The Soul Survivors Series Boxed Set

by Vella Munn

  Many of the nearly fifty dancing warriors moved with their eyes closed. Some mouths hung slack. More than one began to tremble as if a spirit had taken hold of his senses. Finally, after fearsome jerking motions that became more and more frantic, Cho-ocks fell to the ground. His arms and legs trembled violently; his eyes rolled back in his head, and sounds that made no sense spat from his mouth. Despite herself, Luash half believed the shaman had been possessed by his spirit.

  When she began to sway in time with the dance, to feel its growing control over her thoughts, she forced herself to slip away from the others. The deep, hypnotic sound followed her into the frozen night.

  In the distance, she could make out the glow from a number of fires where the soldiers waited. Surely the frigid air sent the ghost dance song to those waiting to attack them. Kientpoos and the others had said the army would probably try to approach from several directions, but it was a fool's effort. Even if the army men marched one hundred across, they could not possibly draw a circle around where her people waited. Escape would be as easy as turning and running where the army wasn't.

  But running meant leaving the shelter and safety of the caves. Cho-ocks's medicine. That would be done only when and if the shaman said.

  A soft sound of rushing air reached her and she imagined Eagle flying above her in the dark. She touched the top of her head in a wordless prayer of thankfulness, then continued to pick her way over the iced earth. She'd placed fresh stuffing in her footwear today and pointed out to Whe-cha that sagebrush bark held up better against sharp lava than white man's boots, which stiffened and sometimes made the wearer stumble. Whe-cha had agreed, sticking out her feet to reveal a well-worn pair of deerskin moccasins. Although Whe-cha had protested, Luash insisted on helping her stuff them with dried swamp grass and fur.

  As she moved beyond the last of the light cast by the ghost fire, she deliberately kept her thoughts on Whe-cha. Her uncle's second wife was so young, barely past her puberty dance time. Although she had been sleeping with Kientpoos since the ceremony, the girl was still without child. Luash had done what she could to allow Whe-cha and Kientpoos time together, but in her heart she believed it was better that no babies be born during this uncertain time.

  Made uneasy by her thoughts, she turned her gaze toward the sky, but the clouds blanketed the stars as they had done for so many nights. Behind her, the ghost dance continued. She heard the beat echo off rocks, imagined it sliding off into the distance. Jed was an officer, a lieutenant. He had told her he hadn't been sent here to lead men into battle, but she couldn't imagine what he would do if he didn't fight. When the army advanced on the lava beds, he would be among them, wouldn't he? If he showed himself, a Modoc warrior might aim his rifle at Jed and—

  A sob rolled up from somewhere inside her, and although she struggled to deny that she'd made the sound, she knew the truth. She would weep if Kientpoos or Cho-Cho or Whe-cha were killed, and the thought of losing any children made her shudder; children made the journey into tomorrow. Even Cho-ocks's death would bring her sorrow. But until she'd stood before the gray-eyed white man and told him about Eagle, until she'd sensed the turmoil inside his heart, until they'd listened to a wolf together, she had never imagined she would grieve over a white man's death.

  It was too dark to see the magic rope, but she knew it lay behind her. Now she stood with her arms wrapped around her, her hair blowing across her face in the freezing air, and sent out a silent prayer to Eagle. She entrusted her safety and life to him, and knew her faith would be rewarded. She could walk into the middle of a battle and be safe from harm. If Cho-ocks's medicine continued to be strong, the Modocs would be protected. Even if he told them to leave the Land of Burned Out Fires, his medicine would go with them.

  But who would protect Jed? Would he live to see another night? She was still asking the question when she heard first an owl's hoot and then a coyote's cry.

  * * *

  January 17,1873

  "They come!"

  Luash sat bolt upright, the nearly sleepless night forgotten. It was barely dawn. Hearing her uncle's deep curse, she slipped her blanket over her shoulders and made her way toward Kientpoos and Whe-cha's sleeping place near the mouth of the cave. By the time she reached it, Kientpoos was already gone.

  "Luash!" Whe-cha called out. "Stop him!"

