Dragon Fire

by Linda Ladd

  "That is Jun-li. I must see what has frightened him," she whispered softly.

  Before Stone could object, she disappeared into the darkness outside the lean-to. Frowning, he moved to the entrance but could see nothing. He looked around for his guns, cursing his wound. His holsters lay where she had carelessly discarded them. He was in the process of strapping them on when the nun reappeared.

  "What was it?" he asked quickly.

  "There is nothing amiss now. You must sit down. The bleeding has started again."

  Stone frowned, but he lowered himself to the ground as she filled a small wooden cup with water, then sprinkled a white powder over the surface. She swirled it carefully until it dissolved, then handed it to him.

  "This will help you rest, but you must drink it all."

  "I need to stay awake in case the Pawnee show up," he objected, pushing the potion away.

  "Jun-li will warn me if there is danger. Please, drink, so you will feel strong tomorrow."

  "What is it?"

  "Ginseng and other healing herbs."

  Stone took the cup. The brew, whatever it was, was not unpalatable, but it must have been highly potent because almost at once his muscles seemed to go limp. He lay back and closed his eyes. Within minutes, he slept.

  4

  When Stone awoke next, the fresh fragrance of pine trees and the damp smell of early morning mist assailed his senses. He sat upright and looked around. Sister Mary was nowhere in sight. He listened. The cheeps and trills of awakening woodland birds and the swift current of the rushing mountain creek were the only sounds.

  Grimacing, he pressed the tender area around his shoulder wound. The injury had been freshly bandaged with strips of black cloth. He was still shirtless, but Sister Mary's miraculous silver needles were gone. His holsters were still buckled to his thighs, but both his guns were missing. A moment later, he found them lying together near the entrance of the lean-to. He spun the cylinders to make sure they were loaded, then felt better as he slid them into their well-oiled leather holsters.

  Ducking out of the makeshift hut, he eyed the gurgling water of the creek. He licked his lips, suddenly aware of just how thirsty he was. The inside of his mouth felt as dry as desert sand. A few steps took him to a low portion of the bank, and he leaned down and dipped a palmful of the clear, cold water. While he drank, he scanned the rocky shore downstream from where he stood, wondering where the nun had gone. His hand stilled halfway to his mouth.

  Several yards away, half hidden by a stand of cedar, two Indian braves lay spread-eagled on the ground. Both wore deerskin shirts and leggings, and both were bound to stakes and gagged with strips of black cloth.

  "Sweet Mother of God," Stone muttered, pulling his revolver and going into a crouch. He glanced around warily.

  Frowning, he moved closer to the two captives. Both looked very young, probably in their late teens. The one closest to him was handsome, lean, and hard-muscled; the other warrior was shorter of stature and heavier built. Each wore one wide horizontal streak of red war paint across the bridge of his nose, from ear to ear. These Indians didn't have the long braids of the Pawnee; their heads were shaved, except for a scalp lock running from the top of the forehead to the nape of the neck.

  Osage, he recognized in relief, a southern branch of the Sioux who lived along the Arkansas River in Oklahoma. Several Osage scouts had worked for Kincaid railroad construction crews when Stone had been in charge of the Denver operations. But if they were Osage, they were a hell of a long way from home.

  Both braves stared dispassionately at him as he knelt on one knee beside the thin one. He hoped to God they spoke English. He found in his dealings with the Indians that most tribes now spoke some of the white man's lingo. He hesitated, debating whether or not to try to talk to them.

  He glanced around the clearing. Where was Sister Mary, and how the hell had she managed to overcome two well-armed braves? A twig snapped behind him, and, already on edge, Stone wheeled around, expecting to see the nun. Instead, he stared dumbfounded at a dozen more Osage warriors, every one of them carrying a weapon trained on his heart.

  Stone knew he didn't have a chance in hell to escape. A helpless feeling rose in the back of his throat, and he let his gun drop to the ground. He raised his hands, palms out in the gesture of surrender.

  The moment his Colt hit the dirt, three Indians rushed him. He was forced to his knees by a blow to the back of his wounded shoulder, and he grunted in pain as his head was violently jerked back. A razor-edged blade bit into his gullet. Held immobile, he watched as the two bound Indians were released.

