Wind Warrior (Historical Romance) (2 page)

With anger still boiling inside him, Dull Knife turned away. He would recapture his glory in the
spring; he would tie feathers in his hair, and paint his face. He would lead the warriors to victory over the white soldiers, and everyone would praise him.

His father’s vision might belong to his brother, but come spring, the honor would be his. Staring across the river, Dull Knife was determined to make his own future.

Evening shadows crept across the land as the sun sank low in the west. Wind Warrior halted his horse, glancing down at the river that snaked through the green valley below.

Dismounting, he ran his hand over his horse’s mane. “Go home.”

As if the animal understood Wind Warrior’s words, it turned and galloped back toward the village.

Wind Warrior realized he was losing the light and hurriedly began the ascent up the steep incline. He needed solace for his troubled thoughts and hoped he might find it in the mountains that were so familiar to him.

Pausing beside a crystal stream that spilled over a rock cliff face, he dipped his hands in the cold water and drank thirstily.

There was a chill in the air, but Wind Warrior did not feel it; his mind was too busy recalling his brother’s angry threats and his father’s admonitions.

He shook off the feeling of tragedy that clung to him like a second skin. Here in the serenity of this secluded place he felt more at home than he did in his own village. Since he had been old enough to climb the mountain, he had sought the peacefulness
he found here. Often he would linger for days in solitude, until hunger drove him back to the village. His father had never questioned his absences, nor had he allowed anyone else to.

Now that Wind Warrior thought about his life, it seemed strange that no one minded his spending so much time in the mountains. None of his friends were allowed such liberties. Many things he had once taken for granted, he now questioned.

Then Wind Warrior caught a sound that made him smile. Turning, he observed a mountain goat dart up the cliff and disappear through a thicket of cedar bushes. A lone hawk spread its wings and circled above him, its cry echoing in the silence.

He was surrounded by peacefulness, but Wind Warrior could find no comfort; his heart was pounding like a drum. Despite the cold wind, he felt sweat gathering between his shoulder blades.

Many questions troubled his mind, but Wind Warrior could find no answers.

He climbed the last few steps that took him to the very peak of the mountain. He was never to know how long he stood there lost in thought, but the sun had already dropped behind a nearby mountain and darkness enveloped him when he became aware of the chill of the night wind.

In the soft glow of moonlight, he raised his arms to the sky and closed his eyes, seeking clarity. Slowly he turned in the directions of the four winds, paying them homage. “How can I do what is expected of me?” he cried in a voice that echoed across the deep valley. “I am not this Wind Warrior my people expect me to be.”

Nothing happened.

Still he waited in hope.

At first he felt a gentle tug at his mind, barely in his consciousness. As he raised his head and opened his arms wider, he felt the chilling touch of the wind against his mouth. Then with a suddenness that took Wind Warrior by surprise, the force of the wind gathered, sweeping across his face and increasing in intensity until it seemed to whip through his entire body.

Without warning, a push of the wind drove Wind Warrior to his knees. He gasped and struggled for breath. It felt as if he was caught in the middle of a whirlwind. He could not move, could not take in air.

Blackness was beckoning to him and he fell forward into a bottomless pit of darkness.

Later, much later, he blinked his eyes to the first light of morning. The wind was still whirling around him and it took all his strength just to stand. His throat was burning with thirst, yet he knew he would not seek water until he understood what was happening to him.

Closing his eyes, Wind Warrior felt a consuming consciousness stirring within him. The wind scattered his hair across his face and then released him so suddenly he fell to his knees, taking big gulps of air.

Now the wind gentled to a breeze, caressing his cheek, and a strong feeling of peace settled over him. When he opened his eyes, it seemed to him that the sky was brighter, his hearing keener, and the aroma of the pine trees was overwhelming.

How could such a thing be?

With a suddenness that filled his heart with joy, he watched a hawk ride the currents of the wind. When the bird broke away, it circled above him and landed on the branch of a nearby pine tree, watching him.

Wind Warrior heard no sound, but there was understanding in his mind:
Brother of the wind, we are of one spirit.

Wind Warrior had been on the verge of manhood when he climbed the mountain, but two weeks later as he descended the rocky cliff, he felt old beyond his years.

When he reached the village, he went directly to his father’s tipi.

