Then she noticed how quiet the village was. It was as though someone had died.
Oh, Lord, she hoped that someone wasn’t Chief Gray Feather! As far as she knew, he was the only member of the St. Croix band of the Chippewa who cared deeply enough for White Fire to help him in his critical time of need!
Chapter 31
How should I your true love know
From another one?
—William Shakespeare
Trying to ignore the cold stares, struggling with everything within her to keep her fears at bay, Flame rode onward through the village, then drew a tight rein before Chief Gray Feather’s large wigwam.
Just as she slid out of the saddle, she found herself surrounded by several Chippewa warriors, their faces dark and unfriendly. Her eyes moving in jerks from one to the other, she slowly backed away from them.
Then she turned, and without asking permission, darted inside the chiefs dwelling.
Once inside, she stopped and looked slowly around her. No one was there. Cold ashes lay in the fire pit.
There was a strange, muted silence, not only inside the lodge, but outside where everyone had seemed to have stopped all of their normal activity.
Realizing now that something must have happened at the Chippewa village, and feeling as though she had stepped into a lion’s den, Flame was torn with what to do.
It seemed that much of the Chippewas’ anger was focused on her. But why? she wondered, trying to think of what she might have done to cause such anger. When she had last been here, it had been on friendly terms with their chief after she forgave him for taking her hostage. Something had to have happened since then to bring on such hatred and resentment.
She stepped farther into the wigwam. Then she turned with a start when she heard someone behind her.
Eyes wide, her heart thumping, she stared up at Red Buffalo, whose midnight black eyes were narrowed, whose jaw was tight.
“You are not welcome here,” Red Buffalo said angrily. He gestured. “You do not belong in the chief’s lodge. Mah-szhon, go. Do not come to our village again, ever.”
Stubbornly deciding that she would not leave until she had answers, Flame stood her ground. “Why are you being so unfriendly toward me?” she asked softly.
She looked slowly around the wigwam again, then gazed into the tall Indian’s eyes. “And where is Chief Gray Feather?” she murmured. She swallowed hard. “Has something happened to him?”
“Not to our chief, but to my cousin, our chief’s daughter,” Red Buffalo said solemnly.
A warning rushed through Flame, especially at how the mention of Song Sparrow had seemed to make more anger leap into Red Buffalo’s eyes.
“What about Song Sparrow?” she found the courage to ask, but speaking only faintly.
“She is gone from us,” Red Buffalo said, angrily folding his arms across his chest. “So many of our people see you as partially the cause of her death.”
Flame paled. She took an unsteady step away from him. “She is dead? And you see me as the cause?” she asked, placing a hand to her throat. “Why would anyone blame me for Song Sparrow’s death?”
“She died because of having lost White Fire’s love,” Red Buffalo said sullenly.
“Do you mean to say that she . . . she killed herself?” Flame said, feeling more threatened by each new discovery.
“Ay-uh, that is how she died,” Red Buffalo said.
He took a slow step toward her.
She took a quicker one back from him.
“If not for you, she would not have died,” Red Buffalo growled out. “In time White Fire would have married her.”
“White Fire never loved her,” Flame said.
She then wished she had not so openly spoken her mind when she saw the warriors face redden with rage.
“He would have learned to love her, for Song Sparrow was sweet and lovable,” Red Buffalo said. “She had no enemies except the love she felt for a man who scorned her.”
He then gestured toward the entrance flap. “You are in our chiefs lodge without his permission,” he said in a monotone. “You are in our village without an invitation. Mah-szhon, go. Go while you can.”
“What . . . do . . . you mean by saying go . . . while I can?” Flame asked, swallowing hard. “How can I make you understand that I am not to blame for anything?”
“Too many will never believe that,” Red Buffalo said. He went to the entrance flap and lifted it. “Go now.”
“But you haven’t told me where I can find Chief Gray Feather,” Flame murmured, inching toward the flap, her eyes never leaving the warrior’s. “I need his help. Please tell me where I can find him.”
“You are an interference in the lives of the Chippewa,” Red Buffalo said, glaring at her. “Why would I tell you where our chief is, or why he is there? None of my people’s lives are your concern, especially not our chief’s.”
Frustrated, and fearing that as each moment passed White Fire’s life was more at stake, Flame impulsively grabbed Red Buffalo by an arm. She sank her fingers into his copper flesh.
“I desperately need to know where I can find your chief,” she said, begging him with her eyes. “White Fire is in trouble. He needs your chief’s help.”
The fact that White Fire was in trouble caused Red Buffalo to be somewhat taken aback. Flame searched his eyes, trying to understand his feelings.
Then she thought of why there was such anger toward her today. Surely these people had the same anger toward White Fire, for it was he who had turned his back on Song Sparrow’s love. The Chippewa must hold him responsible for her death!
“You also blame White Fire for Song Sparrow’s death, don’t you?” she gasped out. “You no longer see him as a friend . . . as a brother?”
Red Buffalo’s lips became tightly pursed together. He offered no further comment as he continued to glare at Flame.
