He glanced over to where Running Antelope was crouched and even through the tangle of brush and trees that separated them, he could feel the rising intensity of his cousin’s hatred. Revenge would be sweet, but was it wise?
As his thoughts waged battle in his brain, Running Antelope bounded out of the thicket. Like a madman, shrieking and screaming, he rushed at the surprised trooper nearest him, driving his knife into his soft belly. Grabbing the gun in the soldier’s belt, he turned on the other men.
One shot was all Running Antelope could fire before two shots in rapid succession brought the warrior to the ground. Blood erupted from his head and Running Antelope howled as he writhed in pain. Trying to get up, he teetered for a moment, then fell to the snow in a heap. He jerked as another bullet tore through his shoulder. The white snow was flooded with his red blood.
Red Eagle, overcome with rage, rushed forward wielding his own knife. Tears filled his eyes as he ran to where Running Antelope lay. His words were clear as he cried, “You dog-faced murderers!”
His face contorted and he swung the blade through the air. “You are filth, less than the insects that crawl through a dead man’s body. Go ahead. Kill me. But even then, my spirit will come back to hunt you down. Just as the spirits of those lying here will haunt you forever.”
“Don’t shoot,” came a clipped command. “Don’t shoot.”
“Yes, shoot me,” challenged Red Eagle, whirling around again. “This was Running Antelope. He was a strong warrior. I am Red Eagle. Kill me!”
“I said, don’t,” growled the voice again. Red Eagle turned to face his enemy.
A tall lieutenant stepped through the rubble, one gloved hand raised. His eyes, like chips of blue ice, glistened under the cavalry hat pulled down low over his face.
The other soldiers glanced from their lieutenant to Red Eagle. One nervously fingered the trigger of his gun.
“No one shoot, dammit! Put your guns away. This one speaks English. He might just have some answers for the general.” The lieutenant turned to Red Eagle, squaring his broad shoulders.
“It is dangerous to let me live,” whispered Red Eagle. He had never experienced such hatred as he did then, staring into the man’s cool eyes. These eyes had seen his mother’s people die, he reminded himself. These eyes had grazed over their dying faces as if they were dogs. Women and children. Old people.
The lieutenant pushed his cap back, revealing sandy gray hair. He laughed sardonically as he pointed his gun at Red Eagle’s head. “Ha, you’re wary. That’s good. And it would be good if you’d talk,” he said in halting Blackfeet. In English he added, “We know about Mountain Chief and Owl Child. We know the others, too, Crow Top, Black Weasel, Eagle’s Rib—all were seen here, part of this winter camp. Where’d they run to? Were you and your friend here off to join them somewhere? Don’t try to protect them. They’re murdering thieves.”
Red Eagle felt the hair on his neck stand up as he stared back at the man with the gun. “Who is it that murders women and children in their beds?” he demanded in Blackfeet.
The lieutenant waved the barrel of his pistol in a circle. “Start moving,” he said carefully. “I got a half dozen men who’d like nothing better than to pump you full of lead.”
Red Eagle’s eyes narrowed as he watched the officer’s long-barreled pistol. The man was big and shrewd. No doubt he handled a gun well.
“You won’t do those people any good lying face-down in the snow,” added the lieutenant. He nodded his head in the direction of the black remains that were once Crying Wind’s village.
At that moment, Red Eagle decided it didn’t matter. Liza was very likely dead. His mother’s people were dead. Running Antelope lay bleeding, having died a warrior’s death.
Spinning on his heel, he pulled his knife. But before he realized what was happening, he felt the crushing blow. In the next instant, the world went black.
****
When Red Eagle opened his eyes, he had been bound and gagged. His hands were tied behind him, as were his feet. He lay sprawled on his belly in the trampled snow, not far from the soldier’s horses.
Cursing his foolishness, Red Eagle wished he had died. Why hadn’t they put a bullet to his head? He thought of Running Antelope and groaned. At least he had died nobly.
He glanced at the line of tethered horses. With their heads lowered, they stood in the gathering darkness quietly. Steam clouded their nostrils and one stamped its foot. Beyond them, Red Eagle could see the curling smoke from the troopers’ campfire.
