Chapter Three
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 throug
h 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.
His hand closed around the leather medallion he wore tied around his neck. It depicted a raven sitting on a perch, wings outstretched. The bird was his personal helper, and knowing by the bird’s actions that there were no enemies close by, Striking Thunder took his own pouch of dried meat and berries and sat in the grass to eat, anxious to resume the pursuit.
Long before Wi rose the next morning to show her face in the east, the warriors resumed traveling with speed over the flat prairie land. By midmorning, they reached the Big Muddy River. A short distance away, they found an overturned coach and the strewn bodies of dead soldiers. Striking Thunder examined an arrow shaft protruding from the back of one soldier. “Yellow Dog!”
The other warriors glanced around, uneasy in the presence of the dead left to rot under the heat of Wi. Striking Thunder, about to remount, spotted articles of clothing strewn on the ground near the overturned coach. Picking up a bonnet, he stared at it for a long time then crushed it in his hands. The situation had grown worse. Not only had Yellow Dog and his renegade warriors killed white soldiers, but they’d taken a white woman captive. Stepping over an empty valise, he snatched up a smaller dress and closed his eyes, battling his fury.
Ever since the soldiers had arrived at Fort Pierre, once an old trading stop on the Missouri that was now a military outpost, tensions between the whites and Indians had been shaky. This atrocity would bring down the wrath of the white army upon all Indian tribes. Arikara, Cheyenne or Sioux, it would not matter to the soldiers when they found their slain comrades and learned of the missing woman and child.
Two-Ree, his closest friend and brother-in-law, joined him. “We must leave. If soldiers come upon us, we will be blamed for Yellow Dog’s crimes. The soldiers already wait for an excuse to kill our people.”
Striking Thunder tossed the clothing to the ground, his lips compressed. With the arrival of the soldiers had come raids on Indian villages. Women were raped, tipis were shredded and furs were stolen by the greedy whites who believed they owned the land and everything on it. But this land belonged to The People. They would fight for it. “You are right, my friend. There is nothing we can do here. We must stop Yellow Dog before he brings the wrath of the white soldiers upon our people.” With one last look at the clothing fluttering in the breeze, he moun
ted and left the scene of death.
Sitting next to a small, nearly dry creek, Emma held Renny who slept fitfully. Around her, the late-afternoon air burst with the song of a meadowlark and the hum of bees in frantic search for a last find of sweet nectar. Above her, the sun beat down on her and a cool breeze caressed her reddened neck, bringing a measure of relief to her overheated body even as it intensified the sting of pain in her burned skin. She stifled her own moans so that she didn’t wake Renny. Emma hurt all over from three days of constant travel. Her eyes, swollen from the sun and wind, and gritty with lack of sleep, fluttered closed. A buzz went through her body but she jerked her eyes open. She longed to sleep but didn’t dare let her guard down.
So far, Yellow Dog hadn’t raped her. Putting distance between them and the murdered soldiers left no time for him to do much other than terrorize her, but it was just a matter of time. Emma pushed the fearsome thoughts from her mind and did what she could to block the burning rays of the sun from Renny’s blistered face. Her own wasn’t much better. The burned skin felt tight and her lips were bruised and swollen from Yellow Dog’s slaps. Her shoulders sagged. She no longer fought him. Instead, she hoarded her energy, watching and waiting for the chance to escape.
Renny stirred. “Em, I’m so hungry,” she moaned, opening her glazed eyes.
“I know, sweets.” Emma’s stomach rumbled. She’d given her sister most of her ration of food when they’d stopped at noon, eating only enough to keep from passing out. Tenderly, she patted Renny’s damaged skin with the edge of her dress, which she’d soaked in the creek.
Ripping off another strip of her petticoat, she tied it around her sister’s lower face to keep the sun off the burned skin. It wasn’t much, but it was the best she could do. She gathered Renny back into her arms and they sat in silence while the warriors conferred in a huddle a short distance away.
“Emma?” Renny whimpered.
White Flame Page 4