The Feisty Bride's Unexpected Match: A Western Historical Romance Book

by Lydia Olson

  Slow and steady, David.

  Slow and steady.

  Emerging from around the bush, David took aim and flared his nostrils, ready to engage the figure lying in the creek bed—but then he settled, uncoiling his finger from the trigger and lowering the rifle as he saw a native man with a broken leg in the water with a dagger carved from stone clutched in his hand.

  ***

  “Sarah,” David called out. “Come here. But keep your distance.”

  Sarah held her hand to her chest as her heart beat wildly. Step by cautious step, she came up behind David and saw a native man wearing only calfskin leggings with a dagger clutched in his right hand, his eyes wide and his mouth in a tight line. Lines in white paint were on his chest, and his hair was dyed red at the roots. His jaw muscles were tensed, and everything about his demeanor was defensive as he stared at David with a fiery gaze.

  “My Lord,” Sarah said with a gasp.

  “His leg is broken,” David said. “It looks like he slipped on one of the rocks gathering water.” He pointed to what appeared to be a leather bag beside the native. “See? There’s the satchel he uses to carry water.”

  “Gthe!” the native yelled, startling Sarah and making her stand back.

  “What is he saying?” Sarah asked.

  David narrowed his eyes, thinking. “I believe he’s saying, ‘get back.’”

  Sarah, though she was scared, was taken aback that David knew what the native was saying. “You speak his tongue?” she asked, incredulously.

  David shook his head. “No, but I understand a little of it.”

  “How?”

  “When I spent time with my uncle. He befriended a man of the Quapaw tribe.” David jutted his chin toward the native. “That’s where he hails from.” He looked around. “That means we’re in Oklahoma.”

  Sarah smirked. “Your uncle sounds like he was quite a renaissance man.”

  “He was, indeed …”

  “Gthe! Gthe!” the native shouted as he brandished his weapon.

  David held his hands up in the air. “I’m not going to hurt you,” he said in a calm and reassuring tone. “I only want to help you.” He gestured to the native’s leg. “Your leg. It’s broken.” He pressed his hand against his chest. “I want to help. Help.”

  The native continued holding his knife out, his eyes scanning from Sarah to David.

  “My name is David,” he said. “I can help you. Help. I’m sure you understand that word.” He waited. “What is the word for ‘help’? I’m positive I know it.” A second passed—then David said, “O-ʰkaⁿ.”

  The native slowly relaxed his arm. He still appeared defensive, the knife clutched tightly in his hand, but after a moment, he pointed to his leg, and said, “Qoⁿ.”

  David nodded. “Yes. I see that your leg is broken.” He looked around the creek bed and spotted a piece of driftwood. “Sarah,” he said. “Hand me that piece of driftwood.”

  Sarah moved to the driftwood, her nerves still on edge as she kept a watchful eye on the native and grabbed a thin piece of wood that appeared to have fallen from a tree. She brought it over to David as he ripped the tails of his shirt off.

  “Here,” Sarah said, handing the wood to David.

  David moved closer to the native. “I’m going to make a splint,” he said to the native. “O-ʰkaⁿ. O-ʰkaⁿ.”

  The native took a moment to examine the wood. He then looked at David, waited a moment, and nodded.

  David looked over the native’s leg, bent slightly at an angle. He pressed the wood against the leg, and then began wrapping the pieces of his shirttail around it as he looked the native in the eye.

  “This is going to hurt,” he said, the native nodding in understanding as David tightened the cloth around the wood. The native grumbled and winced as David secured the splint, and once he was finished, he moved behind the native and reached under his arms. He pulled him to his feet, and then the native wrapped his arm around David’s neck and shoulder to assist in getting back up on his feet.

  “Will he be alright?” Sarah asked.

  “He’ll have to get back to his tribe quickly,” David said. “I’m certain they have what he needs to help him.”

  “Do you have any idea where they might be?”

  David walked a few paces forward and then he stopped, something catching his attention past Sarah’s shoulder. “I do,” he said. “They’re standing right behind you.”

  Sarah quickly turned around and saw four native men on horses. Paint made from the earth marked their faces and chests, their frames thin though sinewy as they stared at David and Sarah with pensive and unblinking gazes.

  Chapter Twenty

  The native in the lead pointed to his friend with the broken leg. He spoke something in their language rapidly. The native with the broken leg said something in return. The native in the lead then turned to his men and motioned to two of them, who hopped off of their saddles, approaching their fallen brother, and assisted him toward the horses. David and Sarah stood side by side, Sarah clutching David’s arm as he took a deep breath without taking his focus off the lead native.

  “We’re friendly,” David said. “We were helping your friend.”

  The man in the lead waited a moment, the tension in the air thick and unbearable as David waited for whatever was going to happen next.