“If anything happens to him, don’t you know that you will be partially responsible?” Flame said, her voice rising in pitch. She felt almost hysterical now that she saw that she would not have the help she had sought here at the Chippewa village.
“How can you stand there so cold and unfeeling toward White Fire when you know that he is not responsible for anything but being your friend—your ally?” she half screamed. “Your chief loves him as a father loves a son!”
She paled and dropped her hand to her side. “Oh, no,” she said, her voice breaking as a cold splash of fear grabbed her in the pit of her stomach. “Your chief does hold White Fire responsible for his daughter’s death, doesn’t he? Lord, he would not have helped him if he were even here. Even if I begged, do you think he would ignore the danger White Fire is in?”
She could see Red Buffalo’s eyes waver somewhat. Then she saw his gaze wander over her, seeming suddenly aware of her disheveled clothes and hair. It was obvious to anyone who looked at her that she had been in the river.
By that, the warrior must know then that she had also faced danger. That would surely tell him that she had come out of desperation to seek help from his chief. From his people.
But Red Buffalo still offered no kindness, no sympathy. Instead he held the flap open more widely with one hand, while gesturing with his free hand toward it. She knew that nothing she had said, or would say, could make him change his mind about how he felt about things today. Perhaps the death of the Chippewa maiden was too fresh in his heart to care for anyone else, especially a white woman and a ’breed who had no blood ties at all with the Chippewa.
Inhaling a quavering breath, finding the courage to say just one more thing to this stubborn Chippewa warrior, Flame went and stood before him. Her eyes held his as she glared at him. “If White Fire dies, I, personally, will hold you responsible,” she said flatly. “I know that if Chief Gray Feather knew that he was in mortal danger, he would go to his rescue. He just can’t hate someone so quickly whom he has loved so dearly. Not even because he has lost a daughter!”
When she saw how that
made Red Buffalo’s eyes soften, and how it made him take a long, slow swallow, she knew that she had hit home. This warrior absolutely knew that his chief would defend White Fire, at all cost.
Yet he still stood there, making no attempt to go to his chief and tell him the bad news about White Fire. Nor did he offer her the information of where Gray Feather was.
Stifling a frustrated sob behind a hand, Flame ran from the lodge.
Ignoring that everyone still stood around, staring at her, she quickly mounted the horse.
When no one budged, she sighed deeply. Then she gazed at the crowd with rage-filled eyes as they edged closer, giving her no escape route.
“If you don’t give me space to ride from your village, by damn I shall make space!” she cried. “I will trample anyone who gets in my way beneath the hooves of this horse!”
She knew the chance she was taking by talking so angrily and threateningly to these people, yet she felt a desperation seizing her heart to know that if she hadn’t found help here for White Fire, where could she find it?
Yes, she knew that she could go to Fort Parker and Colonel Edwards would leave immediately for Fort Snelling. But the ride was so far to the fort! She would not be able to get there before nightfall.
Then it might be too late.
Exhausted and dispirited, she rode off through the Chippewa as they backed off and stood on two sides, allowing it.
Tears poured from her eyes as she rode free of the village. “What am I to do now?” she cried, lifting her gaze to the heavens as though trying to find answers from a God who for now seemed to have abandoned not only her, but also White Fire.
“Can’t you do something for me, Lord?” she cried. “Can’t you give me some sort of direction? You know the goodness of White Fire! Please don’t allow him to die needlessly!”
She found no release from her cry of panic toward heaven. Nor did she have any response. She was in this by herself. Never had she felt as alone!
The sun had reached the center point in the sky, and was now drifting toward what Flame thought might be three o’clock. She rode hard along the banks of the Mississippi River.
Her thoughts were scrambled, unsure of even where she should go for help. Hunger pangs ate away at her insides. Her legs and back ached from the hard ride.
She felt that if she could just stop and take a rest and get a bite to eat, she could think more clearly.
Perhaps she could think of someone who might have the power to go against her father and his faithful soldiers. Again Colonel Edwards came to mind.
Again she remembered how far downriver his fort was. But it was the last chance.
She rode onward, her shoulders slumping in her building tiredness. She felt dizzy from hunger. She was dying from thirst. And she itched all over from having been in the muddy river. Her clothes had dried rough and scratchy against her flesh.
She knew of one place she might go, at least for a momentary reprieve from all that ailed her. Her father would have no cause to go there once he heard of her escape. He would not think that she might be that stupid, to go somewhere so close to the fort that he could almost sneeze on it from the lushness of his private office.
“Yes, for now I shall go and rest in White Fire’s cabin,” she whispered to herself. She sighed heavily. “I’ll grab a quick bite. I’ll rest my weary bones, and then, by God, I’ll go into Pig’s Eye and find someone there who will be willing to help me.”
A keen sadness overtook her when she thought of Neal Geary, the Indian agent, and how he was no longer available to offer assistance to those who might need it in this wilderness.
She was almost certain that her father had had a part in the agent’s death, as he would in White Fire’s, if she didn’t find a way to stop him.
So weary of not only traveling, but also thinking, Flame was glad when she caught sight of the cabin through a break in the trees a short distance away.
