Authors: Susan Edwards
“Captain!” Her voice rose in panic.
“Derek,” he breathed. “Say it,
Emma.
Let me hear you say my name.”
Emma planted her hands against his chest, fearful of the underlying tension she felt in him. “Derek,” she complied.
Satisfied, Derek smiled and touched her lips briefly with his. “You have no idea what you do to me, Emma.” His hooded gaze drifted down to the tailored fit of her bodice. “I want you. When we arrive at Fort Pierre, I will ask your father’s permission to wed you. Then you’ll be mine—forever.” Derek took her by the arm and led her away from the rest of the soldiers. “Now, why don’t you rest while my men see to supper?” Shaken and uneasy by what felt like a threat more than a declaration of intent or love, Emma called Renny to her and gladly made her escape into their tent.
As soon as the tent flap closed behind Emma, Derek posted his men around the temporary camp, then went to the one remaining soldier tending the horses. Gus, a simple boy around nineteen, was one of the soldiers Derek could trust to do whatever he ordered. “Keep your eyes open. I don’t trust Yellow Dog. He’s getting greedy. I’m putting you in charge of the colonel’s daughters. I don’t want anything to happen to them.” Derek knew the boy would die protecting the girls if he ordered it.
“Wha’d he want?”
“Guns,” Derek scoffed. His gaze hardened.
And Emma,
he added mentally. Slightly uneasy, he studied the camp, calculating their weakest positions.
“Guns? You ain’t gonna give him any more, are you?” Gus looked horrified.
Only paying slight attention to Gus, Derek scowled. In his distraction, his voice lost the refined quality he strove hard to maintain. Long ago, he’d vowed to leave poverty behind forever and live the life of a gentleman. “Hell, no. I’m no fool.”
“Why’s he after payment so soon? We jest gave him a bunch of stuff. Even had to give him my pa’s old huntin’ knife,” the young soldier grumbled.
“Yeah, well, seems he decided to kill some chief’s squaw instead of just harassing the Sioux like I paid him to do. Now he wants guns to protect himself.”
Gus sent a worried glance over his shoulder. “Cap’n, we didn’t pay him to do no killin’—especially not some chief’s squaw.”
Derek stared out toward the distant hills on the far horizon. He twirled one end of his moustache into a sharp point. His plan had been for Yellow Dog to seem that he was under the colonel’s orders to drive out the Sioux, which was why he’d given Yellow Dog the colonel’s silver belt buckle as payment. He knew the renegade Indian would brag about his prize and importance.
His voice was thoughtful as he smoothed his moustache with his thumb and forefinger. “Maybe Yellow Dog did us a favor. This should rile the Sioux enough to attack the fort. Then that damn Indian-loving colonel will have to take action and get rid of them.”
Gus scratched his greasy brown hair and looked confused for a moment, then he grinned, revealing a mouthful of rotting teeth. “If they attacks us, we gets to attack them, and if we does, then we gets their women. Right, Cap’n?”
Derek shook his head at the boy’s eagerness. It was a mystery to him how the boy had survived his stint in the army, but that very naiveté and eagerness to please made Gus a valuable asset. All it took to keep Gus loyal was an occasional lay with a willing or unwilling squaw.
He lowered his voice. “Right. I’ll even give you first choice. Now, not a word. If anyone finds out our plans, they’ll take all the young maidens and leave you the old wrinkled ones.”
Gus frowned. Derek gave him a none-too-gentle shove. “Get to your post, soldier. We don’t want the others to get suspicious, do we?”
“No, sir.” Grinning ear to ear, Gus dashed off to stand guard at Emma’s tent.
Hands on his hips, Derek watched him. Little did the boy know, there was much more at stake than rutting with a bunch of women. Sliding his hands into the pockets of his pants, he fingered the remaining gold nugget he’d taken from a widowed squaw who’d come begging to the fort.
