Small Bird nodded. But before she could again set off, she heard a shrill scream from somewhere behind her. More cries followed. She whirled around, but was out of sight of most of her refugee people.
Without a thought to her own safety, she nudged her horse in the sides with her heels and rode back. She ignored the shouts of her guards to stay put. Rounding the bend, she scanned the slope where everyone was descending. The women there were rushing to ward the bottom, where she saw a horse scrambling to its feet with no rider.
Small Bird spurred her mount forward. Stopping near the crowd, she jumped down and rushed forward.
“Who was injured?” She pushed her way through. As wife to the chief, she had duties.
Reaching the fallen rider, she came to a stunned stop. “Oh, no,” she said under her breath. It was Makatah, and the girl lay deathly still. She was white-faced, her eyes were closed, and a line of blood dribbled down her temple.
Kneeling, Small Bird called her cousin’s name and gently patted her bruised face. “Open your eyes, cousin,” she commanded as she ran her hands over her cousin’s body. She didn’t feel any broken limbs, but she did find a large lump on the back of the girl’s head.
Moving her face close to Makatah’s, she felt the warm stir of air and noted with relief the rising and falling of the girl’s chest. “Wake, cousin. Obey me in this!”
Finally, and slowly, Makatah’s eyes fluttered. Her face dark with pain and confusion, the girl tried to sit.
Small Bird kept gentle hands on her cousin’s shoulders. “No. Rest. Tell me where you hurt.”
“I—I am fine,” Makatah said, her voice faint. Ignoring Small Bird’s orders, she sat, then tried to get to her feet. No sooner had she stood than her knees buckled. She cried out, doubling over and clutching her belly.
“Oh, no,” Small Bird said again.
The two warriors had followed her. One said, “We must continue. We cannot stop here. It is not safe.” But they looked worried as they stared at Makatah.
“She needs to rest. She cannot ride,” Small Bird implored. She feared that moving her cousin any farther than to a safe, dry shelter would cause her to lose her babe—if it wasn’t already too late. Once more she glanced up at the slope of the moonlit ravine and saw the mire and the huge boulders. She also saw the fearful faces staring down at her, filled with fear as they glanced back and forth over their shoulders, then down to Small Bird and her cousin.
Small Bird knew they couldn’t stay where they were. But she also knew Makatah couldn’t go far. “Help me get her onto my horse.” Her voice brooked no argument.
Cradling her cousin before her, Small Bird shuddered with every cry of pain Makatah gave.
“We must find shelter. Quickly,” she said.
An elder walked up and stared at her with wise and knowing eyes. “It will not matter,” he said. Then he turned, his gait awkward as he hobbled back to his horse.
As she resumed her ride toward the canyon that was their final destination, Small Bird feared he was right: her cousin had already lost her child.
Though the storm had entirely fled, it left the air heavy with moisture and an unrelieved quiet that settled across the hidden canyon like banks of early-morning fog. The moon had disappeared again, and though they’d managed to rebuild their camp, the blackness of the night surrounded and suppressed everyone. Women and children huddled close for warmth, as there was no dry wood for fires.
With the warriors still gone, all present quailed at the uncertainty of their future. Would the guards posted on the hidden path down the ravine and at the canyon’s mouth send the signal that the enemy had found them? That fear kept most adults awake, staring blankly, waiting. Most were silent. But in the unnatural quiet, there was one sound that, though faint, set hearts to pounding: a young woman’s sobs.
Makatah had lost her unborn baby.
She wept, inconsolable. Shy Mouse cradled her sister’s head in her lap, trying to muffle her gut-wrenching sobs. Moon Fire paced near the doorway, where Small Bird’s mother and her aunts huddled close for warmth. Moon Fire’s younger sister sat beside Small Bird.
Outside the tipi, nothing moved. Small Bird glanced toward the door. Where were the men? Where was Swift Foot? Had their tribe been victorious, or had the enemy won? The soft sound of mud sticking to moccasins broke the silence. The women all stiffened. Then it faded, and they relaxed slightly—just one of their own warriors standing guard.