  “Your name, white man,” the native said.

  David’s eyes went wide. “You … speak English?”

  “Some,” the man said. “Name.”

  “My name is David.” He pointed to Sarah. “This is Sarah.”

  “Why are you here?”

  “We are merely weary travelers,” David said. “Our stagecoach was attacked several days ago. We’re on our way to Clarendon, Texas.”

  The native waited a few more moments. “You help Dancing Horse,” he said as he gestured to his fellow wounded native.

  “Yes,” David said. “I provided him with a splint for his leg. I take it … that you’re the chief of your tribe?”

  The native shook his head. “No. Silver Paw is.”

  “And what is your name?”

  The native held his head high. “Rolling Thunder,” he said.

  David took a step forward. “Rolling Thunder,” he said, “we are not looking to start trouble. In fact, we would very much appreciate if we would be able to stay the night with your tribe. We have plenty to trade with, and it would honor us greatly.”

  Rolling Thunder breathed deeply as he directed an inquisitive stare toward David. “Rifle,” he said, pointing at David’s weapon. “You give me to make sure we are safe.”

  “How do I know it won’t be used against me?” David asked.

  “It is us who are concerned about you, white man,” Rolling Thunder said. “I am sure you understand why.”

  Can I trust them? David thought. But as he eyed the bows and arrows on the backs of two of the other natives, he realized that they could have killed him at any time since they arrived.

  “I will give you my rifle,” David said, “if I have your word that no harm will come to myself or my travelling companion.”

  Rolling Thunder held his hand to his chest. “No harm will come,” he said. “You help Dancing Horse. You are welcome guest. But you must give rifle.”

  David scoured his brain for the Quapaw translation of the word “trust.” Though he could not remember it exactly, he recalled the word for “goodness,” and said, “ah-che-zha,” with his palm pressed flat against his chest.

  Rolling Thunder mimicked the gesture, and repeated, “ah-che-zha,” before David unslung his rifle and handed it over.

  ***

  David followed on his horse alongside Rolling Thunder as they traversed their way through the desert. Sarah remained close on his left flank, and two of Rolling Thunder’s men, the ones with bows and arrows, kept close behind them. Their eyes were watchful, and their hands remained close to their weapons. After trotting for several miles, they arrived outside
an encampment in the middle of a forested area. Tents were pitched in a semi-circle. Natives were all around. Some were working, others were conversing, and all heads turned to eye the white strangers that entered their domain as Rolling Thunder led the group into the heart of the camp where a large fire was being built.

  Sarah, looking around at the natives with an apprehensive expression, leaned into David’s ear, and whispered, “I’m nervous.”

  David reached over and squeezed her arm reassuringly. “It will be okay. Don’t worry. I’ll keep an eye peeled the entire time we’re here.”

  Two men gathering firewood looked up in shock, placed down their wood, and approached Rolling Thunder as they pointed in stabbing motions at David and Sarah. Rolling Thunder held up his hand to signal his riders to stop. David and Sarah followed his lead and held back as he addressed the newcomers. They spoke in quick and frantic sentences. David was able to make out that they were confused and concerned over the presence of foreigners in their camp, but David watched Rolling Thunder motion to Dancing Horse and his leg before nodding at David and speaking in a calming tone. After a few exchanges, the men nodded in understanding and backed off, returning to their fire building duties as Rolling Thunder told David to follow him.

  Turning to Sarah, David said, “Stay here,” as he followed after Rolling Thunder. “If anything happens, call out to me.”

  “Okay,” Sarah agreed in a demure voice strained with the stress of being in an Indian camp. She watched David as he walked alongside Rolling Thunder toward the largest tent in the back of the encampment and held her breath as David disappeared with Rolling Thunder through the flap.

  David entered the tent. It was spacious, just slightly more than the others in the camp, it appeared. Various animal skins of all kinds—fox, bear, muskrat, mountain lion—lined the floor and sides of the tent. A cot rested in the center and sitting on the edge of it was a man who appeared to be past the halfway point in his life. He had a slender build, but the intensity in his eyes and the scars that he sported on the left side of his face signaled that this was a man who had seen and survived his fair share of ordeals. David knew, without Rolling Thunder having told him, that this was the leader that went by the moniker, “Silver Paw.” A palpable tension had accumulated inside the tent. David knew that the leader of this particular tribe was stoic—but the scars and his authoritative presence indicated a more lethal side that would come out if provoked.

  Rolling Thunder spoke in the native tongue to Silver Paw, who stood up slowly and approached David and examined him from toe to temple. David was unable to focus on Silver Paw’s facial scars, which appeared to have been the result of some kind of animal attack. After seeing the necklace made of bear tendrils dangling on his neck, David put two and two together.

