He pulled his robe more tightly about him. There would be time, in the spring, as they traveled to the Sweet Grass Hills. He would go to Many Words and speak his heart. Until then, he would dream of chestnut hair and flashing brown eyes.
CHAPTER 24
The air was bitterly cold as Liza stirred. Revived by the night’s sleep, she examined herself carefully. There were no unsightly scabs and she seemed to have regained a good deal of her strength. She wondered at her wild, desperate imaginings.
She stood up and shook her arms and legs, as if to test each limb. Relieved, she knelt beside the fire pit and stoked the embers. The flames jumped up and she quickly placed a piece of pitch across the fire. She would be more cautious about burning up her meager supply of kindling.
She heard a strange commotion outside. Reaching the door of her tipi, she pulled back the flap but nothing moved outside. The world was deathly still.
Perhaps a gust of wind.
Liza returned to her small fire, but an eeriness had filled her lodge. Once more she was drawn to the door, but once more, she saw nothing in the bitter blue dawn.
But something was amiss.
She quickly pulled on her leggings and moccasins, then wrapped a small, fur cape about her. Last night’s storm had abated, but clouds lingered and the world seemed frozen, laced with icicles and hairy frost.
She walked out past her own lodge and scanned the riverbank. Nothing stirred. The trees near the water’s edge were covered in white, limbs hanging low, branches strung with gossamer crystals. A foggy mist clung to the water like wispy shreds of cotton and the heavy brush dripped with the white mist. Even without the sun’s rising, the crystalline landscape was brightly lit.
Shivering but still curious, Liza decided to investigate. She padded through the snow, circling the village once. Even the camp dogs had found hiding places. One old horse who had wandered into camp stood like a frozen statue. Its long, shaggy mane and winter coat were painted with frost. She nuzzled its cold nose and wiped the ice from its eyelashes.
She moved on. A new fire had been built in the lodge belonging to Yellow Dog’s wife, for a fresh curl of dark smoke rose from the smoke hole. Yellow Dog and his son, Two Son, had died just a few days apart. Shot-in-the-Foot, Yellow Dog’s wife, and a young daughter were all that remained of his family.
By the time Liza reached the boundary of the circle of tipis, she chided herself for her apprehensions. Yet the cloud of foreboding still hung in the air. Was it because this had become a camp of death, a village of dying people? Was it the last gasp of a sick people that had curdled her thoughts?
She sighed and looked downriver. She could see the tops of lodges in Heavy Runner and Standing Wolf’s camps. All was silent and still, deathly still.
Just as the yellow-orange rays of daylight broke through the clouds along the eastern horizon, Liza caught sight of an elderly man running across the snow. He was familiar but at this distance, she could not see who he was. Was it Heavy Runner himself? Why was he running?
Fear overtook her as she scanned the rolling landscape beyond. Then she shivered, as if she knew what she would see.
She gasped, and stumbled backward.
Stretching from one end of the far hollow to the other, barely discernible above the waves of white ravines, was a blue-black line of men, some on foot, others on horseback. Dozens stood waiting, but the only movement was the stamping of their horses’ feet.
Frantically, Liza’s attention returned to the old man moving forward, one hand above his head. She wanted to call out, warn him. But he was too far away.
It was too late.
A single shot rang out and the old man staggered. In slow motion, he stopped, then swayed, falling to his knees. His cry was lost as a hail of cheers and shouts erupted from the line of men.
Suddenly, women and children were stumbling out of the lodges. Some ran forward to investigate the shooting, while others fled in all directions.
Liza did not wait to see anymore.
Dashing back through the encampments, she screamed, “Soldiers! Run!”
She swerved to avoid the children and hysterical women floundering out of their tipis and across the snowy plain, some only half-dressed. Several old men, grabbing their rifles and bows, ran forward toward the approaching line of horses.
Liza could not look back. The muffled hoof-beats, like a chorus of drums, pounding, beating against the snow-packed earth, grew louder. Slapping against the tipis as she ran, she sobbed over and over, “Soldiers!”