“Tonight I sleep under the stars, my father. Tomorrow I build my own tipi.”

White Owl nodded, examining his son’s face and seeing newly acquired wisdom in Wind Warrior’s eyes. “It will be as you say,” he answered with understanding. “I knew this time would come for you. Embrace the gift that has been given to you.”

As Wind Warrior erected his tipi, his thoughts were deep, his mind open to finding the answers that still eluded him.

The future reached out to him, beckoning.

He needed time to seek what was hidden from him.

He needed time to discover who he was.

Fort Benton

Although it was early afternoon, dewdrops still clung to the wild daisies the young girl gathered as she walked beside the grassy bank of the Missouri River. Thirteen-year-old Marianna Bryant had decided since her aunt Cora had been having one of her headaches, and didn’t feel well enough to attend the annual picnic, it would be nice to take her a bouquet of wildflowers. Spotting a wide variety of flowers in glorious colors growing in a nearby ditch, she walked in that direction.

Aunt Cora had been hesitant to allow Marianna to attend the picnic without her. But she finally gave in when Marianna promised she would remain in sight of the others and not wander off and get lost in the woods, as she had on other occasions. Marianna didn’t like to remember the time most of the troops from Fort Benton had been pulled off their usual duty to join in a search party to find her. For the first time, Aunt Cora had yelled at her that day when her uncle Matt had brought her home, looking frightened and bedraggled.

Pushing those unpleasant memories to the back of her mind, Marianna watched the women setting out the food, while the men lay back on the grass,
talking and laughing. She caught the delicious aroma of meat roasting on the spit, and it made her hungry. Marianna hoped Mrs. Post had brought her mincemeat pie again this year—it was her favorite. But she also liked fresh corn on the cob, dripping with butter.

She was diverted from thoughts of food when she heard Susan Worthington’s infectious laughter drifting on the wind. Susan had arrived three months before to marry Lieutenant Worthington. Although Marianna didn’t know Susan very well, the young married woman always greeted her with a smile and a kind word. Aunt Cora had told Marianna that Susan and Lieutenant Worthington had grown up together in Philadelphia. Marianna had heard the older girls grumble because an outsider had captured the heart of Fort Benton’s most eligible bachelor. She glanced around for Susan’s husband, but did not see him. No doubt he was on patrol duty today.

Tightening the ribbons of her red and white bonnet beneath her chin, Marianna saw seventeen-year-old Lillian Baskin, the daughter of the folks that ran the trading post.

It was too late to escape—Lillian had already spotted her, and was hurrying in her direction. Marianna had only spoken to Lillian on a few occasions, and she didn’t really like her, although Aunt Cora said she must like everyone. Perhaps if Aunt Cora heard the hateful way Lillian gossiped about other people, she would understand why Marianna didn’t like the girl.

Marianna took a deep breath and braced herself for the intrusion.

“Those are mighty fancy shoes to be wearing on a picnic. ’Specially since it’s muddy,” Lillian said, dropping down beside Marianna. “You trying to impress someone?”

“No. Why should I?”

“Well, you’re off here by yourself like you thought you was too good for the rest of us poor folks.”

Marianna’s lips tightened at the older girl’s spiteful remarks. “That’s not so.”

Lillian was a large-boned girl, with bright red hair and freckles sprinkled across her nose. Although she was not considered pretty, there were plenty of young men who seemed to admire her. Marianna glanced down at her new red leather shoes and scowled. “I don’t want to impress anyone.” Then she said worriedly, “I hope Aunt Cora won’t be mad at me when she finds out I wore these today. She sent all the way to St. Louis for them.”

“She always orders your clothing from St. Louis instead of buying at Pa’s store like most everyone else does. Ma says your aunt thinks too much of herself just because she was once a famous singer before she married Lieutenant West. She says your aunt’s voice must have failed her and she married the first man who would have her.”

Marianna clamped her lips together, trying to control her temper. She stared at Lillian as if she’d lost her mind. “Your mother is wrong. Aunt Cora was performing in England when she got word that my parents had died in a landslide in the Sangre de Cristo Mountains, just outside Santa Fe in New Mexico Territory. Aunt Cora was my father’s sister and the only family I had left. She left England so she
could take care of me. She met Uncle Matt at the army post in Santa Fe and they were married a year later.” Marianna’s frown deepened. “My aunt still has a beautiful voice, and everyone knows it.”

