had supported his mother’s lodge, and then he turned away.
“Come,” he said. “We will go north, to the lodges of Sitting Bull.”
Sitting Bull. Maggie had read about Sitting Bull, or Tatonka lyotake, as the Lakota called him. He was a powerful medicine man. He’d been born in the Grand River region of South Dakota about 1834. His path often crossed that of Crazy Horse and Yellow Hand. It was Sitting Bull who was reported to have had a great vision that foretold the Custer massacre in 1876.
Following the Custer battle he led a small band of followers into British Columbia. He remained there for several years and then, in 1881, Sitting Bull surrendered to General Miles. They left Canada on July 10. Ten days later, they arrived at Fort Buford, North Dakota, where they were put aboard a steamer and sent to Fort Yates where they were declared prisoners of war and moved to Fort Randall. In 1883 Sitting Bull returned to South Dakota.
Several years later, a Paiute Indian named Wovoka claimed to have had a vision which foretold the demise of all the white men and a return of the buffalo and all the Indian dead. The believers were told to join in the sacred Ghost Dance to prove their faith. Each convert wore a shirt which was to make them impervious to the bullets of the white man. The new religion spread like wildfire, offering hope where there was no hope. The Indians embraced Wovoka’s doctrine, clinging to the will-o’-the-wisp promise that the new religion would bring back the life, and the freedom, they had lost.
The Ghost Dance was peaceful, advocating tolerance, honesty and nonviolence, but the reservation agents viewed it as a prelude to a new uprising. In November 1890, troopers were called to Pine Ridge. The Ghost Dancers, thinking they were being attacked, set fire to their lodges and fled into the Badlands. Reports from the agency, distorted and unclear, made the Ghost Dance sound like an outbreak of warfare.
At Standing Rock, the news triggered an order for the arrest of the Sioux. On December 15, 1890, in the early hours of the morning, Indian police dragged Sitting Bull from his lodge. The old medicine man was immediately surrounded by a crowd of outraged Lakota ready to defend him. A fierce battle followed in which twelve men, including Sitting Bull, were killed.
But she could not tell Hawk that, not now. He had enough grief to carry.
They walked for hours across the plains. Maggie removed her jacket. Wiping perspiration from her brow, she wished she had a hat. Hawk seemed oblivious to the heat. He walked steadily onward, his mouth set in a hard line, his dark eyes burning with a deep inner anger.
Late in the afternoon, he bid her to wait for him while he went hunting. He returned an hour later with a rabbit slung over his shoulder. Dinner, she thought, and felt her stomach churn as she stared at the limp gray body.
At dusk, Hawk decided it was time to make camp. With a grateful sigh, Maggie sat down on the blanket.
Shadow Hawk dumped his gear on one end of the blanket, then stared at Maggie quizzically for a moment, wondering if she knew how to build a fire, skin and gut a rabbit.
Maggie shook her head. “Sorry, Hawk,” she said, reading his thoughts, “you killed it and I’m afraid you’ll have to skin it too. And cook it,” she added with a wry grin. “I’ll help you eat it though.”
He smiled for the first time that day. “You have much to learn, Spirit Woman,” he murmured. “Watch carefully.”
And watch she did, amazed as he gathered some dry twigs and started a fire with a fire drill he’d found back in the village. Drawing his knife he skinned the rabbit, gutted it and placed it on a spit over the fire. The sound of the juices dripping into the flames made her stomach growl.
Between them, they ate the whole rabbit and drank half the water.
Shadow Hawk buried the bones, then sat down on the blanket, staring into the darkness. He was home again, but his home
was gone. For all he knew, his people had all been killed. His mother, too, might have been killed, he thought bleakly. Perhaps Heart-of-the-Wolf had been wrong. Perhaps she had not survived the battle. Sitting Bull would know. Any survivors would have made their way to his camp, knowing they would find food and shelter there.
He slid a glance at Maggie sitting beside him, saw the uncertainty in her eyes. “Spirit Woman.” He murmured her name as he put his arm around her and drew her close. “I am sorry I cannot offer you the same hospitality you gave me.” His smile turned bitter as he stared into the darkness again. “The wasichu have destroyed my home and everything in it.”