Drawing his feet up behind him, Red Eagle fidgeted, but found he was bound tightly. He could not reach the twisted rope that held his feet. He tried rolling into a ball and rocking back and forth, but was still unable to reach the twisted knot.
Frustrated, he dropped his chin to the wet, icy snow under him and closed his eyes. Instantly, he opened them as he heard the deep voice of the lieutenant’s boots crunching across the snow.
“What the hell?” A boot swung into his ribs and Red Eagle coughed as pain shot down his back and through his head. “Go ahead, try it. You wiggle another inch and I’ll take off one finger at a time. You understand me, breed?”
Red Eagle’s nostrils flared and he growled instinctively, but held himself taut even as the lieutenant swung his boot a second time. “Maybe I should turn you over to those potlickers over there,” taunted the big man. “They’re half-drunk but they’d cotton to taking turns at you.” He pointed to where the blue clad men were gathered around the fire, their faces concealed by the wall of horses. “Whether you live or die means nothing to me,” continued the lieutenant, his blue eyes hard and cool. “But it might just mean something to you—”
One soldier, hearing the taunt, clambered to his feet.
“Come on, Lieutenant,” wailed another as he stumbled forward. “Look at ’im. He’d sooner piss on you.”
The lieutenant grumbled, “You idiot. DeTrobriand wants a few healthy ones to interrogate. Sick women and squalling papooses aren’t what he wanted.”
“This one’s better dead,” snapped a third soldier. “He’s too damn wise.”
“I’d just as soon put a gun to his head myself,” came the lieutenant’s reply. “But for now, we’re doing just as we were told. There’ll always be another time to even scores,” he added, gaze fixed on Red Eagle.
“Yeah,” added a tow-headed soldier who had moved within range of Red Eagle’s head. “Lieutenant Cole’s thinkin’ all the time. He’s got all kind of plans, don’t ya, Lieutenant?”
Lieutenant Cole glared at the young, mouthy soldier. Swinging his boot once more, he turned on Red Eagle. “See how much they’d like a reason to finish you off? Think you really want to break free?” He laughed loudly then. “Hell, let’s mount up. I’m tired of the stench and we’ve got a long way to ride before we reach the fort.” He feigned a sigh. “Sorry there just don’t seem to be any extra horses. I guess that means you’ll have to stumble along behind.”
The soldiers mounted quickly, grumbling that they’d sooner shoot the dirty Indian as look at him. The lieutenant, removing the rope from his saddle, slipped one end through and around Red Eagle’s bound wrists. He tied several knots before drawing it up tight.
Mounting, he wrapped the other end of his rope around the saddle horn. Clicking his heels against the horse’s flanks, he bellowed, “Move out!”
Red Eagle gritted his teeth, pulling against the rope that jerked him forward. He was not about to reveal that there were two good horses hidden down by the river. He would need those when he returned.
****
Liza could not take another step. Her hands were swelling and her legs felt as heavy as stumps. She had to rest, and she suspected the other women and children needed it, too.
She dropped her buffalo robe to the snow and cried out, “Stop, please. The children must have food and rest.”
Bull Child, climbing off of Liza’s back, squatted beside her in the snow. She had not left Li
za’s side since the massacre.
Mad Horse, turning on his heel, glared at Liza. He shook his head and said something to Cut Finger. Liza yelled back at him, mindless of the risk. “I don’t know what you’re saying, but I don’t care. I need to sit down and so do the children. And we’re hungry.”
Pushing a hand into her sack, Liza pulled out two strips of jerky and handed one to Bull Child. The girl chewed happily, saliva trickling down her upturned lips.
Cut Finger spread out her own buffalo hide and sat down a few yards from Liza. Pulling out a pouch, she handed her two sons some pemmican.
Mad Horse, growing angrier, stomped back and forth, to no avail. The women had all squatted on the riverbank, the children beside them, their hands out. One of the older boys, Skunk Cap, took a paunch and filled it with water and carried it around to the women. Mad Horse sat down, still angry, his steely gaze on Liza. Liza merely smiled, not caring any longer what the warrior might do to frighten her.