  Both young warriors sprang to their feet, speaking excitedly in their own guttural tongue. Stone couldn't understand them, though he knew a few words of their language, but he noticed the handsome youth did most of the talking. The respect with which the older warriors listened to the boy indicated he bore some importance to the tribe.

  The agitated youth continued to gesture wildly as he spoke, pointing up into the trees and around the clearing, while his heavyset friend nodded agreement and added animated rejoinders from time to time. The other Osage began to glance around, their expressions fearful. Suddenly the young brave in charge moved swiftly toward Stone. To Stone's relief, he lapsed into English.

  "Woman with hair like sun. Sun-On-Wings want know where her go."

  Maybe, if he was lucky, Stone thought, he might be able to talk himself out of this mess.

  "I don't know. I—"

  The blade at his throat pressed deeper, drawing blood. Stone swallowed convulsively. Sun-On-Wings frowned, then pointed toward the dense forest behind the stream.

  "Yellow-Haired-Woman move like spirit of night. No see her come, no hear her attack. Her strong medicine."

  Stone detected the awe in the young Osage's voice, and he quickly used it to his own advantage. "The Great Spirit sent Yellow-Haired-Woman to tend my wounds."

  Several of the Indians began to stir uneasily, but the young chief's eyebrows drew together in a deep frown.

  "Woman not flesh and bone, like Sun-On-Wings," he said, raising a muscular forearm before Stone's eyes. "Her spirit of legends. Her will come for you."

  After Sun-On-Wings' pronouncement, Stone was yanked to his feet. His hands were bound tightly in front of him with a thong of rawhide. He searched the trees for the nun. Was she hiding and watching? Or had she taken the mare and ridden for help? He hoped to hell she was somewhere far away, because once the Indians found out she wasn't a spirit, they would kill both of them.

  High in the branches of a cottonwood tree, Windsor watched the band of red men mount their ponies. Stone Kincaid stumbled behind them, his hands tied to a rope secured to the tail of Sun-On-Wings' horse. Jun-li had warned her of their approach, but they had crept upon her with much stealth, and she had had no time to rouse Stone Kincaid from his sleep. Once they had surrounded him, she had known she could not overcome their numbers, not even with her fighting skills. Not when they had pointed so many weapons at the big American.

  She must follow and free Stone Kincaid, no matter what the cost to herself. He had saved her life at the train wreck, had he not? Now she must do the same for him—the Old One himself had read the law from the sacred scroll.

  While the red warriors kicked their ponies and rode away with their captive, Windsor swung her bamboo case across her back, then rearranged the short bow and quiver of arrows she had taken from the strong young brave she had subdued the night before when he had discovered the lean-to.

  When the Indians had attained a safe distance from her, Windsor descended to the ground. She whistled softly for Jun-li. The monkey appeared, hanging by his long tail from a nearby branch, and she held out her hand. The capuchin leapt atop her arm, then quickly climbed to his favorite perch on her shoulder. Without a word, she ran with a silent tread to where she had hidden the white Indian pony the day before.

  Exhausted, Stone staggered after the horse, endeavoring to stay on his feet on the rocky mo
untain terrain. They had been traveling for most of the day, moving fast into higher elevations, with few stops to rest. Some of the stitches in his shoulder had already given way, and his shoulder felt as if it were impaled by a heat-reddened poker.

  He gritted his teeth and tried not to think about the pain or what would happen to him when they reached the Osage camp. The Osage were halfway civilized, a lot more so than the Pawnee or Comanche, and there was little they could do to him that would be worse than what he had suffered in Andersonville.

  He didn't think they intended to kill him, anyway, at least not on purpose. If he lasted through the grueling trek to their village, they would probably keep him alive until they were sure the nun wasn't going to show up. He would have to find a way to escape before they lost patience.

  Near dusk, the Osage riders finally drew up atop a low ridge. Rasping for breath, Stone fell to his knees, grateful for even a moment's rest. A wide valley spread out below them, ringed with high mountain peaks. Fifty or more lodges set up in circular patterns edged the shore of a large lake that shone like blue glass in the late afternoon sun. Almost as many cooking fires sent plumes of black smoke rising to blend with the purple of the evening sky.