Two elderly women, peeking out of their lodge, spied Liza’s face, then spotted the ragged columns of men approaching in the distance. Grabbing up their robes, they hobbled off after the horde of figures flooding to the river.
Liza did not stop until she reached Crow Woman’s lodge. Panting, almost unable to speak, she ducked inside, snatching a parfleche of pemmican and a gourd that hung from one of the lodge poles. “Quickly!” she cried. “Soldiers! They’re here! Come. Now.”
Turning to Crow Woman, who had not responded to her commands, Liza realized the older woman sat, mute, resolute. Beyond her in the dim light lay Come Running, who was deathly pale. Only the scabs which covered her face and limbs marred her fine features.
Liza yelled again, ordering Crow Woman to move, but Crow Woman regarded her only for a moment before turning away. Desperately, Liza screamed, “We must get away! There are soldiers, with guns. Please. We’ll take Come Running with us. We’ll hide. Now!”
Crow Woman shook her head, then flipped open her buffalo robe to expose her naked body. Liza gasped. Like her sister Come Running, Crow Woman’s belly was covered in the all-too familiar blisters.
Liza froze, not knowing whether to stay or flee. As with her father on the night of the attack, she could not imagine leaving Crow Woman behind.
The confusion outside was growing. People were screaming and guns were being fired all around them. Horses stampeded through the village as the soldiers began to sweep through.
Liza jumped. “Please, I know a hiding place.”
Crow Woman shook her head again. Then she stood up and walked over to Liza, a frown creasing her potato-brown cheeks, her dark eyes wet with unshed tears. She slapped Liza so fiercely across the face that she stumbled backward, shocked. Next, the older woman screeched at her—unintelligible sounds in Blackfeet.
Liza stared at her, then ran to her, throwing her arms around her. “Please, I love you,” she sobbed. “You are my near-mother. You are my friend, nita-ka.”
Crow Woman pushed her away and the two stood in silence for a moment, their eyes locked, their hearts breaking.
Then Liza fled from the tipi, fighting the desire to return to Crow Woman and die with her. But the instinct to live was too great; the will to survive catapulted her toward the upper banks of the river, to her secret hiding place.
She ran, crouching, from lodge to lodge, then from tree to rock. She did not look back, fearing that if she did, she would never be able to go forward. The screams of terror followed her, while pounding hooves sent tremors across the frozen earth, a cacophony of death and terror.
Liza’s throat burned as she pushed on. She dared not stop, not even for a breath. Every step was another step toward safety, and she started counting the number of steps she took. Ten, eleven, twelve—
She saw her hiding place and quickly dove into the heavy brush, crawling until she was buried in brambly vines and tall, dead reeds. For the first time, she was grateful for the heavy snow even though it filled her moccasins and leggings, sending shivers up and down her legs and body.
As the sounds of horses and gunfire moved closer, she stifled the hot tears of fear and grief that could betray her. She willed herself not to think of Crow Woman, or Come Running, or all the others.
There would be time for that later, if she survived.
More gunfire exploded only yards from her. Stuffing a fist into her mouth, she squeezed her eyes shut and swallowed her c
ries.
Minutes or hours later—Liza could not tell—the gunfire became sporadic. Still she remained, paralyzed from fear and cold. Suddenly she heard footsteps. She pressed her eyes shut again, fearing they could be a lantern, signaling her presence.
The men’s voices were hushed as they approached her hiding place but their words were clear and harsh.
“Stinkin’ Injuns,” muttered one.
“Filthy,” returned the other.
Liza burned with rage, wishing she was a man or at least possessed a gun. She’d blow them both to kingdom come.
They moved closer, the tips of their boots only a stone’s throw away. She took a shallow, quick breath even as she shoved her fist deeper into her mouth.
“They’re like a pack of squalling pups,” whined the first trooper. “But ole Smithy, he couldn’t take it. He high-tailed it, cryin’ like a baby.”
“Smithy’s jest an Injun-lover,” grumbled the second soldier. “Sure wish we had time to take some scalps, though. You can get two bucks for a good one. But Cap’n Baker, he don’t want no scalping. Says this one’s official, only lookin’ for those that been doin’ the horse stealin’ and murderin.’”