Moon Fire stuck her head outside.
“Sit, daughter,” her mother commanded when a gust of cold air rolled over them. “Your cousin needs to be kept warm.” Moon Fire tossed the tipi flap down. She refused to sit. Instead, she paced restlessly.
When the toe of her foot brushed Small Bird’s thigh for the hundredth time, Small Bird snapped, “Sit, Moon Fire. Pacing will not bring our warriors home faster.”
The girl snarled at her, but she did as she was told.
Where were they? Listening to her cousin’s sobs, seeing the worry and fear on Shy Mouse’s and the others’ faces, the stoic expressions her aunts wore, Small Bird knew it would be a very long night. It had been already.
Closing her eyes, Small Bird sent prayers to the spirits: to Wamble to watch over the warriors. Thanks to Mahpiya for ending the storm. A plea to Sungmanitu, the wolf in charge of war parties. Cretan, the hawk, for swiftness and endurance.
Recalling her dreams of a child with him, Small Bird held on to the hope that Swift Foot would not be killed in battle. Their child represented the future. The image of the boy in her mind gave her hope. She wanted a life that promised peace.
“Where is Matoluta?” Makatah sobbed. “Where is he? I cannot lose him as well.”
“He will return, cousin. Our warriors will prevail,” Small Bird said. Tears slid down her cheeks. Her cousin had lost a male child, and Matoluta would be devastated by that when he returned. She only hoped she wasn’t giving false hope that he would return. But they all needed hope. She herself needed reassurance that her husband would return.
Moon Fire glared at Small Bird with contempt. “This battle is not ours, yet we have all paid. Do you see what grief your actions have caused? See what your selfishness caused?”
Shy Mouse snapped her attention to Moon Fire. “Our cousin has always thought of others before herself. It was for our people that she married Swift Foot. His tribe provides much that we did not before have. This marriage is also meant to be—did not our medicine man say so before he died? Even Wind Dancer, when he came with Swift Foot’s uncle to speak to the elders of our tribe, said the same thing. All agreed it should be so.”
“You are a fool,” Moon Fire spat. “Why must we all sacrifice what we want for her? I could have married—” She broke off.
Spotted Deer, Moon Fire’s sister, glanced up. “Who could you have married? There were no males in our tiyospaye that were not relatives. It is here, among Swift Foot’s warriors, that there are many seeking mates.”
Moon Fire hugged herself. For a moment she looked lost and forlorn, worried, even lovesick. Then her features hardened. “I will not marry a man in this tribe. It will never be safe. We will never be safe. And what warrior would wish to join this tribe and put all he has at risk?”
Ignoring the harsh rejoinders from her mother, Moon Fire ducked out of the tipi.
Small Bird hung her head. Maybe her cousin was right; maybe she’d brought about the destruction of her family—of her tribe. Everyone in her tribe was family, either by blood or by marriage.
A hand on her arm tugged her back to the present. “Do not listen to her,” Makatah said, her voice raw with grief.
“How can you tell me not to listen?” Small Bird asked. She paused, her throat closing, choking her words. “She may be right.”
“You cannot blame yourself,” Makatah said. She lay back and closed her eyes as exhaustion took over. It had been an incredibly hard night of travel fraught with fear—all after the wedding.
“But I do,” S
mall Bird said softly, stroking a tear-soaked hair from her cousin’s cheek.
Anger threaded its way through her pain and grief, and the flood of emotions left Small Bird feeling trapped in a whirlwind. Her joy and eagerness toward marriage had soured upon learning Swift Foot’s true heart, and his confession had left her angry, hurt and confused. But this afternoon she’d replaced those emotions with the conviction of rightness; determination to fulfill her destiny had given her the courage to ride through the camp to marry him. And all her dreams had returned to life when he kissed her. That kiss, his desire, had confirmed the rightness of her decision.
Then the attack had shattered everything.
Once more, anger burned inside Small Bird. But toward whom? Swift Foot? Her enemies? Or at herself for what her cousin had now suffered? Maybe all three. All Small Bird knew was that somehow she had to make everything right.