Suddenly remembering, she pulled out her bear claw necklace. It gave comfort to stroke the satin edges of the claws and bright beads and brought Red Eagle to mind. Oh, that she had not wasted so much time on being stubborn, resisting getting to know him.
Feeling Mad Horse’s gaze upon her, Liza slipped the necklace back inside her buckskins. She turned to face the old man and his scorn burned her, even at this distance. The man was a demon, she thought. He was not to be trusted.
Liza returned to her food, pulling Bull Child closer for comfort. Bull Child smiled up at her, moon face soft in the afternoon sunshine. The child was exhausted. They had walked for almost two days, sunup to sundown, with little food and less rest. They couldn’t continue at this pace. It would be a death march.
Turning her eyes back on Mad Horse, Liza wondered if that was what he had planned.
If only she knew where they were going. She had tried to ask what lay ahead, but communication with Cut Finger was not simple. Cut Finger spoke more rapidly than Liza could follow; Crow Woman had helped Liza by speaking slowly and carefully. But Liza had understood that they were headed to Mountain Chief’s village. And that must mean they were going to cross over into the British territory, north of the Medicine Line. Would Red Eagle and her father figure it out?
Time passed all too quickly. Unexpectedly, Mad Horse jumped to his feet and began beating Yellow Grass and several of the younger children with his walking stick.
“Stop it!” cried Liza, getting to her own feet. Mad Horse looked startled, his weasel eyes narrowed and bright. He waved his stick once more past Yellow Grass’s face.
Liza spoke up. “We’re getting up. All of us.” She reached out and helped Bull Child to her feet. The sleepy little girl pulled her cape over her shoulders as she picked up her small bundle.
Immediately, the women and children fell into line. Liza and Bull Child took their places near the rear. Stepping carefully around the obviously icy spots near the water’s edge, she trudged on. Only her mind escaped the terror that threatened to overwhelm her, taking her back to those last encounters with Red Eagle. Were they the last she’d ever have?
Why had she never told him how she felt? Why had she waited so long to reveal what burned within her? Would it now be too late? Liza bit her lip, refusing to give up hope. His memory was a tonic. If only she could drown herself in it.
That night the group found shelter beneath a rocky ledge. Enormous boulders, rolled together as if to form a rampart, provided a walled-in space with a roof that jutted out several feet. After building a fire, Cut Finger boiled some pemmican for soup, while Skunk Cap and several younger children tried to dig out roots from the icy shores of a creek.
The food tasted delicious, and everyone spent the evening around the fire. Everyone except Mad Horse. Taking his share of the soup, he wandered off into the brush. For a long time he could be heard mumbling to himself. Rides-a-Horse said that he had some of the white man’s whiskey. If so, Liza thought with a sigh, he could become even more dangerous.
Throughout the night, Liza trembled. In spite of the fire that Cut Finger kept burning and Bull Child’s warm body curled next to hers, Liza could not sleep. Bizarre dreams and a thousand fearful thoughts tormented her. She could not block out the last image of Crow Woman and Come Running dying in each other’s arms. She wondered if it had been foolish to wander off with Mad Horse. Would her father or Red Eagle ever find her?
If she didn’t know where she was going, how would they?
As dawn approached, the temperature dropped. The air pierced like a thousand tiny needles. Her face burned. She pulled her cape up over her head, wishing she’d not given her hood to Blue Willow. But Blue Willow had less to keep her warm than she did. Indeed, the girl was so slender Liza could have wrapped a buffalo robe around her three times.
It was as first light touched the stone ceiling that she noticed something stretched out across the snow. She gasped. Slipping out of her robes, she headed away from the sleeping forms.
It was a naked body.
Yellow Grass.
She stopped quickly, a lump forming in her throat. “Oh, Lord,” she stammered, taking a steadying breath. Had the woman chosen to end her own life or had Mad Horse taken his first victim?
Forcing herself to cross the open space, Liza knelt down in the snow and drew the lifeless corpse to her. “Did he do this to you?” she whispered. She ran her fingers over the woman’s cold flesh looking for wounds; her skin was as cold as the frigid air.
