The Spirit Path

by Madeline Baker

  Maggie had thanked Mrs. McKenzie effusively though she’d had no intention of wearing the corset or drawers, preferring to wear her own bra and panties which she had washed and dried in front of the fire while she bathed and cleaned her hair. Looking at the high-button shoes, she decided her boots would do just fine.

  She gazed out the window while she brushed her hair. Imagine, she was here in Fort Laramie, a place she had read about, written about.

  It was here in April of 1868 that the government signed a treaty with the Brule and Oglala Sioux, giving the Indians all of what was now South Dakota west of the Missouri River as a reservation. It also gave them hunting rights in the territory north of the North Platte River and east of the Bighorn Mountains as unceded Indian lands.

  Maggie shook her head. The government had broken the Laramie Treaty of ’68 just as they’d broken every other treaty they’d ever made.

  According to history, George Armstrong Custer would lead an expedition into the Black Hills to investigate reports of gold in the Black Hills, which he would confirm. At first, the Army would try to keep the resulting rush of prospectors out of the area, even arresting some of them. Other groups would be attacked by Indians for violating the Treaty of ’68. The following spring Colonel Dodge would set out from Fort Laramie to evaluate the gold deposits.

  Meanwhile, the government would try to buy the Black Hills from the Sioux. Some of the Indians, like Chief Spotted Tail, would be willing to sell, but the government would refuse to meet his price, while other chiefs, including Sitting Bull, would adamantly refuse to sell so much as a foot of ground at any price. He warned the whites to stay out of the Hills. By then, the Army would have given up trying to keep the prospectors out of the Paha Sapa and miners would swarm into the hills.

  Ignoring the existing treaties, the government would decide to force the wild Sioux onto their reservations. The Custer massacre, only four years into the future, would be the inevitable result.

  Maggie laid her hairbrush aside. She was in a curious position, knowing what was to happen before it happened, knowing the outcome of battles. She wondered if she should tell General Sully to warn Custer to stay out of the Black Hills, and then wondered if it would do any good. The general would never believe she’d come here from the future. Likely they’d think her insane and lock her up.

  But then, maybe it wasn’t possible to change history at all. Maybe no matter what she did or said wouldn’t make any difference because, in reality, she didn’t even exist yet!

  She was wondering what to do next when there was a knock at the door. It was Lieutenant Collins, looking as fresh as a daisy in a clean uniform and boots that practically sparkled.

  “I’ve come to take you to dinner,” he said, gallantly offering her his arm. “We’ve been invited to dine with the General and Mrs. Sully.”

  Dinner was an awkward affair. There were three other couples at the table besides the general and his wife. During the course of the meal, the men questioned her about the whereabouts of Hawk’s camp while the ladies stared at her, obviously dying to ask her what it had been like to live with a savage but too polite to ask such intimate questions at the dinner table.

  Following dinner, the men went into the general’s study for brandy and cigars, while Mrs. Sully served sherry to the ladies. Pleading that she needed to use the facilities, Maggie hurried outside and practically ran back to her cabin.

  Inside, she closed the door and sank down on a chair. Her behavior had been rude in the extreme, but she just couldn’t face those women. Not now.

  She stared out the parlor window, wondering where her husband was.

  Shadow Hawk faced his captors defiantly, refusing to answer the interpreter’s questions, refusing to tell them where they could find Sitting Bull’s camp.

  “Ask him again.” The order came from a dark-haired major named Neville. It was obvious from the expression in his close-set brown eyes that he had no regard for Indians, and even less for human life. “And Snider, ask him a little harder this time.”

  Shadow Hawk braced himself for the blow he saw coming, doubling over as Snider drove a fist the size of a cannon ball into his belly. The man, Snider, stood over six feet tall. He had legs the size of tree trunks and arms like steel. And he was very good at what he did, Shadow Hawk thought dully. Time and again the corporal’s knotted fists connected with Shadow Hawk’s flesh, driving deep into his back, his belly, his face.

