by Vivi Holt
A camp fire smoked and crackled in between a clump of trees some distance from them. Beside the fire sat two men – white men, speaking quietly. One had his feet resting on a rock and his hat over his eyes. The other perched on the ground, with his elbows on his knees, staring into the flames. Behind them a red wagon sat with a bay nag of a horse hobbled close by, a small handful of hay on the ground before it.
Maria had a sudden urge to yell for help. She drew a deep breath and lunged toward them, but Bodaway yanked her back and held her firm against his heaving chest. He pressed his hand hard over her mouth, stifling her cry, and shook his head, his eyes intense as they pleaded with her to be silent. “No, Mariya. We don’t know those men and I don’t like the look of them. Be silent.”
Tears blurred her vision and she cried against his hand. “Hlmmmp …”
His large brown eyes narrowed. “Mariya, no!”
This was her chance to return to civilization! These men could help her, they could rescue her. She had to get their attention. Surely Bodaway wouldn’t take on two white men, most likely armed with guns and other weapons. He’d let her go if only she could get away from him. Oh God, give me a chance to get away. Please! I want to go home. Give me strength. She bit his hand hard, and when he pulled back with a cry she wriggled from his grasp and dashed toward the men. “Help me! Help me, please!”
The men leaped to their feet, jerking guns from hidden places to wave in her direction. “Who’s there?” one yelled.
She staggered toward them, dreading Bodaway pulling her back or a bullet piercing her side. Instead, one of the men ran to her and she fell into his arms with a gasp before the world spun around and turned dark.
Chapter Ten
Bodaway watched as Mariya ran toward the men, collapsing into the arms of the taller one. He pulled back behind the wide trunk of the juniper, caught his breath, then took another look. The men had laid her by the fire and were talking in low voices. What should he do? He’d never wanted to take Mariya captive, and had counseled against attacking the English at all. Perhaps she’d be better off with her own kind. The thought pained him, but if it would bring her happiness, he’d walk away now and tell the others she’d disappeared.
Except something about these men unsettled him. He crept back to where the horses stood grazing in the clearing, led them further away and tied them to a tree before slipping back to the campsite. Mariya lay still beside the fire as the shorter man leaned over her, his large stomach protruding between his shirt buttons as he tied a thick rope around her wrists.
She woke and cried out, her voice carrying loud and clear through the woods. “What’s going on?”
“Well, hullo there, li’l lady. Seems ya had sumpin’ of a shock.” Bodaway knew enough of the English tongue to understand what they were saying, even though he found it hard to speak their words himself.
“Why am I bound? I insist you remove this binding at once!” Mariya struggled against the rope and stood to her feet with a grunt.
“Jus’ makin’ sure ya …” Here Bodaway lost track of what they said. Their voices didn’t carry well to where he was hiding, nor could he understand every word. But it looked like he’d been right about the men – they didn’t intend to help Mariya. He snuck forward to hide behind another tree, then another, moving gradually toward the campsite.
Mariya said something – and the fat man slapped her hard across the face. The sound of it reverberated through the woods. She cried out and fell back onto the ground. The man pulled a kerchief from his own neck and tied it tightly around her mouth and behind her head while the tall man chuckled and took a swig from a canteen. Powerless, she sobbed where she lay against the leaf-covered ground.
Bodaway’s head flooded with adrenaline and his ears buzzed. How dare they treat Mariya that way. He pulled a long knife from a sheath on his calf and an old revolver from the holster on his belt. He always carried the English gun with him, but rarely used it – the noise it made scared off every animal for miles around. Besides, he didn’t like having to barter for more bullets when he ran out. But he’d seen these men had guns, so he’d need his as well.
As the fat man laughed and turned his back on Mariya, Bodaway sprang forward and hurled the knife into his back. The man grunted and landed on his face, unmoving. The tall man yelled and reached for the rifle at his feet, but Bodaway yanked the revolver up, aimed and shot him full in the chest. The man dropped to the ground without a sound.