  "I cannot. He knew this time would come. We all did."

  "But if he is killed—" Whe-cha grabbed her wrist with surprising strength. "Where are they? Here?"

  She couldn't believe the army men had managed to reach the stronghold without the sentries being aware of their approach. Still, until she saw with her own eyes, she couldn't reassure either herself or Whe-cha that they were safe. Without waiting for the younger woman to get dressed, Luash scrambled up and into the fragile light.

  Braves seemed to be running everywhere, yelling, laughing even. They were all armed; some carried more than one rifle. She looked around for her uncle but couldn't find him. Most likely he was already at one of the overlooks. She headed toward the one with the best view of the army encampment. Before she reached it, she heard excited Modoc voices, her uncle's among them.

  "They are snails," he laughed. "Snails who believe that numbers are more important than wisdom."

  "Even snails will reach their destination," someone pointed out, "unless they are stopped."

  "Then we will stop them."

  Stop. By killing. Although she'd long known it could come to this, it was all she could do not to call out to Eagle to take her away from this. But although Eagle might spread his wings over her, he could not change her from what she was, a Modoc deep within the Land of Burned Out Fires.

  It seemed that every brave wanted to see the approaching army, but finally she managed to sneak close enough for a look. The approaching army was so far away that they appeared to be ants, but there were so many of them, a disturbed anthill of soldiers swarming closer. Slowly closer.

  "Do they think we will sit here and wait for them?" Cho-Cho asked sarcastically. "What is this thing the army does? Surely it is not fighting."

  "Perhaps," Kientpoos said slowly, "they wait for us to come to them."

  "Do they?" Cho-Cho was laughing now. "Then I say we will make them happy."

  "What are you talking about?" she blurted, although it wasn't her place to question what the braves did.

  "We are warriors," Kientpoos answered. "We go out to meet our enemy."

  "No! There are so many!"

  "Hush, my niece! Numbers do not matter. Wisdom does. Wisdom and cunning."

  Be careful. Please, be careful! With several of the braves now staring at her, she knew better than to speak her thoughts aloud. She was a woman, and women did not go into battle. They remained behind to care for the children and wait for their warriors' return. Still, there was one thing she could do.

  "My spirit goes with you today," she told her uncle, glad to see the eagle feather she'd given him braided into his hair. "He will fly over you and keep you safe. You and all Modocs." Only Modocs.

  * * *

  What was he doing here?

  As Jed made his slow, awkward way on hands and knees, he tried to ignore the wrenching knot in his belly, but it was too deeply entrenched. Besides, without a healthy dose of fear, he might lose the fighting edge that kept him alive. How many hours they'd been "marching," he couldn't say. All he knew was that the advance, if it could be called that, had begun before dawn, and now it was late afternoon. The worthless horses had been left behind before they'd gone more than a quarter of a mile. The howitzers hadn't fared any better.

  They had covered maybe three miserably slow miles in the better part of a day, first toward the stronghold and then east because a frightened volunteer had brought word that Major Green's troop was pinned down and in desperate need of help. After too long a hesitation, Captain Perry had ordered his command to change course and head for the lake so they could meet up with Captain Bernard's troop and hopefully rescue Ma
jor Green.

  Jed had argued that placing a large number of soldiers in one place would only allow the Modocs to escape to the south, if they were so inclined. Perry was in no mood to listen to Jed.

  Jed swore under his breath. The land here was all but impenetrable, a never-ending series of rocky chasms, some as deep as thirty feet, followed by steep outcroppings that taxed a man's strength and wore out both his clothing and resolve.

  The Indians were phantoms in the ice-choked fog, appearing out of nowhere to fire at the laboring soldiers before running back to safety among the countless gullies that were their home. He'd known this was going to happen. But knowing that he and the others were in for an unequal fight and living through it were two different things.

  The first could be argued impassionately and endlessly and philosophically. That debate delighted eastern politicians who had never seen battle and didn't know the taste of fear. The second meant struggling against dense, paralyzing fog and a churning belly while fighting for every miserable, frozen inch of land, all the while waiting for that next hostile rifle shot—the one that might end a man's life.