Her eyes widened. She gasped.
She drew rein and wheeled her horse to a quick stop when she saw smoke spiraling slowly from the stone chimney at the side of the cabin.
“White Fire?” she whispered, forking an eyebrow.
A quick hope swam through her, that perhaps her father had changed his mind about White Fire and had set him free. Surely her father had thought it over and realized how much trouble he could get in if the government discovered that he had wrongly imprisoned and killed an innocent man.
And perhaps her father no longer saw White Fire as a threat as far as Flame was concerned, thinking that Flame would be hidden away in some convent where he would never find her.
“Lord, let it be true,” Flame softly prayed as she sank her heels into the flanks of her steed and rode in a hard gallop toward the cabin.
Chapter 32
Farewell to one now silenced quiet,
Sent out of hearing, out of sight
—Alice Meynell
Dozing, momentarily awakening, then dozing again, White Fire’s eyes sprang quickly open when he heard the loud whistle of the riverboat outside as it drew closer to the pier.
His heart leaped at the sound. He could not help but wonder about the return of the riverboat, when it had only a few short hours ago left for St. Louis!
Aboard that paddle wheeler had been Flame. Colonel Russell had bragged to White Fire, he had taunted him, about sending Flame where no one could ever find her.
He had known that Colonel Russell would have only been this open with him, because he knew that White Fire would never have the opportunity to go and release her from her imprisonment, because he would be dead.
He gazed up at the window and listened as the boat let out another sharp whistle as it came to a stop at the pier. White Fire’s pulse began to race, knowing that Flame was near again. He fought against the chains that held him in bondage. He struggled to get his ankles free.
All that his efforts gained him was more blood running from the wounds that the irons had inflicted on his wrists and ankles from him straining against them.
Yet White Fire could not help but think that with Flame’s return came just a slight ray of hope for his release . . . for his life. Perhaps the boat had returned solely because of her!
With her willful stubbornness, perhaps she had convinced those who accompanied her that White Fire was wrongly imprisoned by her madman father.
Just perhaps someone would come soon and release him.
But he knew that he was only reaching for a miracle in all that was bleak.
He hung his head and again slipped into a troubled sleep. He had not been fed. He had not been given water.
His body throbbed from being held up flat against the cold stone wall, his legs spread wide, his arms stretched out on either side.
“Flame . . .” he whispered in his sleep. “Flame . . .”
Chapter 33
My face turned pale as deadly pale,
My legs refused to walk away,
My life and all seemed turned to clay.
—John Clare
Breathless, Flame dismounted, then stopped suddenly when she found someone besides White Fire standing at the door of the cabin.
“Chief Gray Feather,” she gasped, her eyes wide with questioning.
Chief Gray Feather stared at her, then looked past her, his eyes searching for White Fire. Then he gazed at Flame again.
“Where is White Fire?” he asked, raising an eyebrow.
His gaze swept over her and saw her disarray. He gazed into her eyes once again. “When I last saw White Fire he was with you,” he said guardedly. “Why is he not with you now? Your clothes. Your hair. They are in such disorder. Why?”
Flame’s heart sank to learn that White Fire wasn’t there. He was still in that damnable cell, unless . . .
Fear brushed her insides in cold splashes to think that, to know that, her father could take away White Fire’s life at any moment, if he hadn’t already.
She rushed to Gray Feather and frantically gripped o
ne of his arms. “White Fire was taken away by my father and . . . and . . . placed in the fort’s dungeon,” she said in a rush of words. “My father sent me away on a riverboat. I jumped overboard. I went to your village to seek your help. I . . . was—”
“No-gee-shkan, stop. Tell me more slowly what happened, and why,” Gray Feather said, placing a gentle hand to her elbow. “Come inside. Sit down. Take a deep breath. Tell me everything. Then I will determine what must be done for White Fire.”
“What must be done?” Flame cried. “We must go and save him! That’s what must be done.”
Then she recalled how she had been treated at the Chippewa village.
Could she trust this chief to really listen and care about anything she had to say? Did he not care about White Fire any longer? Or did he blame both of them so much for the death of his daughter that he could never forgive them?
When Gray Feather said nothing more, but instead led her inside by a gentle hand on her elbow, Flame was glad to have time to get her breath. She knew that she must have some rest before heading out again to save her beloved. She even had to eat something, or else she would not have the strength to do what was required these next few hours.
When she got inside the cabin, she stopped and gaped openly at the child who was on a chair in the darker shadows. She was curled up, fast asleep, a wooden, carved horse clutched in her right hand.
She quickly recognized the child. It was Dancing Star, Song Sparrow’s daughter.
She looked quickly at Gray Feather again. “Why is she here?” she asked softly, trying to keep her voice low enough so that she would not awaken the child.
“I have brought her to White Fire,” Gray Feather said sullenly. “She is now his responsibility.” His eyes narrowed as he looked intently at Flame. “You said that you were at my village. While there, were you told of my daughter’s death?”
Flame slowly nodded. “Yes, I know of your daughter’s death,” she murmured. “I am so sorry, Gray Feather. So very sorry.”
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