“Hawk…”
He placed his hand over her mouth, stilling her words.
“We will not talk of it now. Tell me, how is it that you can walk?”
“I’m not sure. I guess the doctors were right. They always said I could walk if I wanted to badly enough. And when I knew you were going, really going, and that I’d never see you again… I couldn’t let you go.” She smiled up at him. “I went to see a play called The Phantom of the Opera several years ago. There was a line in one of the songs that said ‘wherever you go, let me go too, that’s all I ask of you’. That’s how I feel. I want to go wherever you go.”
He gazed into Maggie’s eyes not understanding why she hadn’t been able to walk before, knowing only that he loved her, that they were destined to be together. Perhaps it had been the Spirit of the Cave that had put strength in her legs. Surely the power of the cave had remained dormant until she was there beside him, her hand in his.
Gently, he drew her down on the blanket, wondering what it all meant as he covered the two of them with her jacket. He had nothing now. His lodge was gone, his horses were gone. He felt all the old hatred for the whites rise within him as he thought of his village, remembering the day the whites had attacked, the screams of the women and children, the cries of the wounded, the scent of blood that had filled the air…
Maggie snuggled against Hawk, sensing that he needed comfort, that he was grieving for his people.
“Hawk, I know where your people can go, where they’ll be safe until all the battles are over.”
“You think there is such a place?”
“Yes. Canada! Sitting Bull will take his people there after the Battle of the Little Big Horn. Hawk, if you take your people there now, no one will harm them.”
Hope. He felt it for the first time, a small ray of hope flickering to life.
“Mag-gie, I know now why the Spirit of the Cave did not strike you down. You have found a way to save what is left of my people.”
“Strike me down? What do you mean?”
“Only holy men can enter the Sacred Cave. The wasichu that you saw there died when he entered the cave.”
“I thought you had killed him.”
Shadow Hawk shook his head. “No. The Spirit of the Cave struck him down.”
Maggie shivered. The Spirit of the Cave. Thinking back, she remembered feeling a presence surround her, almost as though a living entity had been touching her, divining her thoughts. And while the Spirit of the Cave had surrounded her, it was as though she and Hawk had shared one heart, one soul. Perhaps that was the answer.
Perhaps love was stronger than whatever spirit possessed the cave; stronger even than time.
There was nothing to eat in the morning. After scattering the ashes of their fire, Shadow Hawk collected his gear and they began walking again. Maggie’s stomach growled loudly as they made their way across the sun-bleached prairie. Unbidden came memories of Veronica’s fluffy pancakes smothered in butter and syrup, rashers of crisp bacon, scrambled eggs, hot coffee. She took a long drink of water, but it did little to appease her appetite.
They’d been walking for about an hour when Hawk grabbed her by the arm and pulled her behind a tangled mass of berry bushes. Dropping to his knees, he drew her down beside him.
“Quiet,” he whispered.
“What’s wrong? Why…” The words died in her throat as she saw them, two dozen mounted Indians emerging from a fold in the seemingly flat prairie.
“Pawnee,” Shadow Hawk said, his voice hushed.
Maggie nodded, her heart hammering as she watched the warriors ride by, so close she could smell the sweat of their horses.
The Lakota and the Pawnee were age-old enemies. For generations, they had counted coup on each other, stolen horses from one another. During the wars of the 1870s the Pawnee had scouted against the Lakota, increasing the animosity between the two tribes.
She shuddered to think what would happen to them if they were discovered by the Pawnee. No doubt Hawk would be tortured and killed and her own fate would be as bad or worse.
Maggie glanced at Hawk. He was tense from head to foot, reminding her of a cat poised to spring at its prey.
Finally, the Pawnee were out of sight. Maggie hadn’t realized she was holding her breath until it escaped in a long shuddering sigh.
Shadow Hawk waited another thirty minutes before he deemed it safe to move. He helped Maggie to her feet, slung his bow, quiver and the waterskin over his left shoulder, the blanket over his right, and began walking again.
