A Whisper In The Wind (10 page)

The man was lying, Michael thought. Cathcart couldn’t question a corpse. They might shoot him later, but not now. Still, he wasn’t about to put his theory to the test. All four troopers looked capable of shooting him in the back, and enjoying it.

Slowly he swung his legs over the side of the cot and stood up. He hadn’t been on his feet in over a week and the room swayed beneath him. He reached out to steady himself and felt a rifle barrel nudge his spine.

“Take it easy, Calhoun,” Robert O’Brien snapped. “He’s not going anywhere.”

“Damn right,” Calhoun retorted with an easy grin.

One of the troopers handed Michael his clout and leggings and he dressed under the amused gaze of the troopers, a muscle working in his jaw as he listened to their crude taunts and jibes.

When he was dressed, Calhoun prodded him in the back again. “Move it, Injun,” the trooper ordered impatiently. “We ain’t got all day.”

There was nothing to do but obey. Feeling somewhat lightheaded, he started for the door, conscious of the four armed men behind him, of their jeering laughter about gut-eaters. But it was the derogatory comments about his mother that stirred his anger, and he clenched his hands into tight fists, beginning to understand why his people had hated the
vehoe.
The soldiers’ remarks were crude, childish, but they cut like a knife.

Stepping out of the infirmary, he saw a sign that said CAMP ROBINSON. The name hadn’t registered before, but now it jarred his memory. Camp Robinson. Crazy Horse had died here.

He knew a moment of panic as they shoved him into one of the small, iron-barred cells and shackled his right leg to a length of chain that was bolted to the far wall.

Crazy Horse had died here. The sight of these iron bars had sent him into a frenzy that ended in death.

Michael sank down on the floor, his back braced against the wall. He stared at the iron bars, the same iron bars that Crazy Horse had viewed with horror and revulsion.

With a sigh, he closed his eyes and focused on the last days of the Oglala war chief in an effort to forget his own troubles.

It had been after the battle at the Little Bighorn. Sitting Bull and his people had fled to Canada to escape the soldiers, but Crazy Horse would not leave the land he loved. Tired of fighting, he had decided to accept the Grandfather’s offer of food and clothing and shelter and he had come to Camp Robinson to make his peace with the white man. But then they had taken him toward the guardhouse to await Colonel Bradley’s pleasure. The sight of the iron bars had driven Crazy Horse into a frenzy and he had drawn a knife, fighting to be free of the white man’s treachery. They had promised him peace if he surrendered, but it was a lie, as all the words of the white man were lies. The rumors he had heard were true. They were going to take him away from his people, away from the
Paha Sapa,
from all that he loved.

Knife flashing, Crazy Horse turned to fight. It was then that Little Big Man grabbed him from behind, holding his arms. Crazy Horse struggled to be free and finally, with a tremendous jerk, he broke Little Big Man’s grip, and Little Big Man staggered back with blood running down his shoulder. And now other Indians grabbed at Crazy Horse. The officer of the day was screaming, “Stop him! Don’t let him escape! Kill the bastard!”

Two guards ran forward, their bayonets driving toward Crazy Horse. The first guard lunged forward and missed, his bayonet stabbing the guardhouse door, but the second guard had better aim. He stabbed the Oglala war chief twice, and the blood on his bayonet glistened like crimson teardrops in the harsh yellow lamplight.

And then the quiet voice of Crazy Horse had pierced the sudden stillness that followed the blooding: “Let me go, my friends,” he pleaded softly. “You have hurt me enough.”

And so it was that
Tashunka Witko,
the greatest of all the Lakota fighting chiefs, had died at the age of thirty-three, just before midnight, September 5, 1877.

Michael Wolf let out a long sigh. Crazy Horse had been killed in 1877, but this was 1875 and Crazy Horse still lived. Somewhere out in the vast, rolling hills the Oglala chief was still making war against the whites, still shouting his war cry,
“Hoka hey!
It is a good day to die!”