  Thank God, he thought, so tired he could barely move. But he forced himself to his feet again as the Indians urged their ponies down the steep hillside. By the time they splashed through the shallow creek that fed the lake, most of the camp had assembled to meet them. Dozens of women and children ran forth, hurling angry words at him and pelting him with rocks and clods of dog dung.

  Fending off the attackers as best he could, he was eventually hauled to a standstill in front of a ceremonial lodge in the center of the village. Two of his captors roughly pulled him to a tall pole, lashing his hands and legs behind it as the tribe gathered around. A great deal of yelling and whooping began in honor of his capture, and as night slowly encroached over their frenzied celebration, wood was gathered and stacked into a huge bonfire a few yards in front of Stone's position.

  Once the flames leapt high, a tall, white-haired chief appeared from behind the flap of the big lodge. The tribe separated respectfully for the old man, and he walked forward with a venerable bearing, resplendent in a long ceremonial headdress made of eagle feathers. A pure white buffalo robe was thrown over his aged shoulders.

  At once, Sun-On-Wings stepped forth to speak. Again he used English.

  "Grandfather, my eyes see spirit of night. Her come for white man."

  The old chief slowly turned his head toward Stone. He stared silently at him for several moments, then returned his gaze to his grandson. When he spoke, his English was much better than Sun-On-Wings'.

  "The spirits do not often show themselves to the Little Ones. How can Sun-On-Wings be sure of these things?"

  "Sun-On-Wings see Yellow-Haired-Woman of legends. Her the one you, White-Spotted-Wolf, see in dream sleep. Her hair is gold like our grandfather, the sun. Her move through night like wind and shadows with no sound to warn our best warriors. Me see only small bit of her before her medicine make me sleep. It was so for Flat-Nose also."

  Sun-On-Wings glanced at his heavyset friend for verification. Flat-Nose nodded in agreement.

  White-Spotted-Wolf looked at Stone again. He frowned. "Who are you that Wah-Kon-Dah, the Great Spirit, sent Yellow-Haired-Woman to watch you?"

  Before Stone could formulate an answer, a familiar, melodious voice floated out from the darkness behind him.

  "The white man saved my life. I must do the same for him."

  Stone jerked his head around and was astounded to see the nun step fearlessly into the circle of armed Osage. Jun-li sat on her shoulder, the flickering fire making his eyes glitter like those of a creature from hell.

  A murmur of fear swept like a ghostly moan through the assemblage of Indians. Many backed away in alarm, but the nun stood unmoving, apparently unafraid as several braves set arrows upon their bowstrings. White-Spotted-Wolf raised his arm for quiet, his dark eyes focused on the small woman in black.

  "For God's sake, get out of here," Stone hissed to the girl, appalled that she had stepped so foolishly into danger.

  At the sound of Stone's voice, Jun-li jumped from the girl's shoulder and scampered to Stone, quickly climbing up the front of his body and coming to roost atop his head. Stone cursed as the monkey's tail switched around his face. He tried to shake the animal off, but the capuchin clung tightly.

  White-Spotted-Wolf looked visibly impressed.

  "What strange manner of creature is this?" he cried. "A prairie dog who can climb like the squirrel?"

  "Jun-li is my friend," Sister Mary answered calmly. "He obeys my commands."

  "Dammit," Stone whispered, low so that only she could hear. "Run now, while you still can."

  The nun ignored him. "I came here to challenge your best warriors to a contest," she then decreed, to Stone's horrified disbelief. "If I win, Stone Kincaid is mine. If I lose, you may do with us what you will."

  "Oh, God," Stone groaned.

  A look of absolute shock overtook the old chief's weathered face. He stared at the nun, then raised both arms to the sky.

  "No woman of the earth would show the courage of the red eagle. You will fight our best braves when the sun wakes up and warms our lands."

  "No, let me fight," Stone cried loudly. "She's only a woman."