Maggie trudged after him mile after mile, trying to ignore the blister on her right heel, trying to remember to be grateful that she could walk again. Visions of automobiles equipped with plush seats and air conditioning flashed before her eyes as morning gave way to afternoon.
Just when she thought she couldn’t go another step, Hawk sank down on his haunches, his eyes studying the ground.
“What is it?” Maggie asked.
“Deer tracks.”
She peered over his shoulder, her gaze following the twin sets of tracks that disappeared around a grassy rise.
“Stay here,” Shadow Hawk said. Dropping the waterskin and blanket at her feet, he pulled an arrow from his quiver and began following the trail, putting his toes down first, then placing his weight on his heels to cut down on the noise.
Maggie spread the blanket and sat down closing her eyes against the glare of the sun. If she weren’t so hungry, if she’d had a pair of dark glasses and a bottle of suntan lotion, she might have worked on her tan. But all she could think about was how hungry she was.
She never heard a sound but suddenly Hawk was there beside the blanket. He’d killed a young deer and she watched, fighting down a wave of nausea, as he began to skin the beautiful animal, slitting the belly, removing the entrails.
Unable to watch any longer, she went in search of wood and when she returned, empty-handed save for a few sticks and dried brush, Hawk told her to look for buffalo dung.
Maggie wrinkled her nose with distaste, but eating raw meat seemed the lesser of two evils, though it was all she could do not to gag when she began picking up the hard dried excrement. She found a few handfuls of berries on a nearby bush, and a scattering of greens that looked like cabbage.
The buffalo dung made a cheery fire, and the venison, the first she’d ever eaten, tasted wonderful.
Before he ate Shadow Hawk held up a piece of meat and then tossed it over his shoulder and she heard him murmur, “Recognize this, Ghost, so that I may become the owner of something good.”
It was an offering to the spirit of the deer he’d killed, Maggie thought, remembering that Indians considered all animals to be sacred to one degree or another. Unlike the white man, the Lakota did not kill for fun or for trophies, but for food.
After dinner, Hawk sliced one of the haunches into thin strips and smoked it over the fire.
Later, they sat side by side on the blanket. Maggie rested her head on Hawk’s shoulder, content just to be near him. For this moment, she didn’t think of what the morrow would bring. There was only Hanwi, the moon, smiling down on them, and Hawk’s arm around her, holding her close, whispering “Mitawicu” as his lips moved in her hair.
Maggie smiled as she repeated the word in her mind. Mitawicu. My wife. For better or worse, she mused, for richer or poorer, t
his was where she wanted to be.
She lifted her face for his kiss, saw the fire that blazed in his eyes, darker than the night, hotter than the glowing coals.
She nodded, her lips parting as his mouth slanted over hers, all her senses coming to life as he kissed her. She was aware of the hard ground beneath her, of the rough blanket under her back as he quickly removed her clothes, of the warmth of his skin as he covered her body with his own.
She heard the distant cry of a night-bird, smelled the smoke of the fire, felt the silent whisper of the wind as it kissed the grass good night.
She gazed up into her husband’s face, his hair falling over her bare breasts like a waterfall of rough silk, his hands gently caressing her, teasing her, arousing her. She lifted her hips to receive him, joy bubbling in her soul as he made her his once again.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Bobby smothered a yawn as he climbed the porch steps, then frowned as he saw that the front door was wide open.
Stepping into the parlor he saw Maggie’s wheelchair near the door. Thinking that his employer and Hawk were probably sleeping late, he started to leave the house when he noticed that the lights were on, not only in the front room, but in the kitchen and the hall, as well.
Feeling suddenly apprehensive, he went into the kitchen. Finding it empty, he walked down the hall to Maggie’s room. The bedroom door was open. The dress she’d worn the night before made an untidy splash of color on the bed, the closet door was open, a wooden hanger was on the floor.
Leaving the bedroom, Bobby knocked on the bathroom door. “Miss St. Claire?”
No answer.
Hesitantly, he opened the door. The room was empty.
Where the devil had they gone?
He walked through the house again. There was no sign of foul play as far as he could tell. Nothing seemed to be missing.
The Spirit Path Page 18