Lillian shrugged. “I didn’t say I agreed with my ma.” She pulled a blade of grass and chewed on the end of it. “How come you weren’t hurt in the landslide that killed your folks?”

“My parents’ ranch was near the base of the mountains. The day they were killed, they left me home with the cook.”

“Don’t you miss ’em?”

Marianna didn’t really want to talk about herself with Lillian, but she couldn’t think of a way to leave without seeming rude. “I don’t remember them. Aunt Cora and Uncle Matt are the only parents I’ve ever known.”

“So you think of them as your ma and pa?”

Marianna had never thought about it. “My first memory is of Aunt Cora singing me to sleep at night. Her voice was so pure and beautiful, I tried to stay awake to listen.”

“Ma says she’s nothing but an opera singer.”

Marianna’s eyes narrowed with annoyance. “A very famous one.”

“You must take after her. I’ve seen Parson Rincon glaring at you when you sing so loud you drown out the rest of us.”

Her face reddening, Marianna nodded her head in agreement. “I know, I know. I just get so filled up with happiness when I sing, I forget where I am. Aunt Cora always warns me to tone my voice down. I do try.”

“Ma says you’re just showing off.”

Marianna stood and glared down at Lillian. “It seems your mother has a lot to say about other people’s business.”

“Well, you don’t have to get snippy about it. Most everyone else thinks like Ma does. I heard tell your aunt teaches you to read and write herself, instead of sending you to the post school with the rest of the soldiers’ children.”

Marianna decided to leave before she really lost her temper and told Lillian what people said about her mother’s gossiping. In an attempt to jump across a ditch, Marianna landed short of the other side and wound up on the bottom. She felt mud ooze into her shoes, and drew in a deep breath.

Aunt Cora was not going to be happy that she had ruined her new shoes.

Lillian’s laughter was tinged with malice, and she hollered loud enough for Marianna to hear, “I wonder what your aunt Cora’s going to say when she sees those fancy shoes she ordered all the way from St. Louis.”

Ignoring Lillian’s jab, Marianna grabbed up a twig and attempted to scrape some of the mud away. But she only managed to smear it onto the buckles and straps. She paused to glance at Fort Benton, wishing she had stayed home. There were no girls her age at the picnic, and she surely didn’t want to spend any more time with Lillian.

Flopping against the side of the ditch, which was so deep it came to her waist, she considered walking back to the fort, but decided against it since the settlement was over a mile away.

It had been a long time since she had thought about her folks, or wondered what they had been like. It was difficult to miss someone she couldn’t remember. She couldn’t imagine loving anyone more than she loved Aunt Cora and Uncle Matt. It had been Aunt Cora who had nursed her through sickness and Uncle Matt who put her on her first horse, and soothed her when she fell and skinned her knees.

As far as school was concerned, Marianna always looked forward to her daily lessons with Aunt Cora, who had a way of making history come alive. Most of all, Marianna loved geography, because Aunt Cora had been to many of the countries she told her about, and shared her experiences.

Marianna’s gaze swept across the distance toward the river. She stood motionless as she watched a paddlewheel boat making its voyage back to Independence, Missouri. The boat would no doubt be loaded with fine furs and trade goods. She lost interest when the boat disappeared around a bend in the river.

The sound of happy laughter floated on the air, and Marianna smiled as she watched several small children dart behind trees and thick bushes, playing a game of tag. Deciding not to join the picnickers just yet, Marianna climbed out of the ditch, laying her flowers on the embankment. There were thickets near the river and huckleberries would soon be in season. Uncle Matt loved huckleberry pie.

Suddenly Marianna’s attention was drawn to muffled sounds coming from the river. Curious, she climbed up high enough to see over the embankment and noticed about a dozen canoes.

Her heart froze.

Indians!

She tried not to panic because there were always Indians hanging around the fort.

But these Indians looked different somehow—they were taller, leaner. Lifting her hand, she shaded her eyes against the glare of the sun—it looked to her as though their faces were painted! Uncle Matt had told her that when Indians went on a raid, they usually painted their faces.

Frozen in horror, Marianna watched them paddle toward the shore. It appeared that they were deliberately staying within the shadows of the trees to avoid being seen. Her first instinct was to run, to hide. She slid back down the embankment into the ditch, huddling close to the side, her body quaking.