He’d gone to her tipi to check her out. After she’d proven her willingness to spread her legs for food—with a little encouragement, he thought—he’d gone through her pitifully few possessions.
His hands closed over the cold rock. He’d been shocked to find a pouch with several gold nuggets of a size and weight he’d never before seen. Those alone would have made him a rich man, but he wanted more. After plying her with drink, she’d told him about the sacred mountains where the shiny rocks turned streams the same color.
Not about to let anyone else learn of gold in the hills, he’d strangled her and buried her far from the fort. No one had questioned the disappearance of another squaw. He narrowed his eyes. If only he could get into those hills and hunt for the gold. But not with all the Sioux there. That’s when he’d come up with the idea of starting Indian wars by pitting the Arikara and the Sioux against each other. The two tribes were long-standing enemies. And if tensions between them escalated, the army would be forced to step in and he’d have the perfect excuse to drive the Indians out of the area.
So far, his plan had failed. Damn the colonel for trying to work out peace treaties with the Indians. But the colonel was due to leave soon. Derek fiddled with his moustache then chuckled softly. Pleased with this new turn of events, he headed back toward camp.
When Emma and her bothersome sister emerged from their tent to eat, he sat beside them, his rifle loaded and at his side. Emma, still on edge from Yellow Dog’s earlier appearance, kept glancing over her shoulder. Derek decided to shamelessly play on her fear, hoping she’d exaggerate the scene to her father. He would get what he wanted: gold.
Long before the sun rose the next morning, Derek gave orders to break camp. Emma sensed his tension and hustled a sleepy Renny into the coach. As the coach rumbled along the uneven terrain toward the fort, she cast worried glances out the window. Her loving gaze fell to her sister, asleep in the seat across from her. If anything happened to Renny, she’d never forgive herself. After several uneventful hours of travel, she relaxed.
Dozing, she woke when the wheels hit a rock, slamming her shoulder into the side of the coach. Emma moaned and rubbed the bruised flesh. The jarring bump had woken Renny, too. She sat up and rubbed her eyes then opened her mouth. Emma held up one hand. “Don’t ask. We’ll get there when—”
The coach unexpectedly surged to the left. The driver sitting above their heads cracked his whip and yelled at the top of his lungs, sending the coach careening forward at such speed that Emma and Renny were tossed to the floor.
“Emma?”
Renny’s frightened voice penetrated the haze of pain surrounding Emma. She struggled to her knees, her head aching where she’d hit it against the door but the wild rocking of the coach made keeping her balance nearly impossible. “Stay down.” Her own heart pounded in unison
with the throbbing of her head. Hearing the sound of an approaching rider, she glanced out the window to see Gus riding hell-bent-for-leather toward them. When he drew close to the window, Emma grabbed hold of the door and stuck her head out. “What’s going on—”
Suddenly, the air exploded with bone-chilling screams followed by shouts and gunfire. Gus stared at her, white-faced, his eyes wide with fright. “Git down, Miss,” he shouted. “We’re under attack—”
His body jerked, his warning ending in a strangled cry. Emma watched in horror as he slumped forward, the feathered shaft of an arrow protruding from his back.
Emma screamed when Gus fell from his horse. Glancing behind the coach, her heart stopped when she saw the Indians who were chasing them. An arrow whizzed past, close enough for her to feel the soft scrape of feathers brushing her cheek. Jerking back, she crashed to the floor. An arrow flew in, the sharp head plunging into the back of the seat inches from where Renny had sat only moments before. Oh, Lord, this couldn’t be happening. Fighting an onrush of pure terror, Emma covered her sister’s small body with her own. “Stay down!”
She cringed when another arrow pinged off the side of the coach. Cold fingers of fear slithered through her; the loud whoops of the attacking Indians grew louder. “Oh, dear Lord.”
“Emma, I’m scared,” Renny whimpered.