The thought brought a smile to Michael’s face. If he could get out of here, he might yet meet the man who had been his lifelong hero.

Chapter Eighteen

He woke at the sound of Elayna’s voice. She was arguing with the guard on duty, insisting she had been sent by her father to check on the prisoner’s condition.

Michael grinned. No one had been sent to look in on him since he’d been locked up four days ago. It was obvious, at least to him, that Elayna O’Brien was lying through her teeth, but her righteous indignation fooled the young corporal on duty and he unlocked the door to Michael’s cell and let Elayna in after cautioning her to be careful.

Elayna shivered as she entered the narrow, iron-barred room. She had never been inside the guardhouse before. The bars and the gloom were depressing, and she wondered again what had prompted her to come here. She had no business in this place. What would she do if her father should stop by to check on the prisoner? What possible excuse could she give for being in a place where she had no right to be? Worse, what would she do if Major Cathcart showed up? Just thinking about the possible repercussions made her mouth go dry.

She felt Michael watching her and felt her cheeks flame. What excuse could she give
him
for being here?

“How are you feeling?” she asked.

“The truth?”

“The truth.”

He tugged on the heavy chain that secured his right leg to an iron ring in the wall. “I’m scared.” It was a fact he would have admitted to no one else.

Elayna nodded sympathetically. He had every right to be frightened. Major Cathcart despised Indians. All Indians. Few of his red-skinned prisoners were ever released unharmed. She had lost count of the number of warriors who had been killed “trying to escape”. But they were just Indians, after all, and no one ever complained.

“What are you doing here?” Michael asked.

“I…I came to examine your side.”

She was lying, but he didn’t care. In the last four days he’d seen no one but the man who brought him his meals.

“Does it hurt?” Elayna asked.

“No.”

Her hand was shaking as she removed the bandage from his side. She examined the wound carefully, pleased that there was no sign of infection.

“You’re afraid of me, aren’t you?” Michael remarked as she replaced the bandage. “Why?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. Why should I be afraid of you?”

“You tell me.”

“You’ll laugh.”

“I could use a good laugh.”

“I knew you were coming, that you’d be brought here, hurt and bleeding.”

Michael frowned. “How the hell could you know that?”

“I dreamed about you. Every night for almost a week.” She saw the amusement in his eyes and she lifted her chin defiantly. “It’s true.”

“I believe you.”

“You do?”

“I believe in dreams. And visions.”

His words should have made her feel better; instead, they only served to frighten her the more. There was an odd look in his eyes, a faraway expression on his face, as if his spirit had left his body to wander elsewhere.

“Hey! You finished in there?”

Elayna stood up as the guard appeared outside the cell door.

“Yes, thank you, corporal,” she said, flashing him a winning smile.

She glanced at Michael, who was still staring into the distance, and then she followed the guard out of the cell.

Lieutenant Lance Smythe was waiting for her when she reached home.

Lance smiled as Elayna reached the porch. “I was just about to leave,” he remarked. “I stopped by the infirmary, but your father said you’d left for home. Where’ve you been?”

“I was checking on one of the wounded.”

Lance frowned. “Has someone been hurt?”

“The Indian,” Elayna explained, trying to keep her voice casual.

“The Indian? Shouldn’t your father be looking after him? I mean, it’s not fittin’ for a lady like you to be fussing over a damned savage.”

“I don’t think of him as a savage,” Elayna replied without thinking.

“Oh?”

“I mean, he seems quite civilized.”

Lance frowned. “Civilized?”

“I just mean he speaks very good English, that’s all.”

“You’ve been talking to him!” Lance exclaimed, horrified. “For heaven’s sake, Elayna, the man’s a savage, probably a killer. You stay the hell away from him, you hear me? And if he needs medical attention, you let your father dish it out. Is that clear?”