  Another frightened murmur rose among the tribe as the nun melted away into the night as swiftly and silently as she had appeared. Jun-li leapt from Stone's head and scurried after her, dissolving into the darkness as mysteriously as his mistress.

  Stiff with cold, Stone leaned his head against the rough wood of the pole to which he was tied. The Osage had danced and sung long into the night, celebrating his capture and calling on their spirit gods for courage in the coming contest. He frowned, twisting his hands behind him in an attempt to loosen the bindings. The rope held tight, but he felt another stitch in his shoulder pull apart, then the ooze of trickling blood.

  The sun would come up soon, and Mary, or whoever the hell she was, would return. The little fool was on the verge of getting them both killed with her stupid challenge. Fury contorted his face, and he ground his teeth in frustration. What kind of game was she playing? She wasn't any nun, that was for damn sure. But who was she? She had more guts than most men he knew, he'd give her that much, but she didn't have a chance in hell of winning any contest of skill against battle-hardened Osage warriors. Instead, she would probably die some grisly, gory death right in front of his eyes.

  With renewed determination, he struggled with the cords. If he could escape, he might be able to get both of them out of the valley alive. His arms ached from being stretched behind him all night, and his legs were so cold he probably couldn't walk, even if he did get loose.

  Somewhere in the far-off reaches of the camp a dog barked, and the young brave guarding Stone shifted where he squatted nearby with a heavy buffalo robe thrown over his shoulders. While Stone watched, the boy yawned, his breath raising a frosty cloud in the cold morning air.

  Stone glanced again to the east. The horizon was beginning to lighten, the blackness melting into shades of pearl and ivory. Both men and women were beginning to appear between the round lodges, and he watched as, one by one, they bent, rubbed dirt upon their foreheads, then began a keening song as they filed toward the lake. He had heard of the Osage Dawn Chant when he was in Denver, but he had never expected to see it performed.

  Perhaps their preoccupation with singing praises to the sunrise would give the girl time to get away. If she had any brains, she would have spent the night putting distance between herself and the Osage camp. Again he felt a sense of unreality about the whole situation, half expecting to wake up and find himself back in his chair in the passenger coach, the nun sleeping peacefully in her draped berth.

  "You have lost much blood. You will be very weak."

  The Indian guard next to Stone jumped to his feet when he saw the girl, then ran shouting
to summon the chiefs.

  "Untie me before they come. There's no way you can fight them. Any one of them is twice your size."

  "You must trust me, Stone Kincaid," she answered calmly. "You must remember that the smallest insect can cause death by its bite."

  "Dammit, what the devil are you talking about?" he said, his voice low with fury. "Cut me loose! I'll have a better chance against them than you!"

  "I am well versed in self-defense. I have no need of weapons to fight the red men, while you must use iron guns to protect yourself."

  Stone cursed again, but the girl ignored him. She turned her back on him, watching the Osage who had begun to crowd around her. Wherever she looked, the Indians grew quiet and adopted fearful expressions, until White-Spotted-Wolf stepped forth, his face solemn in keeping with the great importance of the occasion.

  "The spirits have spoken and told me many things. They spoke of how Yellow-Haired-Woman is strong medicine. They spoke of new ways you will show our warriors to fight the pale skins who take our lands and put their smoking iron beasts on the prairies to drive away the buffalo." He stopped, never taking his eyes off the girl.

  "They spoke many words about Yellow-Haired-Woman, who fights as fiercely as great warriors. They spoke of how the Little Ones must prove courage or Yellow-Haired-Woman's medicine will turn sour and bring bad times to our people. They told me that our fiercest warrior, Hawk-Flies-Down"—he gestured to a tall, well-built brave standing behind him—"must fight you with his knife."

  "I will fight him, but I will not kill him," she replied fearlessly, her voice calm. "And I have no need for a blade. I will best him without a weapon."

  As a startled hum commenced among the onlookers, Hawk-Flies-Down stepped forth, his face creased with a scowl of disdain.

  "I have heard enough of this talk of magic," he said contemptuously. "Look at her—she is nothing but a woman like those who tend our cook fires. Give me an opponent worthy of my strength. Untie the big white man and let me fight him."