“Me, too, sweetheart.” Overhead, the crack of the driver’s whip alternated with the loud report of his rifle and his frantic yells at the team of horses. Swaying to her knees, Emma buried her sister’s head in her lap and braved another peek through the open window. Where was Captain Sanders?
After a few frantic seconds, she spotted him riding off to the right, fleeing into a stand of thick cottonwoods near a bend in the river, with an Indian on horseback in hot pursuit. Turning in his saddle, he fired. The Indian fell from his horse but instead of returning to fight, Derek kept riding as though the devil himself were after him. Disbelief left Emma speechless. She loosened her hold on Renny and gripped the coach through the open window to keep her precarious balance. Surely he wasn’t leaving her and Renny to the Indians, was he?
“Derek!” The name came out a hoarse gasp. She screamed again.
Renny lifted her head. “Emma?” Her voice wobbled with fear.
The sound of an approaching rider prevented Emma from answering. Peering behind the careening coach, her heart nearly stopped at the sight of a garishly painted Indian closing in on them. Gunfire from the driver sounded overhead and the hideous savage toppled from his horse. Emma sagged with relief, but her relief was short-lived when an ominous thud sounded above her. Seconds later, the driver’s arrow-pierced body pitched off the roof.
With no driver, the horses bolted wildly. Both girls screamed as the coach swayed precariously from side to side. Emma grabbed Renny and held her tightly, bracing herself on the floor between the seats. She tried to reassure her hysterically crying sister, but couldn’t force the words past her own fear-clogged throat.
The coach continued to careen through the rocky landscape until Emma feared they’d end in a pile of splintered wood. Still, dying in the coach seemed better than facing the pursuing savages whose horrible war cries surrounded them. Stories of atrocities done to captive white women and children numbed her mind and filled her soul with terror.
After what seemed like hours, the coach slowed and came to a halt. Emma lay still for a moment, her heart thumping and her mouth dry. With Renny clutched to her bosom, she listened. Outside, she heard the restless sound of horses, the jangle of a harness but nothing else. No voices. No screams. No loud whoops.
The comparable silence after the thunderous noise of the runaway coach seemed stark and oppressive. Who was out there? Her eyes skittered from one set of doors to the other. At the same time, she tried to find something she could use as a weapon.
Please, God,
she prayed,
let it be Derek out there.
The door wrenched open and Emma found herself staring her worst nightmare in the face: a savage with a hideously yellow-painted face.
The Indian stuck his head inside. A deep jagged scar ran down one cheek from just beneath his eye, ending at the corner of his mouth. When he grinned, the yellow-caked crevice
deepened grotesquely. Emma gasped, recognizing him as the same Indian who’d come to the camp last night, the one who’d stared at her and had made it obvious he’d wanted her. Horror as she’d never known gripped her when she realized he’d cold-bloodedly killed the soldiers to get
her.
Laughing, he reached inside and grabbed Renny by the foot. Her sister screamed, kicked and clutched Emma around the neck. Emma yanked Renny free from the savage and shoved the girl onto the seat behind her, then threw herself backward, using her own body as a shield.
“No! Go away, leave us alone.” Her voice shook, her throat so clogged with fright that she could barely speak. She kicked out, but the Indian, amused by her futile efforts to avoid capture, reached out and grabbed her by the ankle. With one strong yank, he pulled her down off the seat.
Emma landed hard on her backside on the floor of the coach. The savage used her moment of dazed pain to pluck Renny from the coach. Her sister’s frantic screams brought Emma to her knees. She hurtled herself at the warrior, slammed her body into him, and sent them both flying to the ground.
The Indian tossed her off of him. She landed in a sprawled heap in the prairie grass several feet away, the wind knocked from her. Lifting her head, she struggled for breath and glanced around, searching for help. There were no soldiers to be found. Her blood pulsed loudly in her ears. She and Renny were on their own. Crouched in the grass, she stared at the five hostile Indians surrounding her. Their faces were painted, their chests scarred and slashed with color, and their bodies naked but for a strip of cloth dangling between their legs. One of the savages held Renny.