  Although he was cold to the bone Jed was driven to keep moving by more than the weather. He could have remained behind. After all, his value here didn't lie in his ability to lead troops into battle. But if he did that, he would have to live with what the troops said and thought of him. Only a man who walked, or crawled, into danger would be listened to, and if he survived today, by God, General Canby—who was back at Crawley Ranch—had better listen the next time he addressed him.

  "I'm going to die here," a nearby soldier whimpered. "I know it."

  "You don't know anything of the kind," he whispered back.

  "It don't matter. I just want it to be over."

  "It'll be dark soon," he tried to reassure the man. "The Modocs won't have anything to aim at then."

  "Maybe it's not Modocs," someone else said. The man grunted sharply and Jed imagined him forcing his body over rocks capable of tearing flesh. "Maybe it's ghosts. There's got to be thousands of them. Everywhere. Playing with us. Laughing..."

  After a short pause, the soldier began speaking again. His words were disjointed, hatred and fear interspersed with comments about the hard but safe pack train job he'd left in Redding so he could fight ignorant savages. Only, it looked as if the Modocs weren't the savages; after all, they weren't crawling on their bellies like dogs.

  "Fighting this way isn't working," Jed hissed. "By tomorrow, there's going to be no doubt of that."

  "Tomorrow? I can tell the general that right now."

  Another man laughed harshly and then dropped his voice. He was ready to argue with anyone here that, bad as the waiting and noise of last night had been, this was worse. Not only were the Modocs making the army look like bumbling fools, but they were toying with them, slipping close to fire at exposed and trapped targets before scurrying back to whatever hellhole they'd come from.

  Jed, who'd given up trying to sort out the sounds whispering down the narrow ravines, agreed. If he'd been in charge, not a single man would be here. Instead, he would have waited until he had enough troops to surround the stronghold arid then done what he'd been advocating for all along, cut the Modocs off from food and water.

  Captain Jack was no fool. Eventually, he would have turned over the young bucks who'd slaughtered innocent ranchers. If it took hungry babies crying themselves to sleep to bring about peace, that would be better than forcing any more soldiers to risk their hides.

  Babies crying with hunger. Men and women helplessly watching their children grow weak.

  Jed clenched his teeth and forced his frozen fingers into fists, but that did nothing to erase the unwanted image that had formed in his mind. The Modocs were human beings, people who laughed and loved and—

  What was happening to him? Until he'd met Luash, he hadn't once thought of an Indian as someone with emotions no different from his.

  A nearby rifle blast echoed off the rocks and froze Jed where he crouched. He tried to swallow, but his mouth was too dry. A man cried out in pain. It wasn't the first time; the Modocs had killed one man already and injured at least three more. But this voice—damnit, the man sounded so young!

  When the injured soldier kept up a high-pitched sob, Jed scrambled toward the sound, concentrating on trying to get his heart back to something like a steady pace. Fog lapped at the rocks. That plus the deepening shadows of afternoon forced him to crawl at a maddeningly slow pace. At least the soldier's voice was filled with strength as well as pain, and Jed took that as a sign that the wound, although painful, was probably not fatal.

  Straining, he spotted a uniformed figure plastered against the ground. After inching forward a few more feet, he recognized Captain Perry. The two men stared at each other. The wounded soldier's cries had become a childlike sob impossible to ignore. Leaving Perry, Jed covered the remaining distance as rapidly and quietly as possible. The writhing soldier stilled at Jed's approach and turned frightened eyes on him.

  "Are you hurt anywhere else?" he asked.

  "My leg! Just my leg." The soldier gripped his calf. "Oh God, it hurts! I—I thought everyone had deserted me."

  "I haven't, son," Jed whispered, feeling a thousand years old. Careful not to bump the young man, he closed his hand over his shoulder in what he hoped was a comforting gesture. "You're going to be all right. No one dies from being shot in the leg."

  "But—what if I lose it?"