  “White man,” Silver Paw said. “Your name is?”

  David cleared his throat. “My name is David. I see you speak English, too.”

  Silver Paw nodded. “I learned from your people,” he said, “when they were removing my people from our own land.”

  David opened his mouth to offer up an apology.

  “Do not worry,” Silver paw said with a subtle wave of his hand. “My quarrels are with the men who forced my people from their land—you were not among them.” He walked around David and moved back to his cot and sat on the edge of it.

  David took a step forward. He made sure to move in small, incremental motions to convey his respect. As he took a moment to take in Silver Paw’s tent, he noticed that there were several items—a coffee pot, revolver, and a hat—that appeared to have been given (or taken) from a westerner.

  “Silver Paw,” David said, “I can’t help but notice that there are some things in here that your people would not be privy to possessing on most occasions.”

  “You speak of the gun and hat, I assume,” Silver Paw said.

  “Yes, I do.”

  “And you probably think that I killed whoever owned it before I did.”

  David shook his head. “I do not assume such things.”

  “Many of your people do,” Silver Paw said. “Savage, I believe is the term some use when referring to us.”

  “I’m not one of those people,” David said. “I’m simply a man who’s trying to make his way through to Clarendon.”

  Silver Paw motioned to the flap of the tent. “Rolling Thunder says that a woman is with you.”

  “Yes,” David said. “She is my companion.”

  “Your wife?”

  David shook his head. “No,” he said with a hint of disappointment in his tone. “She is just a friend.”

  For the briefest of moments—David thought he saw Silver Paw smirk.

  “And why,” Silver Paw said, “do you travel by yourselves?”

  David drew a breath to retell the tale. “We were travelling by stagecoach,” he said. “It was attacked. Several members of our party were killed. We were spared and since then, we have been slowly making our way to Texas.”

  “Where in Texas?”

  “Clarendon.”

  Silver Paw nodded. “You are not far. Maybe two days.”

  Taken aback by how well Silver Paw spoke, David said, “Your English is almost as good as mine. I know you said you learned it from my people, but how did this come to pass?”

  A dour look crossed Silver Paw’s face; Rolling Thunder’s face changed as well.

  “Six years ago,” Silver Paw said, “the men in the gray coats attacked my village.”

  Confederate soldiers, David thought.

  “They,” Silver Paw continued, “killed off almost half of our people. I was almost among the ranks of the dead. After the attack, they attempted to take us prisoner, but men in blue coats came and rescued us. They were led by a man named Troutman. He saved us. I spent some time with him while I healed from my wounds. He was the one who taught me your native tongue.” Silver Paw gestured to the coffee pot, revolver, and hat. “He was the one who gave me those, along with several other weapons we use to defend ourselves.”

  “You have a good hold on the language,” David said. “A very good hold.”

  Silver Paw shrugged. “I made it a point to learn,” he said, “so that I could know what the bad white men say when they think I don’t understand.”

  David nodded. “Probably a good idea.”

  “It is. We have survived because of it.”

  “Well,” David said, “this Troutman fellow sounds like a good man.”

  “He taught me many things,” Silver Paw said, “and I taught him many things. He was I-ka-ge, a friend.”

  David forked a thumb over his shoulder. “This camp looks temporary,” he said. “It does not appear to be your permanent grounds.”

  “It is not,” Silver Paw said. “We have been moving through this area for some time to find, as you say, ‘permanent ground.’ We have been promised land by your people to stay in, free of taxation or interference.”

  “And where is this Troutman you speak of, now?” David asked.

  “Perished,” Silver Paw said. “Some time ago. He helped us find new and permanent grounds to make our home. I am grateful for his help. It saddens me to know he is no longer of this earth.”

  “How much longer until you reach your destination?”

  “A few weeks,” Silver Paw said. “We spend only a few more days here to gather food for the journey. Tell me, David, what is it that you wish for me to do for you and your companion?”

  “Nothing more than a place to rest our heads for the night,” David said, “perhaps a meal. We have items to trade. I’ve put my faith in Rolling Thunder’s words that no harm will come to myself or my companion. I trust what he says, because his word is a reflection of your word.”

  Silver Paw nodded. “It is. No harm will come to you. You helped our brother, Dancing Horse, so in turn, you are our guests. You will spend the night with us. Trade is not necessary, unless you wish to trade us for other items.”

  “I’m not against it,” D
avid said.

  Silver Paw stood once more. “Then tonight, David, you are our friend.” He walked up to David and extended his hand.

  David, only knowing bits and pieces of the Quapaw customs that he learned from his uncle, was shocked to see that Silver Paw was attempting to solidify their arrangement in the western fashion of handshaking.

  “Is this not,” Silver Paw said, “your people’s custom?”