Emma scrambled to her feet but her skirts were twisted and tangled around her ankles. She tripped and fell flat on her belly. When she finally gained her footing, one savage behind her yanked on her hair while another reached out to grab one breast. Prepared to fight them all, Emma whirled around. The savages crowded close, their hands snaking out to touch and taunt. Then the savage with the yellow-painted face stepped forward and yanked her to his chest. He grinned down at Emma and thrust his fist victoriously in the air, yelling and whooping. Victory shouts from the other warriors joined his.
Emma used her forearms to put distance between her and her captor but he tightened his hold until her breasts were flattened against his chest and her face within inches of his sweat-drenched body. She gagged and turned her head. He smelled of filth, sweat and death. Fighting the rising wave of nausea, she closed her eyes and prayed.
Please, God, don’t let them rape me.
Then he spoke, his voice harsh and guttural in a language she couldn’t understand. He grabbed her by the back of the head and addressed her in broken English. “Yellow Dog kill enemy, take woman from soldier with cheating heart and lying tongue. You belong to Yellow Dog.”
Emma could barely understand his thick, coarsely spoken words, but their meaning was clear when he dragged her toward his horse with his arm hooked around her neck. Desperate, she swung her fists and kicked with all her might, all the while screaming for Derek to come and rescue her and Renny.
Her screams echoed over the treetops, lost in the vastness of the open prairie. Using her nails, she scratched and clawed. One foot caught the savage in the shin and a wildly swinging fist connected with his nose. The warrior grunted and backhanded her, knocking her to the ground. Dazed, she shook her head and glanced around.
Renny followed her lead and tried to bite the hand of the warrior holding her, but the
savage only laughed. When he tossed the girl over his shoulder and strode over to one of the horses, Emma shoved her hair out of her eyes and charged the warrior who’d mounted his horse, Renny held tightly in front of him.
Her sister screamed, trying to struggle free.
“Renny!” Emma ran forward, but Yellow Dog grabbed a fistful of her hair and threw her down onto the ground then straddled her. Though she continued to fight, he had no trouble binding her feet and hands with thongs of leather. Done, he leered at the flesh revealed by the ripped neckline of her dress from the rough handling, but to her relief, he didn’t touch her. Instead, he flung her over his horse and mounted.
Emma tried to push up, but the savage held her firmly in place. He lifted a hand and gave an ear-shattering whoop. The small band of Indians surged forward.
The sinking sun cast gray-violet shadows over a band of warriors following their enemies’ trail. The trampled prairie grass was a narrow swath through the golden plains that ended at the river. Crossing the river, the band of a dozen warriors dismounted. Several trails, made by animals, both human and four-legged, snaked out in several directions.
Chief Striking Thunder crouched and parted the short prairie grass to study the soft, moist soil close to the riverbank. There were many tracks to be studied. Buffalo, deer, elk, horse and man. With several different tribes roaming the land, it made finding the set of tracks he followed difficult but finally, he spotted the faint print of a scarred hoof. Shouting, he gathered his warriors. Pointing at the tracks and the day-old horse droppings, he spoke, using his Lakota tongue. “Yellow Dog was here. We gain on our enemy.” His voice nearly cracked with the onslaught of emotion, but he forced it to remain neutral. “We will have justice for the killing of our people.”
The others nodded in response. For three days, he and his band of warriors had followed Yellow Dog’s flight across the plains. He noted the solemn faces around him and knew each was remembering the Arikara’s brutal attack on a small group of their people during the buffalo hunt. They’d lost several loved ones that day. He drew in deep controlled breaths and concentrated on the furious pounding of his heart.
Long Arrow, a brave with a bandaged thigh, limped forward. “I will avenge my grandmother and grandfather!” On that day, he’d been left with two other warriors to guard those too weak or sick to go on the hunt. Normally, all who could endure the grueling work followed the herd and took care of the meat after the warriors killed what was needed.
