Pain. Relentless. Stabbing. Intense. It tore
into him, savaged him, gnawing at his flesh
like a ravening beast.
Feeling himself spinning into a black abyss,
Wind Rider focused on the young woman lean
ing over him, her vivid green eyes all that kept
him from sinking into oblivion. How could he
have thought her plain? he wondered dimly,
with those eyes that ate into a man’s soul. He
must be hallucinating, he thought, to find any
thing attractive in the plain brown sparrow.
“Are you all right?” Hannah asked hesitantly. She hated to show concern for an Indian,
but she couldn’t help herself. Her mother had
always said she was too tenderhearted for her own good. Besides, he hadn’t harmed her, and
she hoped he’d let her go now that she’d helped him.
Wind Rider found it difficult to think, let alone speak, so he nodded his head.
“What is your name?” she asked suddenly. For some reason it seemed important to know
the name of the man whose life she might have
saved.
Breathing deeply, Wind Rider fought to con
trol the pain, and little by little he succeeded.
“I am called Wind Rider.”
“My name is Hannah. Hannah McLin,”
Hannah offered shyly. “May I leave now?”
Wind Rider thought her voice lovely—soft and lilting. The melodious rhythm intrigued him. He’d never heard anything like it before. Except for her eyes and voice, he thought
ungraciously, nothing about her was attrac
tive.
“Where will you go if I let you leave?” he asked, finally finding the strength to form the words. He had no idea why he should care,
except that she had helped him when she could
just as easily have plunged the knife into his
heart. Lord knows he had been at her mercy. Though he had endeavored to frighten her into
compliance, he was as weak as a babe, and she
had to know it. Something told Wind Rider
that fear wasn’t the reason this woman had
helped him. He recognized goodness when he saw it, and whore or no, Hannah McLin had a tender heart.
“To Cheyenne. As far away from Mr. Harley
as I can get.” Hannah said at length.
“Who is Mr. Harley?”
“He’s the man to whom I’m indentured. By
law I’m required to work for him for seven
years.”
Still groggy from pain, Wind Rider couldn’t comprehend the need for someone to sell her
self into bondage. Did white society have other laws equally as repugnant? he wondered dully.
“The Cheyenne do not sell themselves,” he said,
sending her a glance that spoke eloquently of his contempt for someone who would do such
a thing. “Have white eyes no pride?”
Hannah bristled angrily, her eyes flashing green fire. “I did what I had to do to survive; you have no right to judge me. You, a savage,
who raids, kills, and rapes innocent people,
have no right to condemn others. As long as
Indians roam the plains, no decent folk are
safe.”
“We do what we must to survive,” Wind Rid
er said, throwing her words back at her. His
silver eyes turned icy with hostility. “Have you
not heard of Sand Creek, where hundreds of innocent women and children were killed by
white soldiers?”
Hannah nodded; she had been aware of the
gossip but wasn’t certain there was any truth to the stories. Many versions had circulated, and
she hardly knew what to believe. She’d heard
just recently that the president had appointed
a commission to investigate the rumors concerning a massacre. But, truth to tell, she had been too preoccupied with her own survival to pay much heed to politics and such.
“I know little about such things.” She hesi
tated a moment, then said, ”Tis time I left. I
dare not linger in the area too long. Knowing
Mr. Harley, he’s sent the authorities to search
for me.”
“There are Indian war parties roaming the area,” Wind Rider warned. “The Crow are par
ticularly brutal to women captives.”
Hannah blanched. “I won’t let you frighten
me. Death at the hands of Indians is no worse
than ..
”
She faltered and glanced off into the
distance. “I won’t return to Mr. Harley, no mat
ter what. I thought I would be free to go if I
helped you.”
Wind Rider struggled to his feet. Grinding
pain tore through him, and he gritted his teeth
against the vicious onslaught as he gasped out the words, “if you wish-to leave-you-are free-to-go.”
“Should you be on your feet?” Hannah asked, awed by Wind Rider’s stamina and seeming immunity to pain.
Wind Rider’s grimace was a parody of a smile.
It amused him that this plain-faced woman
felt concern for him. Except for his sister’s
husband he hated all white eyes. And if he
ever learned that Zach Mercer had mistreated
Tears Like Rain, he’d kill him without regret.
He was Cheyenne by choice and would always
be Cheyenne. He couldn’t love White Feather
more if he had been his real father. Bluecoats
had killed his people and forced them from their
ancestral lands, and he’d made a solemn vow to
fight to the death to restore the plains to their
rightful owners.
“The pain is nothing,” Wind Rider said sim
ply. “I must find my Sioux friends and return to
Powder River country.” He tested his leg by put
ting his weight on it, bearing the resulting pain with tight-lipped fortitude. “Good-bye, Hannah McLin. It is unlikely we will meet again.”
“Good-bye, Wind Rider,” Hannah said, strangely reluctant to leave.
The handsome Indian was unlike any man
she’d ever met, and she’d met many during
the time she’d worked at Harley’s inn. Experi
ence had taught her that men were crude and
brutal and couldn’t be trusted. They thought only of their creature comforts and treated
women like chattel, placed on earth to give
them pleasure. If women were not submissive
enough, men gained perverse enjoyment from
subduing them with their superior strength.
Except for her father and brothers and her
cousin Seamus, Hannah feared and hated all men equally.