Bodaway pushed the revolver back into his holster as he approached. He tugged the knife from the fat man’s back, wiped it clean on the man’s clothing and returned it to the sheath hidden beneath his pant leg. Finally, he turned to face Mariya, who was staring wide-eyed at him, and pulled the kerchief from her mouth. “Are you well… Mariya?”
She blinked up at him, eyes glistening with tears, and dipped her head slightly. Did she blame him for what had happened? Was she happy to see him? He couldn’t say. He lifted her gently to her feet and led her back silently the way they’d come.
***
As they returned to the camp, Maria’s thoughts spun like a whirlwind, tormenting her with what she’d wanted, what she’d experienced and witnessed in the woods, and what Bodaway had done to rescue her.
When she and Bodaway had been hunting together, she’d felt happy for the first time in months. For a few brief minutes, she’d forgotten she was a captive, forgotten the nightmare she’d been dragged into. She’d felt like her old self again — as though she was back in the wagon train and bringing a partridge home to Fred. Only Fred wasn't there, it was Bodaway’s smile that lit her up inside, not Fred’s. And the thought of that sent a pang of guilt through her chest.
Then she’d seen the men in the woods, men she thought would rescue her – and she’d bit Bodaway’s hand where he’d held it against her mouth to quiet her, and run. And all for nothing. What if he hadn’t stuck around, if he’d left her with those men who were gleefully telling her all their horrid plans for her? She shuddered, remembering their cruel words.
Bodaway rode beside her in silence, his strong back ramrod straight on the brown-and-white pony, his face expressionless. She swallowed hard at the thought of what he might do, given her behavior. He’d never hurt her before, but after she’d bitten him and run away into the arms of those beastly men, who knew what he might do? Would he discipline her? Give her up? Let Anunkasan have her? Her thoughts spun in a tumult of worry and regret, and suddenly she clung to the idea of staying safely tucked away in Bodaway’s tent with he and the children — Impeme’s smiling face by her side.
They had dug shallow graves and buried the men, grunting and heaving as perspiration soaked through their soiled clothing. Then Bodaway had foraged through the men’s wagon, taking whatever they could use in the village. Now he pulled the stolen horse along behind his pony, laden with those same supplies.
Maria drew a deep breath and held it before releasing it slowly and quietly. She was exhausted and covered with dirt. Her nails were chipped and bleeding from their digging, and her hair lay in grit-covered strands around her grimy face. The sun was setting behind them, and it threw the darkening landscape into sharp relief against the distant mountain ranges bathed in golden light. Shadows lengthened all around them with each passing moment, and in her heart as well.
When they reached the village at dusk, Bodaway still hadn’t spoken. She dismounted, her eyes darting nervously from the ground to his face and back again, waiting to hear what he’d say. Would he punish her, tell the chief what she’d done, tie her up in the teepee? She couldn’t bear to wait any longer. “I am sorry.”
Bodaway froze, then looked at her.
The words tumbled out, one after the other. “I mean … I am not sorry that I … I should have listened to you. You told me those men were trouble and I didn’t listen and we both could have been killed.” She kicked the soft earth.
He slipped from his pony’s back to stand before her. His dark eyes met hers and na
rrowed. “You want to go home.” It was a statement of fact, not a question.
She nodded slowly. “Yes. Of course.”
“And where is that?” He seemed genuinely curious. “Your home.”
She frowned. Where was home? Back in England with Mother and Father? That was the last time she’d had a home, but she and Fred had left that far behind, along with almost everything they’d had. Even before Fred was killed, they’d been wanderers for months. Who knew what had happened to her remaining things after the attack on the Bozeman Trail? And they’d been headed to a town she’d never seen before. Really, unless she could find her way back to England, she didn’t have a home anywhere anymore. And how could she make it back across the Atlantic without a penny to her name? She sighed, but couldn’t answer him.