A small crest of moonlight and a sprinkling of stars provided little relief in the black night. His progress slowed by the darkness, the wounded and his warriors heavy hearts, Swift Foot led the way toward the new campsite. Tired, the group plodded toward its loved ones. Horses stumbled with fatigue, and their riders swayed.
Keeping his gaze fixed forward, Swift Foot went over each of his decisions in the battle. Though his warriors had declared it a victory, Swift Foot knew there had been no winner. Deaths and injuries had been suffered on both sides and had the spirits not brought the violence of the storm to stop the battle, he knew it was likely that the fight would have lasted much longer. The suffering would have been greater.
His shoulders sagged. It didn’t matter either way. The damage had been done.
Suddenly a call, soft as a breath of air, sounded. Tears formed in Swift Foot’s eyes.
There was no sound sweeter. The call of home spurred both man and beast.
His warriors drew close, staying in formation though each was eager to return home. Yet they all dreaded the grief and the bleak days ahead, Swift Foot especially.
He glanced to his right. Night Thunder cradled a young warrior whose injuries were so severe, he’d died a short time ago. Each mortality rested on his shoulders. For each serious injury he blamed himself.
Slowly they picked their way down the hidden trail and followed the river to the canyon, the thought of safety and peace drawing him. Even if the enemy pursued, they wouldn’t find this place. The canyon, surrounded on three sides by deep ravines and gullies, would provide a safe haven. Unfortunately, safe didn’t make up for the loss of life.
“I should have been ready,” he murmured.
Beside him, Night Thunder reached out to grasp his wrist. “We were ready. Our guards notified us in time to get our women to safety. None of them were hurt.”
Hearing the first welcoming cry coming toward them, Swift Foot shook his head. “You are wrong, my friend. Their pain and injuries aren’t to their physical bodies but to their hearts, minds and souls.”
Night Thunder lapsed into silence. There was nothing he could say against that truth. Swift Foot knew he should have moved his people before the wedding, found another secure location, taken his tribe far away. There were several other places, he saw in hindsight, that would have kept them all from destruction. But it didn’t matter now. It was too late.
In the distance, Swift Foot picked out the darker shapes of tipis. No fires added their warm glow to this new home, but now that he and his warriors had returned, they would be built. Then the wounded would be tended.
Entering the camp, Swift Foot stared straight ahead. The welcoming cries of the women and children, and the warriors left behind to guard them, slowly changed into wails of grief. Each scream, each woman who fell to her knees in anguish, stabbed Swift Foot in the heart. Little by little, the part of him that held hope and happiness died.
He watched the mother of Brave Bear Walking rush toward Night Thunder, her face lined with shock, her voice shrill with agony. Seeing her pain, Swift Foot clamped his jaw tight to stop his anguish from escaping.
He was chief. Their leader. He could not lose control.
A leader does not show fear. A leader is courageous at all times. No matter what.
The words his uncle had spoken to him the day his aunt died and Willow Song was injured echoed in the hollowness of his soul. He’d been angry and afraid that day. And guilty. Though only seven, he’d known the deaths of his tribe’s people were because of him. Because of him, and because of his father. But he’d shouldered that burden and borne it in silence. Today would be no different. Yet the loss of life had been enormous this time. Worse than any since his seventh year.
Weary and disheartened, he dismounted. A tall youth strode forward to take his horse. Normally Swift Foot groomed his prized warhorse himself, but tonight there was still much to be done. Turning, braced to confront the grief he heard all around him, he came face-to-face with his wife. Her eyes scanned him, looking for injury, lingering on the gash on his arm, the cuts on his thigh and the bleeding wound on his shoulder.
“You are injured,” she said. Her voice, soft as a summer breeze, drifted over him. Staring into the shadows of her face, he saw compassion, concern and a calmness of spirit that was inspiring. For the first time since leaving Emily, Swift Foot did not picture the white girl’s loving features. In Small Bird’s presence was all the comfort he needed.