“I think he’s jest scairt of what’ll come back to haunt him...like the ghosts of these Pikuni.”
“Well, the scuttlebutt is that ole Sheridan hisself told DeTrobriand to strike and strike hard. You think this was hard ’nough?”
Liza’s eyelids fluttered open but she quickly pinched them shut. Could they hear her heart pounding? Still gasping for breath, she was afraid her lungs would explode.
“’Cept for killin’ the children, this was the best huntin’ I’ve done,” laughed the first trooper. “The babies squeal, though. Like coyote pups. But I seen one little squaw I wouldn’t a’minded givin’ a poke. Curtis put a bullet through her. Told him he was a fool. Most of these squaws are pockmarked and dirty as rats. Here, gimme that bottle. Where’d you get it anyways?”
“I got it from Spence. He got it from them runners that come through a week or so ago. It’s some of the rotgut they been pawnin’ off on them lunatic Blackfeet braves. Tastes like horse piss. No wonder so many of them is as crazy as fleas. It’d make anyone’s arse pucker. We better move. Colonel said he wants some prisoners to in-ter-o-gate.”
“Well, I gotta admit that kickin’ ’em when they’s all huddled down for the winter is the right way to put the bee-jeezus into ’em!”
The two drunken troopers stumbled away, then and Liza spit out her fist along with her hot breath. Tears escaped and were running down her cheeks. They burned in the cold air and she struggled to wipe them away.
If she didn’t, she might never stop crying.
Liza had never felt so enraged or so frightened. She whimpered, bile rising up to her throat. How could this be happening?
Time passed painfully, but she was too afraid to move. Occasional pops of gunfire could be heard, indicating soldiers were still in the area. The sound of horses had long since faded into the distance. No doubt, the army had taken the Pikuni horses as well. Without them, the people would be helpless.
Thinking of their helplessness, Liza wondered how many had been slaughtered. How many, already sick or dying, had been cut down? Even now, smoke drifted to where she lay and Liza knew the soldiers had burned the villages.
She shut her eyes again, resisting the pain that had settled over her. She had to focus her energy on overcoming the cold and the wet. Moving her shoulders, she found it almost impossible to raise either arm. But as she wiggled her near-frozen toes, she felt them tingle.
The pain was at least a reminder that she was alive. It seemed a welcome feeling, and filled her with renewed determination to survive. She would shed no more tears today. Instead, for those who had lost their lives, she would live. She would live to be a witness to everything that had happened here this day.
CHAPTER 25
Nearly frozen, Liza pulled herself out of the heavy brush. The day was almost gone.
She struggled to her feet, shaking so terribly she could hardly stand or move. The muscles of her neck and shoulders burned like hot irons, and her hands and feet were almost beyond feeling. She fought to ignore the pain as she placed one foot in front of the other.
The village no longer existed. What she saw was more paralyzing than her physical predicament and, as she blinked back tears, she felt her stomach rise up. She turned away and vomited.
Where people once walked, bodies were strewn like rags across smoking, littered debris. Lodges had been torn down, then burned. The smell lingering in the air was so nauseating she could hardly move.
But she did. She staggered along the once-familiar path leading to Crying Wind’s lodge.
Where once his enormous tipi stood, beautifully painted, nothing but ashes and smoking lodge poles remained. She held her breath and took a step closer. “Dear God, no!” she wailed, spotting the remains of Crow Woman and Come Running. The two sisters had died in each other’s arms.
She dropped to the ground, pounding her fists against her thighs, and cried.
Her thoughts numbed: Were there no other survivors of Crying Wind’s camp? Had everyone perished? Finally, she heard a sound, the voice of a child. A young child cried out as Liza dug through the fallen timbers.
“I’m here!” she screeched, pulling at the rubble. Pieces of a lodge pole fell apart in her hands, the fragments still warm against her cold fingertips. She reached out for the little girl’s hand, tiny and limp, and sobbed, “I’ve got you. I’ve got you.”
She glimpsed a small face. Though the girl was covered with blood, Liza recognized Bull Child, the youngest daughter of Basket Dancer, a woman not much older than Liza herself.