Elayna glared up at the lieutenant, angered and stunned by his outburst. It was the first time he had dared raise his voice to her, the first time he had cussed in her presence. The first time he had tried to order her around like she was one of his troopers. Well, it was time he learned she had a mind of her own!

“I’ll do as I please, Lieutenant Smythe,” she replied, her voice as cool as a frosty morning. “And I’ll thank you to keep a
civil tongue in your head, as well. Furthermore, you are not my father, or my husband, and I don’t have to answer to you. Is
that
clear?”

Lance Smythe chuckled softly, amused by her sudden fit of temper. She was damned attractive when her Irish was up.

His obvious amusement at her expense infuriated Elayna all the more. Thrusting out her chin, she planted her fists on her hips and glowered at him.

“You’d best wipe that smirk off your face right now, mister, if you ever expect to call on me again,” she suggested, her voice several degrees cooler than before.

“I’m sorry,” Lance apologized. “But if we had a hundred more like you, we’d have these savages rounded up in no time at all.”

His sincere apology and ready smile melted her anger and she smiled up at him, her good mood restored. The Indian was nothing to her, after all, certainly not worth arguing with Lance about.

“I’m sorry too,” she said. “Come in, and I’ll make some lemonade.”

There was a party at the major’s house that night. Elayna did not want to go, but an invitation to the major’s house was like a command from the king, and his subjects attended, willing or not.

She wore a modest gown of light blue velvet trimmed with yards and yards of lace dyed the same color. The bodice was fitted, the waist tucked, the skirt full, the sleeves tapered and long. She wore her hair piled high atop her head, set with two jeweled combs that had belonged to her mother. Her only other adornment was a slender gold chain at her neck.

She sat between her father and Lance at dinner. As usual, the talk turned to Indians—where they might be hiding out, when they were most likely to attack next, how long it would take to completely subdue them. Most of the men felt it was only a matter of time before the hostiles were rounded up.

“The Injuns can’t live without the buffalo,” remarked Captain Lewis, “and the buffalo are just about gone.”

Major Cathcart grunted, and Elayna was repulsed by the hatred in his close-set gray eyes. He did not want to round up the Indians. He wanted them exterminated. And, she reminded herself, so did she. Didn’t she? Unbidden, she thought of Michael Wolf.

“Here now, enough about Indians,” Gertrude Cathcart said, smiling, and deftly turned the subject to something more pleasant.

They played whist after dinner. It was a lively card game, one the major’s wife was addicted to. Usually Elayna loved the game, but tonight she could not concentrate on her cards and when Lance was partnered with Carolyn Whitfield, Elayna slipped out the back door.

She walked aimlessly for ten minutes and then, as though drawn by invisible cords, made her way across the parade ground toward the guardhouse. The building was dark and quiet as she made her way to the back.

Michael Wolf frowned, certain his imagination was playing tricks on him. But no, he could see her clearly in the moonlight. Elayna O’Brien.

Grasping the bars, he leaned forward. “What the hell are you doing out there?” he called in a loud whisper.

“I was at a party at the major’s house,” Elayna answered, peering up at the window. “I got bored and decided to take a walk.” It had been a mistake to come here. She knew that now, when it was too late.

“And do you always take a stroll around the jail when you get bored?”

“No,” Elayna admitted, stifling a giggle. “This is the first time.” She felt the pull of his eyes, the unmistakable attraction between them. Did he feel it too? “Are you all right?”

“Bored,” Michael replied, his voice tinged with bitterness.

Elayna toyed with the chain at her throat. Why had she come here? She had nothing to say to this man, nothing at all. He was a stranger, the enemy. Why was she standing out here, risking discovery, when Lance was waiting for her back at the major’s house?

Frustrated and confused by emotions she dared not examine too closely, she bid Wolf a hasty good night and hurried away, vowing she would never see him again.

Michael watched her out of sight. The sound of her voice and the faint lingering fragrance of her perfume kept him awake far into the night.