Bodaway didn’t wait for her response. He turned and strode away, leading the three horses after him. She stood there for a moment, watching him leave, and groaned in frustration. She didn’t understand Bodaway, didn’t know what to expect from him. And now, she realized, she had nowhere else to go but to him. She peeked inside the teepee and found the children already asleep, but the steady rhythm of their soft breathes did little for her frayed nerves.
She went inside and fell on her sleeping mat with another sigh. She didn’t have the energy to bathe before bed – she’d just leave it until morning. She rolled onto her side and curled her legs up, tucking her hair behind her ears before slipping her hands beneath her cheek.
After a while, Bodaway crept through the doorway silently and made his way to the fire pit in the center of the tent. His wet skin gleamed in the firelight, and his hair hung dark down his back. He stoked the fire with a long stick, piled a few more pieces of wood onto the embers, then padded over to his sleeping mat, just above Maria’s head, and lay down with a soft release of breath.
She wasn’t sure what she expected from him, but it wasn’t this. He hadn’t said a word to her about her attempted escape. It was as though it’d never happened. She frowned and squeezed her eyes shut tight. How she missed Fred. She was so alone, so lost. She longed to feel his arms around her, to sink into his embrace. How could God have let this happen to them? How could He have allowed Fred to die such a violent death, torn from her before they’d had a chance to live out their dreams together? Now all those dreams were dead and buried with him.
A silent sob escaped her mouth and she clamped it shut, but couldn’t stop the tears from running down her cheeks in the dark.
Chapter Eleven
“We’re moving camp,” said Tomowa.
Maria looked up from the stew pot she was stirring, her eyebrows arched. “What do you mean?”
“It’s time to leave this river behind and head north. The winter has passed and the tatanka have moved to the northern pastures. We must follow them.”
“Oh.” Maria stirred the stew again. “When will we move?”
“Today.” Tomowa stood to her feet, stretched and yawned before rubbing the sleep from her eyes with her fists.
“Today? But how …?”
“We’ll pack up after breakfast and be on our way by noon.” Tomowa smiled, then scurried back to her own teepee where her parents were already eating.
Maria stared after her, her mouth agape. She had no idea what to do. The children were still in bed. Bodaway was out somewhere – he always seemed to disappear first thing in the morning, only returning to eat before leaving again. She glanced around and noted some of the teepees were already being taken down by early risers. She shrugged, stuck her head through the door of the tent and called the children to breakfast.
As she was ladling stew into the children’s bowls, she saw Bodaway striding through the village toward them. He stood before the fire and blew on his hands with a smile.
“Tomowa says we are leaving,” said Maria, handing him a bowl of stew.
He sat beside the children and took a bite. “Hmm.”
“Is there something I should do to help with that?”
He studied her face, his head tilted to one side. “The teepee must come down. See?” He pointed to a neighboring tent, which was currently being wrapped up neatly by Waneta, the usual sneer on her wrinkled face.
Maria frowned. She supposed she could do it – it couldn’t be too hard if an old crone like Waneta could manage it on her own. The only problem was, Waneta knew how and she didn’t.
She finished up her stew and collected the dirty dishes to wash in the river. By the time she returned, most of the teepees were gone. She packed the dishes away and pulled everything out of the teepee. Chepi and Lonan seemed to know what to do with the sleeping mats and their other belongings, so she left them to it. Impeme was playing some kind of game with a set of mismatched rocks nearby, which was fine – probably best the child stayed out of the way.
She stood in front of the teepee and stared at it, her hands on her narrow hips and her brow furrowed. Where to start? Bodaway’s dwelling was one of the largest in the village, standing tall and proud with long heavy poles leaning together and a blanket of animal skins stitched finely and pulled taut around the outside. She glanced about, hoping to find someone nearby who would give her direction, but they were all occupied with their own chores. Even the children had wandered off, their tasks complete. Only Impeme played nearby with a handful of other young children. Her childish squeals stirred her heart with a moment of joy.