Liza tugged at the last pole, shoving it to one side. She laughed as she felt the child move, and tears ran down her cheeks. Miraculously, except for a few bruises and a cut to her face, Bull Child was not harmed.
The girl allowed Liza to lift her and Liza immediately carried her away from the smoking tipi. Wide-eyed and solemn, Bull Child clung to her.
“We’ll be fine,” whispered Liza. “I promise you.” But she had to harness her own fear as the child pressed her small face to her shoulder. “I’ll not leave you,” she added, hoping to ease the child’s trembling.
Bull Child closed her eyes and her tiny whimpers subsided. They moved on past another lodge where an old woman and her dog lay side by side in the ashes. Blood had pooled around them giving them each a crimson halo.
“How could anyone do this?” she moaned. “How?”
Hardly able to see through her tears, Liza carried Bull Child to the river, where she tended her wound. It had stopped bleeding, the dried blood collecting on her scalp and along her cheek. Gently, Liza rubbed her fingers across the little girl’s soot-stained cheeks, smiling as she wiped away as much crusted blood as she could.
Then, she wrapped her arms around the child and pulled her close. Their soft breathing was the only sound in the oppressive silence that clung to the remains of Crying Wind’s village.
By early evening, at least two dozen survivors had appeared, some sooty from ash, others black and drenched from the mud holes they had dug along the riverbank. All were chilled to the bone and some shook uncontrollably. They moved lethargically, eyes empty, speaking little. Only the children sobbed as the old men and women rifled through the ravaged camps, looking for something or, perhaps, nothing.
Several reported that they had seen a large number of Heavy Runner’s people escape, while some were taken hostage. No one knew where those were headed, nor who had been captured and taken away. And no one knew if the army would release them or lock them up. But when they realized the people had contracted smallpox, would they do something even more terrible? How many had survived?
Liza clasped Bull Child’s hand. They were the only survivors from Crying Wind’s small band, unless others had been taken or escaped down river. Feeling lost, she approached a sm
all gathering where one woman she vaguely remembered as a member of Heavy Runner’s camp and friend to Come Running stood next to a bedraggled, elderly man. Toward her familiar face, Liza moved timidly.
The woman’s name was Cut Finger. She was covered in soot but her lovely face was like a torch light for Liza. At the same time, the man beside her was so frighteningly austere and intimidating that Liza almost turned away. His long gray-black hair was matted and filthy, his face scarred and pitted. One scar was shaped like a half-moon, encircling his left eye. Spotting Liza, he frowned and grunted then drew his left arm, which appeared broken, firmly to his side.
His steely gaze raked her face with angry intensity as she stepped up to Cut Finger.
Cut Finger greeted her and Bull Child. Pulling the child into her arms, she gave her a hug. Tears were in her eyes as she stood and spoke to Liza. She indeed remembered Liza Five Shots, whose near-mothers were Come Running and Crow Woman, and whose father was Many Words, the holy man who came to live among the Pikuni.
Liza’s tears matched hers as the woman hugged her again.
The grim, old man said nothing.
At last, Cut Finger turned to him and spoke so rapidly that Liza could not translate. The old warrior swung his free arm in large, wild circles. She tensed, wondering if he would refuse to help her; he seemed to be protesting something. Did he blame her for what had happened?
Cut Finger interrupted him, saying something stern in response to his remarks. She turned back to Liza and led her and Bull Child away. The three walked down to the river where other women were filling up paunches with fresh water.
Even from a distance, Liza could feel the man’s bitter hatred and she tried not to shiver. Perhaps it would be better if she left and made her own way.
She fought back the fearful thought. Where would she go? She had no idea where her father or Red Eagle were, and she couldn’t travel very far through the wilderness. Most importantly, when they returned, she wanted to be where they could find her.
A handful of women continued to gather what items they could from the ruined villages. As they worked together, Liza learned that the man’s name was Mad Horse and that he and two women, Fat Dog and Sharp Hand, had eluded the soldiers by hiding under corpses.
Across the Sweet Grass Hills Page 19