  Panting heavily, Shadow Hawk heard the mocking voice of the Pawnee interpreter ask him for Sitting Bull’s whereabouts again. And again he shook his head, refusing to answer.

  “He isn’t gonna tell us anything,” Snider remarked, rubbing his bruised knuckles. He glared at Hawk through narrowed ice-blue eyes. “You’d best tell the general he’s buttin’ his head against a stone wall.”

  “Corporal, why don’t you just shut the hell up and hit him again? And this time, put a little muscle behind it.”

  The force of Snider’s blow doubled the prisoner in half.

  Teeth clenched against the pain, Shadow Hawk swallowed the bitter bile that rose in his throat, thinking he’d choke on his own vomit before he’d tell the major what he wanted to know.

  After another fifteen minutes, Neville turned on his heel and left the stockade. The Pawnee interpreter trailed after him. Snider drove his knee into the prisoner’s groin, just for the hell of it, then followed the major outside.

  Alone, Shadow Hawk let out a low groan as pain spiraled through him. Dropping to the floor, he closed his eyes, waiting for the worst of the pain to pass.

  Snider was very thorough, he thought bleakly. He hurt all over. His left eye was swollen shut, his lower lip was split, he thought his nose might be broken. But the worst pain was in his left side. Each labored breath sent fresh waves of agony through him and he guessed at least one of his ribs was broken.

  Wearily, he leaned against the rough wooden wall.

  “Spirit Woman,” he murmured, and then everything went black.

  Chapter Thirty

  Maggie walked slowly around the parade ground, careful to keep her long billowing skirt out of the dirt. She had never envied pioneer women the amount of clothing they were required to wear and she dearly wished she had the nerve to don her jeans and shirt, but she’d given the good ladies at the fort enough to talk about. Seeing her attired in anything as scandalous as pants would likely set tongues to wagging all over again. By now, everyone knew she had left the general’s house without so much as a fare-thee-well.

  Leaving the general’s house the night before had been rude. She knew it and Lieutenant Collins had pointed it out to her rather bluntly earlier in the day. Swallowing her pride and her rebellion, Maggie had gone to Mrs. Sully and apologized profusely. Mrs. Sully had stared at her through cold gray eyes for several moments before accepting Maggie’s apology.

  But being rude was the least of her worries. She was frantic to know Hawk’s whereabouts, but there was no one she could ask. Lieutenant Collins was in conference with the general and his officers and she had a sneaky feeling that Collins wouldn’t tell her where to find Hawk even if he knew, which he surely did.

  She wiped the perspiration from her forehead with the back of her hand. Where was Hawk?

  She paused in midstride. Closing her eyes, she put everything from her mind but the face of her husband, wordlessly repeating his name over and over again. And it came to her then with cold clarity that Hawk was in trouble, in pain. In danger. She felt it deep within her and it filled her with a terrible sense of dread, of helplessness.

  “Miss St. Claire, are you all right?”

  “What?” She opened her eyes to find Lieutenant Collins standing at her elbow, his brow creased with worry. “Oh yes, I’m fine. Just a bit warm, you know?” she said with a tight smile.

  “You shouldn’t be out here in the heat of the day,” he admonished, taking her arm and guiding her toward a shady spot. “I…that is, I was wondering what your plans are. For the
future, I mean?”

  “Plans?” She stared past the lieutenant at the Lakota lodges visible outside the Fort. She wondered if any of the Lakota knew Hawk, if they would help her free him from the fort. It was a slim hope, she thought. The Indians she’d seen looked defeated, without hope, without the will to fight for themselves, let alone anyone else.

  “Will you be staying on at the fort?” Collins prodded.

  “I don’t know.” She stared up at him blankly. How could she make plans for the future when Hawk was in trouble?

  “You’d be more than welcome. Women are scarce on the frontier.”

  “Yes, I’ve noticed. Two men proposed to me while I was walking.”