Returning her attention to the task at hand, Maria stood on tiptoe and reached above the doorway of the tent, untying the hides that formed the door flap. They fell to the ground, and she picked them up and beat the dust from them with her hands before folding them neatly and laying them on top of the pile of sleeping mats with satisfaction. That hadn’t been too difficult.
All right, now what? She reached up again to feel along the seam above the door – it seemed as though that was what held the teepee together. She found the ends of the ropes and undid the knots, her mouth twisted in concentration. The edges of the seam parted, and she shouted with glee before pulling it open further. She couldn’t reach up to the top of the tent, but she shook and tugged at it until the entire tent wall fell slack.
Smiling, she walked around the outside of the place that had been home for the last few weeks, wrapping the skins tightly to form a long, neat package. She was about halfway around when she tripped over one of the long poles that held the tent up and fell to the ground on her back. No longer secured by the skins, it flipped clear of its footings and the entire structure buckled. She watched with wide eyes as it wavered, then she squealed as the heavy poles landed on her and the remaining skins drifted down on top of them to cover her entirely.
Wrapped in darkness and weighed down by half a dozen weather-hardened timbers, Maria lay still, her chest heaving with each panicked breath. Now what was she to do? She was stuck, and was sure if she moved she’d just make things worse. Maybe someone had heard all the clatter and would come to her aid. If she called out, perhaps someone nearby would help.
The sound of footsteps seemed to confirm her hopes. “Hello? Who’s there? Can you help me get out of here, please?” she cried, her voice muffled by the teepee.
“Hopeless!” Waneta cawed in her gravelly voice.
Maria grimaced. Waneta was the last person on Earth she’d wanted to have witness this particular humiliation. The old woman had ignored her entirely for the first months of her captivity, but more recently she’d seemed to derive some sort of pleasure every time Maria failed at something. As far as the hag was concerned, Maria was just a captive, a slave, never one of the People. “Waneta, please. Just help me out of here, and I promise I’ll leave you be …”
“Fool. Couldn’t watch where you were going. No, always thinking about something else. Dreaming. If you kept your mind on what you’re doing, maybe you wouldn’t mess up so often. But a wasicu like you has no place here – you don’t belong with the People, you don’t belong with the chief’s son and you don’t belong in a teepee. Go home to your
English garbage dump and leave us alone!” Waneta kicked the pile, just missing Maria’s ribs, then stormed away, leaving her still stranded beneath the crumpled tent.
Maria sighed, hating that she’d let the old witch have the final word. As if it were her fault she’d been kidnapped and forced to live with her tribe! She’d gladly go home – just show her the way. Tears threatened, but she held them back, not wanting to cry because of Waneta – she wouldn’t give her the satisfaction. No, the best thing to do was get herself out of this mess and bundle the tent up as pretty as you please. That would get under Waneta’s skin more than anything else.
She struggled against the poles and felt them give way easily – too easily. She frowned, then noticed two large moccasin-covered feet beside her. The skins lifted, and Bodaway stared down at her, a twinkle in his dark eyes. “Would you like some help?”
Maria sighed and grimaced. “Yes, please.”
He laughed and reached out a hand to pull her to her feet. Her skin tingled at his touch and she quickly drew her hand back as soon as she was upright. With burning cheeks, she averted her eyes and brushed the dust from her deerskin dress. “Thank you.”
He nodded and extracted the rest of the tent skin from the tangle of poles. He laid it out flat on the ground and rolled it up, carefully wiping the dust from its surface with a handful of grass as he went. She watched with interest as he skillfully tied leather straps around the tent and carried it to where his pony stood, loading it onto the travois that was strapped behind the animal. Then he carried the poles, two at a time, down to the riverbank and stashed them in a patch of shrubbery.
Maria began moving the cookware, dishes and sleeping mats onto the travois. “Aren’t we taking the tent poles?” she asked.