  Although Jed couldn't promise anything without having seen the wound, he told the man that no doctor would cut off a leg simply because there was or had been a bullet in it. "I have to get you to safety," he whispered. "I'm sorry, son, but it's going to hurt."

  "I don't care! I just want out of this hell before they finish me off."

  He nearly warned the man to keep his voice down so the Modocs wouldn't hear him, but what did it matter? Surely the warriors had heard the sobs. In all likelihood, whoever had shot the youngster was just out of sight. He might never know why the brave hadn't finished off his victim.

  Damn you, Luash. They're your people.

  Keeping his tone as light as he could, he complimented the wounded man on the spot he'd chosen to fall. Because he was in a depression, the rocks on all sides acted as a natural shelter. "Still, it's safer back there. We've got to move."

  "I've been trying. But it hurts too much."

  "I know, but you don't have a choice."

  "If they get their hands on me, they'll scalp me, won't they?"

  Your people, Luash.

  Cursing the lack of anything to secure the man's leg with, Jed explained that he was going to grab him under his arms and as carefully as possible drag him closer to relative safety. The man, who had told him his name was Mason Robert Wilson III, tensed but nodded. "I don't want to make no noise. I kept telling myself to be quiet, but I couldn't stop."

  Because fear had the upper hand. He wished he had the time to reassure Mason before taking hold of him, but with every second, the danger grew. After telling the boy that his job would be to keep hold of the rifles and protect his bad leg as best he could, Jed began pulling him toward where he'd seen Captain Perry.

  Mason sobbed, then fell silent. His body was so tense that Jed felt as if he had hold of a log, but he could hear the youngster's teeth grinding together. He wheezed, his breath coming fast and hard.

  Your people, Luash. They put this boy through this.

  Jed was sweating by the time he left the gully. If he thought there was any advantage in waiting, he would have remained with the boy until darkness gave them needed cover, but anything was safer than where they'd been.

  "Jed."

  Captain Perry had spoken so softly that at first he didn't recognize the voice. He had to hand it to the man; he'd somehow overcome whatever emotion had kept him rooted to the ground and had slipped closer.

  "What?"

  "You're going to need help."

  Jed settled himself onto his hip
, supporting Mason against his chest. "You're offering?"

  "I've already lost one man today. I don't want to bury another."

  The sun was setting; the fog shadows had become even thicker. The rocks and depressions, the caves and cracks had lost all form. Jed was fairly sure where the others were, but it wouldn't take much for him to become disoriented. Every breath he took washed the air around him in white. He could no longer feel his ears and nose and mouth and he had begun to shake. His feet, inside his stiff boots, could have been wooden stumps, and if he hadn't worked himself into a lather hauling Mason, his fingers too would have been useless by now.

  How could she live here?

  "Ready?"

  Jed nodded. Perry had hold of the wounded man's left arm. His face determined, he straightened. Before Jed could warn him not to expose himself, a burst of sound shattered the pulsing silence and Captain Perry pitched forward, screaming.

  Jed managed to grab Perry and ease his fall. He felt blood on his hands and knew Perry had taken a bullet in his upper arm. In the freezing air, the blood smell quickly faded.

  "Are you shot, white man?" an unseen Modoc sneered. "Maybe you no longer be so sure of yourself." Jed clutched Perry against him, comforting the wounded captain with the only thing he had—his body.

  "I'm hit. I'm hit," another warrior echoed Perry's cry. Trapped by both Perry and Mason's needs, Jed frantically tried to make out where the voices were coming from, but the shadows, the land itself was against him. The private trembled. Perry's body twisted first one way and then the other as pain had its way with him. The sense of isolation dug into Jed. Isolation and vulnerability and hatred.

  "You no man," the hidden Modoc taunted. "You squaw."

  Damn you to hell, Luash.

  Chapter 8

  Van Bremer's ranch, usually home for a single family, overflowed with soldiers. They camped in small groups clustered near the house. Although it hadn't been dark long, most of them were curled up on the ground wrapped in blankets, three smoldering fires the only warmth.