Wind Rider regarded Hannah with a touch of
awe, annoyed that this ragged scrap of humanity covered with grime had somehow managed
to reach a place in him he hadn’t known existed.
He didn’t like the feeling; he had lived too long
with the Cheyenne to trust white eyes. Black
Kettle had trusted them, and his people had
suffered for it.
Hannah picked up her sack and walked
away without looking back, fearing Wind Rider would try to stop her. She hadn’t walked
twenty paces when a group of riders came
bursting through the trees, cutting off her
escape. She reared back in fright as she counted
a dozen armed savages, many brandishing
spears decorated with bloody scalps. They
greeted Wind Rider with exuberant shouts
of welcome. Hannah stood frozen with fear
as they spoke to Wind Rider in guttural
tones.
“Ho, my friend; it is good to find you alive.”
The warrior who spoke was tall and well-
formed, with a large nose and a thin mouth
that gave him a cruel look. Like Wind Rider, he wore only a breechclout, and Hannah could
see that his body was a much deeper shade of bronze than Wind Rider’s.
“I am equally glad to see you, Runs-Like-A-
Deer.”
“What happened to you?” a short, ugly man
with a scarred face asked. He was called Cut Nose because of the way a scar bisected his
nose.
“My horse was shot from beneath me and an
enemy bullet found my flesh,” Wind Rider told Cut Nose.
While they spoke Hannah slowly edged back
ward, hoping to escape unnoticed. But Cut Nose’s sharp eyes caught the movement, and
he reined his horse to cut off her retreat.
“I see your wound didn’t stop you from tak
ing a captive,” He sent Hannah a contemptu
ous look. “The woman is ugly; hardly worth the trouble of taking her back to camp. I say we kill
her now. Or,” he added crudely, “perhaps you like a woman with no flesh, and bones sharp
enough to give pain when you lie upon her.
Her scrawny body will provide scant warmth
and little comfort beneath your blankets if you
plan on scewering her upon your mighty lance,
my Cheyenne brother. Our Sioux maidens will
give you much more pleasure.” He turned to
his companions. “Driving my knife through the
white captive’s heart will give me great pleas
ure.”
“What are they saying?” Hannah asked fear
fully.
Wind Rider spared her a worried glance but ignored her question. He dare not free her now, for his friends would think him weak and cow
ardly and probably kill her despite his protest. For some reason he couldn’t allow them to kill
her; he didn’t wish to see Hannah McLin dead. “The woman is my captive; I will decide what
is to be done with her.”
“She will slow us down,” Runs-Like-A-Deer
said. His lip curled downward into a scowl.
“We are short of horses. Cut Nose is right; kill
ing the woman is the sensible thing to do.”
“Take her now upon the ground, Wind Rid
er, if you’ve a mind to,” Cut Nose chided, “if
you can stand the stench. If your enjoyment
of her is great, perhaps I will change my mind
and take her myself before I end her miser
able life.”
“I am in no shape to bed anyone,” Wind Rid
er argued. “I say she comes with us. She is my captive. It is our way. She belongs to me, and
I have need of a slave. I have no wife to cook for me or see to my needs. I have no desire to
bed her—she is far too ugly for my taste—but
she can be taught to work hard. I will beat her
if she does not please me.”
“The Cheyenne are a strange lot,” Cut Nose
said, shaking his head. “You fight bravely, Wind
Rider, but your lack of judgment is appalling.
Anyone can see the woman is worthless as a
slave. If I didn’t know you for a fierce fighter and a bitter enemy of all white eyes, I’d say
your white blood was making you weak.”
Wind Rider’s eyes narrowed dangerously. He
had never gotten along with Cut Nose, and if he hadn’t been wounded and in pain, he would
have challenged him. Cut Nose seemed to enjoy
questioning his loyalty and reminding him of his lack of Indian blood, despite the fact that they raided side by side with equal zeal.
Sensing a confrontation they could ill afford, Runs-Like-A-Deer stepped between the two
antagonists. “It is as Wind Rider says: The captive is his to do with as he pleases. We will take her with us to Powder River country. Standing
Bear can ride with me; he is the smallest. Wind
Rider can share Standing Bear’s horse with the woman until we can steal mounts for them.”
Since Runs-Like-A-Deer was the undisputed
leader of the Sioux raiding party no one questioned his authority. Standing Bear leaped off
his horse and handed the reins to Wind Rid
er. Wind Rider accepted them with a nod and
turned to Hannah.
“Am I free to go now?” Hannah asked hope
fully.
“You are my captive,” Wind Rider replied
gruffly. The harsh tone of his voice startled
Hannah. His manner had changed so abruptly,
her eyes showed her confusion. A few minutes
ago he had been willing to let her go in peace.
What did it all mean?
“Your captive? I-I don’t understand. Let me
go. You promised.”
His answer was to grab her roughly and toss her upon the horse’s back. He knew many of
the Sioux understood the white man’s tongue
and he didn’t want to give them the impression that he was coddling his captive because she
was white, like he was. In order to keep her
alive he had to treat her with the contempt due
any other white captive. And in this instance,
because Cut Nose had questioned his loyalty
to his people, he must dispel their doubts and
show them that he could be as cruel as they
when dealing with captives.
“I said I’d think about it,” he said, refusing to look Hannah in the eye.
“I cannot abide your stench,” Wind Rider said after they had ridden a good distance.