Closing her eyes tightly, she hoped the Indians would paddle on by. Since this part of the woods was on a high incline, surely the Indians could not see the picnickers from the river. At least Marianna hoped they couldn’t.

Dread filled her heart when she heard the Indians pulling the canoes onto the riverbank. She hunched lower in the ditch, hoping they wouldn’t discover her hiding place.

But what about the others?

She must warn them of the danger.

Marianna rose up enough to peer past a clump of pine trees where the unsuspecting picnickers were still playing tag, unaware of the danger. She attempted to call out to warn them, but her throat was clogged with fear, and only a shuddering moan slipped past her trembling lips.

Glancing hopefully toward the fort, Marianna
realized it was too far away for help to reach them in time. With her heart pounding, Marianna heard a shout and saw some of the men grabbing up their rifles and herding the women and children toward the wagons. She was thankful they were aware of the danger.

That’s when Marianna realized her own plight. If she attempted to run to the others, the Indians would see her.

Hide!

That was her only hope.

It was as if her body were frozen in place and she couldn’t move. Burying her face in the spindly grass that grew alongside the ditch, she clamped her hands over her ears, flattening her body against the muddy embankment. A sob was building inside her throat and she swallowed twice, trying not to make any sound that would draw the Indians’ attention.

Suddenly screams filled the air, followed by the sound of gunfire. Above the fray she heard Widow Harkin’s voice as she directed the others to the wagons. Why were the Indians raiding so near the fort? No one had considered it dangerous to picnic so near Fort Benton.

Tremors shook Marianna’s slight body and she clamped her hands over her mouth to keep from screaming when she heard the clatter of wagons and realized that she was being left behind. If only she had stayed at home today as Aunt Cora had wanted her to, she’d be safe.

What must she do?

Run!

Reacting on instinct, Marianna leaped to her feet,
deciding to follow the ditch until she came to the thickest part of the woods. Then she might be able to follow the old trail home. With her heart beating so tumultuously it felt as if it would burst through her chest, Marianna ran as fast as her legs would take her. There would be a wide-open space before she reached the thickest part of the woods, but she had to take the chance—the Indians would surely find her if she stayed where she was.

Hearing a scream, and then a gurgling sound, Marianna paused, tears blinding her. Should she try to help whoever was in trouble? But what could she do?

Guilt lay heavy on her shoulders. If only she had called out to the others in time, all of them might have made it to safety. She had been cowardly. Taking a deep breath, she moved cautiously through the mud. Just ahead the ditch curved toward the woods. If she could make it that far, she might be safe.

Turning to gaze back at the picnic area, Marianna managed to gather the courage to raise her head just enough to peek over the embankment—and she wished she hadn’t. Shivering with horror, she saw Lillian’s mother lying sprawled on bloodstained grass; Widow Harkin was slumped against a tree, her mouth open, her eyes staring at nothing. If there were any other bodies, Marianna didn’t see them. But she knew that those who hadn’t made it to the wagons must all be dead.

Fear and guilt mingled with heavy grief, but what could she have done against an enemy bent on killing innocent people?

Nothing.

Fighting a wave of dizziness, she slumped onto the muddy ground, shaking so hard her teeth rattled. Where was Lillian? Marianna hadn’t seen her. She clamped her hands over her ears when she recognized Susan Worthington’s scream. Whimpering, she whispered a quick prayer that the Indians wouldn’t kill her.

When rational thought finally returned, Marianna realized the Indians would surely see her if she remained where she was.

It was already too late.

Marianna froze in terror as one of the Indians jumped into the ditch, waving a bloody tomahawk in her face. The upper part of his face was hideously streaked with black paint. She tried to look away, but those black eyes held her gaze, and she saw her own death.

In that moment Marianna knew she wanted very badly to live.

The Indian reached out his bloodstained hand to her, and she backed away. He grabbed her by the wrist and yanked her toward him with such force that pain tore through her arm. But pain could not compete with the fear that roared in her mind. Her chest burned, and she finally gasped, realizing she’d been holding her breath.

The savage climbed out of the ditch and pulled her up beside him with such force that she heard the bone in her arm snap. Biting her lip to keep from screaming, she staggered, falling to the ground in agony.