“My injuries are nothing,” he said. But the fact that she was willing to fuss over him eased his pain somewhat.
Around him, married women tended to their men. It didn’t matter that warriors were expected to be stoic; the battle had devastated spirits, including his own. And Swift Foot felt himself near breaking. Yet his duties were not over. Another wail of grief rose, and his wife turned her head. Looking over to where she looked, Swift Foot saw Lone Warrior progress through the camp. His father lay across his lap.
Swift Foot heard his wife gasp, her instinctive cry of denial cutting through him. She started forward, but he reached out, halting her. She glanced over her shoulder, her eyes wide with shock and denial.
Though he’d been so angry at her before, at their assigned marriage, he had the overwhelming urge to pull her into his arms and shield her from grief. He longed to offer words of comfort—but there was nothing to say. He’d promised her brother he’d keep all his people safe. He’d failed. Married not even a day, and he’d failed.
He released his wife suddenly and she stumbled back.
“Please, no. Tell me he’s not dead,” she cried.
“I am sorry, wife,” he whispered.
Small Bird’s fingers flew to her mouth and stifled her sorrow. She turned and ran, leaving Swift Foot standing there, his arm still out in front of him as if begging her to return and be comforted.
At last, with a heavy heart, he lowered his hand. The wounded needed tending, guards needed to be posted and his people needed reassurance that they were safe. He would have to take care of these things.
Entering his tipi, he gathered clean garments and donned them, then stood staring down at his dwelling’s cold fire pit. Piles of belongings lay there waiting to be unpacked, a mixture of his possessions and his wife’s. He noted that she’d hung his war bonnet, but nothing else. The sight of the feathers of the headdress fluttering in the drafty tipi reminded him how he’d earned each one. The flowing bonnet belonged to a courageous man. A wise man. Or it should.
“So much waste,” he whispered. He would give up every feather to end this bloody war. He’d gladly give up his position too, if it meant that no more of his people would die. Yet they would not want him to give up. They believed in him.
But what if he no longer believed in himself? The warrior who’d earned those feathers had been arrogant and filled with his own importance. With dreams of achieving the impossible.
Tearing his gaze away, Swift Foot drew in a deep, calming breath. Something inside him felt close to cracking.
Alone.
He felt so alone.
He closed his eyes an
d imagined a cozy fire. He saw gentle eyes filled with the dark mystery of the night sky, hands that soothed and a voice that understood. These were the things he wanted.
A sudden wailing from nearby brought reality crashing back. “Foolish,” he chided himself. “Foolish.” He didn’t deserve the peaceful and loving dreams he wanted. Not now. Not ever. He’d been born of a union that had mocked his father’s responsibilities, and he would pay for that until he died.
Leaving his tipi, he walked away from the close ring of the other dwellings. Though many of his tribespeople saw him, none stopped him. No one said anything.
There was nothing to be said. Each death, each injury, had only proven him a failure.
Chapter Nine
Small Bird held her wailing mother in her arms and wept. This was all too much.
Yellow Robe had been screaming for some time now, and her voice cracked on each long sorrowful cry. Blood caked her arms from where she’d scratched herself, and she would occasionally scream and tear at her shorn hair.
Small Bird shuddered. “No more, Mother. No more.”
Her mother didn’t respond; she buried her head in her hands and began scratching deep furrows down the sides of her face. Unable to bear any more, Small Bird physically restrained her.
Across the tipi, Lone Warrior stared into the glowing embers of the fire. A moment later he glanced up, his face a twisted mask of grief and hate. Though he’d said nothing since laying their father onto his pallet of furs, Small Bird knew he blamed her for the death of their father.
He hadn’t said anything; he didn’t need to speak words to remind her of all the ominous signs before her marriage. The memory was there, burning in his eyes and twisted in the hard set of his mouth.
“Forgive me. Mother,” Small Bird whispered against Yellow Robe’s head.
“Forgive me.”
The loss to her own clan in the fighting had been comparatively small: only her father had died. But there had been many serious injuries. And then there was the loss of Makatah’s unborn child, which was a bad omen for the future.
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