Meadowlark and several other women had left to return to the village with the first load of meat and furs. Before the rest arrived, at a time when they were vulnerable, the tribe had been attacked. Long Arrow had fought well, but he’d been no match for the renegade warriors who thought nothing about cutting down those weaker than they in order to reach their objective—Striking Thunder’s wife. Six of their tribe had died that day and Long Arrow had been wounded.
Afterward, though he was in pain from his injuries, Long Arrow had insisted on joining the war party. Striking Thunder noted with pride the brave’s impassive features—a good warrior didn’t allow emotion to blind him. The boy would be strong. Still, looking closely, he saw the lurking anger deep in the boy’s earth-brown eyes. He knew only too well the effort it took to keep one’s emotions tightly reined. Striking Thunder’s own anger over losing his wife coiled tighter within him, fighting for a release he dared not give into.
“Long Arrow becomes a warrior this night,” he announced. “He will avenge the spirits of his grandmother and grandfather.” The boy stood taller with each of Striking Thunder’s carefully chosen words, spoken to remind him of his warrior’s training.
Long Arrow spat on the ground. “The Arikara are no match for our mighty chief. They are cowards. They attack old men, women and children. They will pay for their crimes against the Sioux and against our people.” He punched a fist into the air.
Everyone nodded at the boy’s words and while each was equally set on seeking justice, sadness filled the air when they looked upon Striking Thunder. He closed his eyes against a fresh wave of pain. It would be a very long time before he forgot the sight of his young wife—dead from a self-inflicted knife wound. Rather than allow her enemy to defile her body, Meadowlark had taken her own life. Their marriage had been much too short, only two months.
Breathing deeply, flaring his nostrils, Striking Thunder pulled from memory a vision of a young, petite girl of sixteen winters with knee-length shiny black hair, smooth skin the color of the nutmeg spice his mother loved and eyes the shade of a newborn fawn. A cry of rage rose from deep in his soul and clawed at the back of his throat. Though not a love match, he’d cared for his wife.
He tried to block the searing pain and guilt of his thoughts. If he hadn’t married her, she’d still be alive. The council had ordered him to marry, and he’d chosen Meadowlark. Forcing the anguish from his mind, he focused on the task of catching the enemy. Though he longed to continue on and close the distance between them, the horses needed rest and food. “We stop here to thank the spirits. With the help of
Wambli,
the spirit of the mighty eagle, we gain on our enemy.”
Each warrior wandered off a short distance. Striking Thunder knelt where he stood. The
wanagi
of the slain were restless. They demanded justice before their journey to the spirit world to live in spirit tipis. He turned so the fading light of
Wi
fell on his face. Emptying his mind of all anger and thought, he prayed. First to
Mahpiya,
the spirits of the heavens, asking for continued good weather. One storm could wash away all traces of Yellow Dog. A gentle breeze caressed his cheek. He’d been heard.
Then he prayed to the spirits of the west. He asked
Wiyohipeyata
to preside over the evening and coming darkness. He opened his eyes and scanned the sky. When he spotted the wide soaring wings of a hawk searching for its evening meal, he added a prayer to the spirit of
Cetan,
asking for swiftness and endurance.
When he was done, he led his brown-and-white-spotted mare, Rides-to-War, to the water. His gaze slid over her, checking for signs of exhaustion. She lifted her nose and shook her head as if to tell him she could go on. For the first time, his lips softened. “Drink, my friend, then eat and rest.” His gaze shifted to the mare’s back where a black raven perched.
He’d found the bird injured two months ago and nursed her back to health. In return, she shared her wisdom. Flying across the sky, she shared her vision with him by her actions.
“You too, my friend,” he said to the bird. With a loud caw and spreading of wings, the raven, Black Cloud, flapped her wings and lifted high into the sky. Striking Thunder watched the bird circle several times then return to the stream to drink.