  “That’s because you’re so pretty,” Collins said soberly. “If you were ugly, they’d have waited a week or two. Employment agencies back east often send young girls out west to work as domestics for the officers’ wives. Captain Ayres’ wife asked one of the agencies to send out the ugliest girl they could find in hopes of keeping the girl at work longer than a month before she up and married.”

  Maggie grinned. “You’re making that up.”

  “No, it’s quite true. Most men would rather have a wife waiting for them at home, even a homely one, than have to, uh…” His voice trailed off and he grew red around the ears.

  “Satisfy their needs at the local hog ranch?” Maggie asked, and then could have bitten her tongue at the look of shock that passed over the lieutenant’s face.

  “How do you know of such places?” he exclaimed.

  “I…” Maggie shrugged. “I heard about a place in Texas near Fort Griffin called The Flat where men could buy whiskey and…things, and I just assumed there were such places wherever there were a lot of unmarried men.”

  “It isn’t right for a decent woman to know about such goings-on,” Collins said gruffly. “Come along, I’ll walk you back to your cabin.”

  Maggie walked placidly beside him, thinking how shocked Lieutenant Jeffrey Collins would be if he found himself plunked down in the middle of downtown Las Vegas along about midnight on any given holiday. What had gone on at Lotte Deno’s hog ranch in Texas during the Civil War would no doubt seem tame in comparison to the streetwalkers, gambling halls, bright lights and nude shows.

  Upon reaching her cabin, she pleaded a headache, bid the lieutenant good day after promising to go buggy riding with him the following afternoon.

  She ate dinner alone in her cabin, and then sat at the window, staring out into the darkness, praying for a way to find her husband.

  Shadow Hawk lurched to his feet at the sound of approaching footsteps. Backing against the far wall of his prison, he stared at the door, his stomach knotting with dread as he heard Snider’s voice.

  “I don’t think the general would approve your methods, major.”

  “Well then, we won’t tell him, will we, corporal?” Neville retorted, and Shadow Hawk heard the thinly veiled threat in the major’s voice.

  Moments later, Neville unlocked the door and stepped inside, followed by Snider and the Pawnee interpreter known as Bear Tracker.

  “Ask him,” Neville said curtly, and the Pawnee put the question to Shadow Hawk. “Where is Sitting Bull?”

  Shadow Hawk shook his head, his gaze riveted on the long black whip loosely coiled in Snider’s meaty fist.

  “Tell him I’m only going to ask him one more time,” Neville said. “Tell him if he doesn’t answer, I’ll have the skin flayed from his back.”

  The thought of seeing his enemy hurt and humiliated brought a smile to the Pawnee’s face. In rapid Lakota, he told Shadow Hawk what the major had said.

  “But know this,” Bear Tracker added, still speaking Lakota, “even if you tell me what the white man wants to know, I will lie and say you refuse to answer, just so I may stand and watch them whip you like a dog.”

  Shadow Hawk glared at the Pawnee for a long moment and then spit in his face.

  With a cry of rage, Bear Tracker drew his knife and lunged forward, the blade driving toward Shadow Hawk’s belly.

  Shadow Hawk sucked in a deep breath, let it out in a sigh of relief as Snider grabbed the Pawnee by the back of the neck and lifted him off the floor.

  “Maybe later,” Snider said with an easy grin. “Right now, he’s mine.”

  “Bear Tracker, put that knife away,” the major ordered brusquely. He glanced at the prisoner, then stared hard at the Pawnee. “What did you say to him?”

  “Only that I would enjoy seeing him whipped like a dog.”

  Neville grunted. The age-old hatred between the two tribes was well known and was, in fact, one of the reasons the Pawnee made such good scouts for the Army. They were only too happy to see their old enemies defeated. “Get on with it, Snider.”

  Shadow Hawk watched in morbid fascination as Snider uncoiled the whip, shaking it out so that it slithered over the hard wooden floor like a living thing. His mouth went dry, his palms began to sweat, perspiration broke out across his forehead and trickled down his back as the major and the Pawnee stepped out of the way.

  “Turn around,” Snider said, grinning in anticipation. “Unless you want it in the face.”