Suddenly, Liza heard the warrior’s heavy tread. Without a word, he leaned over and pushed Liza out of the way, then yanked Yellow Grass out of her arms and dragged her over the frozen ground. Her body thumped like a broken doll across the exposed, rocky knoll and Liza had to look away from the vacant eyes staring back at her out of Yellow Grass’s sallow face.
Was this the beginning of the next nightmare? Would Mad Horse eliminate them all, one by one?
Liza stumbled back to camp, where Bull Child was beginning to stir. Cradling the small, ebony-haired girl in her arms, she rocked held her closely.
She wouldn’t lose her mind, she thought. She wouldn’t let Mad Horse or her own despair destroy her or her will to live.
And she wouldn’t let anything happen to Bull Child or Cut Finger, or the others. She had already lost Crow Woman and Come Running, perhaps even her own father, Red Eagle, and Crying Wind. God forbid, but it could be so.
And if it were?
Kissing the top of the little girl’s head, Liza stroked the tangled strands of hair as she chided herself. She couldn’t abandon hope. Wasn’t each day a day closer to finding Red Eagle and her father? That tiny seed of promise would have to be enough to feed her heart.
It was out of the eerie stillness that a sudden wail split the air.
Cut Finger rushed back toward camp, a sorrowful expression across her face.
Mad Horse returned a short while later, his face sterner than ever, eyes more wary and wild. He stared at Liza several times, as if to warn her.
Liza did not turn away, knowing any shadow of fear would make her more vulnerable than she was already. Instead, she fingered her bear-claw necklace as if it had the power to restore her confidence.
Mad Horse’s glance fell on the necklace.
And with a heavy blow to her head, she fell face-first against the wet earth.
CHAPTER 27
Fort Shaw was swarming with soldiers as the patrol entered the parade grounds several days later. Red Eagle, riding double with one of the privates, stared at the blue-clad men lingering nearby. He couldn’t help but wonder how many had been on the march to the Pikuni camps.
The small group pulled up in front of a line of familiar whitewashed buildings several that housed officers and one that served as headquarters. Recalling visits to the fort as a child with his father, Red Eagle also remembered that there had been a greater sense of peace then; Indians and traders freely came and went. He recollected, too, how some of the soldiers tea
sed him and taught him to play cards. One lieutenant, Davis Roberts, had also read stories to him. A stocky, gray-haired man, he had been laughed at by many of the younger soldiers for being soft on the half-breed son of Cain McCullough. But Roberts had simply ignored their remarks.
Red Eagle wondered what had happened to the smiling lieutenant. Had he been replaced by this blue-eyed soldier who drove his men and animals like a whiskey-peddling bullwhacker? He caught the lieutenant’s glance and turned away. Did the man even have the power to read his thoughts?
An abrupt stop caused him to flop against the back of the young private riding in front of him. The soldier was not much older than him, perhaps younger. He was yellow-haired and his face was long and pink and reminded Red Eagle of the hairless pigs he often saw running around the barns of the white settlers. The soldier had said nothing to him, even held himself stiff so that he wouldn’t have to feel the pressure of Red Eagle’s legs. But with his hands tied behind him and feet bound to the leather of the soldier’s saddle, Red Eagle was helpless. The lieutenant had even bound his mouth.
The private waited for his lieutenant to come and rescue him. The grizzled lieutenant, grinning his sardonic smile, approached Red Eagle. He ordered another soldier standing nearby to release the breed while he kept his gun on him.
Red Eagle was yanked to the ground after his feet were untied. As he fell forward in the snow, he heard the lieutenant chuckle. He knew the big man was itching to rough him up again and his ribs were too bruised to take another hit. He would be no match, bound and sore as he was.
“Over there,” the lieutenant commanded, pointing to a low-roofed, long white building.
Red Eagle moved forward slowly. All eyes were on him now, the crowd surrounding him growing in size as curious men eyed him.
“These days, the men don’t know whether to smile or shoot when it comes to dealing with the Blackfeet,” bellowed the lieutenant. “Been too many double-talking Indians.”
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