  Shadow Hawk let out a deep breath as he turned to face the wall, wincing as his cracked rib made itself known. There was a long silence, like the quiet before a storm. He could feel the Pawnee’s gaze on his back, feel the Pawnee warrior grinning in anticipation.

  The first blow came hard and fast, without warning. The weighted tip of the lash bit deep into the center of Shadow Hawk’s back, worse than anything he had imagined.

  The second followed almost immediately and he stumbled forward, his left shoulder striking the wall, absorbing most of the impact.

  “Woglaka na!” Bear Tracker demanded at Neville’s urging. “Talk!”

  Shadow Hawk bit back a groan as the whip came down again and again. He heard the soft tearing sound of his skin splitting beneath the force of the whip, felt the warm wet blood dripping down his back.

  He tensed, waiting for the next blow, wondering how much longer his legs would support him. How much punishment could he take before pride succumbed to pain and he fell to his knees? How much more could he take before he begged them to stop, before he told them what they wanted to know?

  Several moments passed. Just as he was hoping they’d finished with him, he heard the sibilant hiss of the whip slice through the air, felt the lash curl around his belly.

  Pressing his head against the cool wooden wall, he closed his eyes. “Winyan Wanagi,” he murmured. “Spirit Woman.”

  Somewhere between consciousness and sleep, Maggie stirred restlessly as she whispered Hawk’s name, praying that he was all right. Gradually, his image appeared before her. He was locked in a small wooden room that had iron bars on the window. He sat cross-legged on the floor, bent slightly at the waist, his chin resting on his chest. His hands were bound behind his back; his wrists were raw and caked with dried blood. One eye was black and swollen, his entire upper body was livid with bruises.

  He’d been beaten. The thought seared through her mind and even then she could feel the pain in his hands, in each breath he took.

  “Hawk.” Did she speak his name aloud or was it only an echo in the corridor of her mind?

  An anguished cry brought her fully awake, and her head jerked up, Hawk’s voice loud in her ears as he called her name. She glanced around the cabin. Had she dreamed it? But no, she could hear it still, his voice calling her name over and over again.

  Rising from the chair beside the window, she hurried outside, the sound of his voice guiding her across the deserted parade ground toward a small square wooden building near the back wall of the fort.

  Hawk was in there. She knew it.

  Slowing her steps, she made her way to the rear of the building where she spied a small barred window. Standing on tiptoe, she peered into the room and quickly drew back, her hand covering her mouth to still the cry rising in her throat.

  She took sever
al deep breaths. Then, her lower lip clamped firmly between her teeth, she stood on tiptoe and peered into the room again.

  Hawk was facing the wall to her left, his forehead pressed against the wood. His hands, tied behind his back, were tightly clenched, the knuckles white, the muscles in his arms taut, his body shivering spasmodically. Three men stood behind him. She was shocked to see that one was an officer.

  She flinched as the whip whistled through the air to land with a sickening thud against Hawk’s mutilated back.

  “That’s enough,” the major said, his voice filled with anger and frustration. “He’s no good to us dead.”

  The major turned to the Pawnee. “Tell him we’ll be back tomorrow night,” he said, moving toward the door. “Tell him to think about what just happened. And tell him I’m not a patient man. If he doesn’t tell me what I want to know tomorrow night, I’ll let Snider finish him.”

  Bear Tracker waited until the major and Snider left the building, then, moving up behind Shadow Hawk, the Pawnee repeated what the major had said.

  He laughed softly as he reached up and grabbed a handful of Shadow Hawk’s hair. “And I will have your scalp,” he added with a wicked grin. “My woman will be pleased with such a fine trophy.”

  “A woman who would take a worm like you for a husband should not be hard to please,” Shadow Hawk retorted, then gasped as the Pawnee spun him around and kneed him in the groin.

  “Perhaps I will take that scalp while you are still alive,” the Pawnee threatened, and stalked out of the room, leaving Shadow Hawk blessedly alone.

  With a groan, he fell to his knees, retching violently.