Without even batting an eyelash, Gray Eagle nodded. “The exchange will be made at the gate; you walk in and the boy walks out.”
“No. You will bring my son to the edge of the range of your firesticks. When the signal is given, we will trade places.” Gray Eagle issued his own terms, his expression stoic and his tone firm.
“No way,” the man disagreed. “You and the boy could flee for cover while your warriors harass us with countless arrows.”
“In the range of your firesticks, you could slay both Bright Arrow and Gray Eagle. Only one of us will die at the hands of the white-eyes. I do not surrender to you until my son’s safety is clear,” he calmly asserted.
“If you refuse these terms, his body will be sent out to you.
The possible bluff failed to alter Gray Eagle’s decision. “Tie a long rope around his waist. When he walks past gun range, I will walk toward the fort gate. You hold a firestick to my back and the Bluecoats to my heart. When I am between you and the fort, release the rope and let him return to my people who wait nearby. Then if your tongue speaks two ways, only my life will be in danger. You will give me your word, not the word of the Bluecoats, to free him when I am between you and them. If you lie, I will slay you before they fill my body with their black balls,” he confidently warned, his ebony eyes piercing his challenger’s stolid frame.
The man indifferently pondered this wily suggestion. “The skills and daring of Wanmdi Hota are well known. Once the boy is free, your honor will demand you attempt escape, maybe over my dead body. It will be as you say only if I bind your hands behind your back first,” he said, all too clearly acknowledging his sullen respect of this warrior’s prowess and total lack of fear.
Their gazes met and locked. “Do you fear the power of Gray Eagle so much you must even the odds with your thongs?” he taunted the white man.
Mocked like some coward, the white trader snarled indignantly, “I fear no man, not even a living legend. But only a fool would turn his back upon a desperate wolf. You would probably die in your hasty flight, but you might also escape. The legend ends here and now, Wanmdi Hota. I am a fighter; I would rather best you in battle. But the stakes are too high to chance losing you. I know it must stick in your craw to be defeated in this humiliating way. What fighter wants to die empty-handed or without a chance to defend himself? You have my word of honor the boy will be free if your hands are bound.”
Gray Eagle’s gaze drilled into that of the white trader. One who depended upon his instincts and perceptions for survival and victory, Gray Eagle felt the proud white man would keep his word, unaware that his keen senses were perilously dulled by this weighty affair. Regardless, would the others allow it? “I accept your word. But if the others do not, how will my son go free?” He cunningly sought to prevent all traps.
“I’ll stop the first man who tries to prevent it; you have my word on that, too. I don’t give over to killing babies for any reason.”
“What of the second or third man?” Gray Eagle pressed.
“Them too if necessary.” Once more their gazes fused and locked, each man assessing the strengths and weaknesses of the other should the occasion call for such knowledge.
“It will be done; Wanmdi Hota has spoken,” the deep, rich voice agreed.
“I’ll return shortly. If you have any last words to your people, speak ‘em now,” the man advised, for some curious reason.
“It has been done. Bring Bright Arrow out to me.”
The gate opened and closed once more. Time passed, then this action was repeated. Gray Eagle’s heart sang with relief and joy as his eyes touched upon his son. A rope was secured around his waist and was held tightly by another burly soldier. The trapper came forward. Gray Eagle dismounted and remained where he was. Jed Hawkins pulled a length of rawhide from his belt and bound Gray Eagle’s hands, much tighter than necessary. Hawkins unhurriedly walked back to where the soldier was waiting with Bright Arrow. He took the rope and wound it around his strong hand several times before signaling to Gray Eagle.
“Walk toward me,” he insolently ordered, all eyes trained on them.
Before he complied, Gray Eagle called to his son, “Bright Arrow, your grandfather waits behind me. When the white man releases the rope, run to him as swiftly as the wapiti. Do not come near me or halt your race. Do you understand? Can you run swiftly and not look back?”
The white man stiffened in suspicious outrage. “I gave my word the boy would be safe!”
“I accept your word, but not the evil ones of the Bluecoats. My son will obey me. It will halt any trick. You heard all I told him. When I am in place, toss him the rope so he will not trip over it,” the intrepid warrior commanded as if he were the one in charge of his own capture!
“Fine! Let’s get this over with!” the other man shouted in annoyance, the playing of a deadly and traitorous game with the life of a child not being to his liking. Far worse, the lies he was being forced to tell soured in his mouth. He spit as if to eject the foul taste.
“A ‘ta!” Bright Arrow exclaimed in alarm and distress, seeing his father’s hands bound.
“Obey me, Bright Arrow! I must remain to speak with the white men. When the rope slackens, race swiftly to Running Wolf!” he commanded forcefully, praying his son wouldn’t hesitate in the face of danger or halt if the white trapper called out in his tongue.
“Sha, A’ta,” the small boy acquiesced.
With Bright Arrow walking ahead of him, Hawkins came toward Gray Eagle. In like manner, Gray Eagle purposefully strode toward him. They passed within three feet of each other, but were too close to the fort for any daring action. Gradually taking one step at a time, the noble warrior sidled toward the ominous fort, his keen eyes watching both the fort and the retreating Hawkins for any hint of deception. When their previously indicated positions were reached, both men halted. The rope around Bright Arrow’s waist strained as he attempted to continue his movements.
“Release the rope and draw your weapon,” Gray Eagle called out across the short distance between them.
Hawkins drew his flintlock pistol, but didn’t release the rope. The fort gates shouted “betrayal and danger!” as they were flung open wide and six rifles were trained on the stalwart body of Gray Eagle. The rope around his left hand, Hawkins was half-turned to aim the pistol in his right hand at Gray Eagle. One daring movement and his body would be assaulted with many rocks of fire.
But a turbulent storm was already assailing the towering frame of Gray Eagle. Even in war, a man did not give his word of honor and then break it. Hawkins must die! Before anyone could react in the flurry of events that happened next, the deed was done.
“Chula!” the resonant voice cried out to his horse, then ordered the animal to attack the white man near Bright Arrow. The massive animal charged the creature who was endangering the life of his beloved master. With six firesticks pointing at Gray Eagle, he knew it would be foolish to move. His own escape must come another time, if the Great Spirit willed it. For now, he must force the white-eyes to keep their word, without recklessly yielding his own life.
Chula reared and flailed his hooves, great snorts coming forth in warning. Hawkins fell backwards in an attempt to avoid those deadly weapons. “Run, Bright Arrow!” the concerned father called out once more as the agile beast continued his brave attack.
The alert child yanked upon the restraining rope, pulling it free from Hawkins’ hand. He ran like a squirrel scampering to safety. Oglala warriors had instantly stepped from the trees at the first sign of treachery. Bright Arrow ran into his grandfather’s arms. Gray Eagle watched as the offensive rope was yanked from his slender, sturdy body. His eyes locked with Running Wolf’s; he nodded in relief and resignation, then shifted his fathomless gaze to the dead man beneath Chula’s hooves.
“Chula, ya!” He commanded the cherished animal to return home to safety. The beast instantly obeyed, his hooves thundering upon the hard ground as he sped away into the forest. As ordered
, the Oglala had also withdrawn into the forest to deny the whites their grief over the coming loss of their famed warrior. Gray Eagle looked at the six rifles trained upon his body. As he glacially stared into the eyes of each man in turn, he could read their tension and fear.
For the briefest of moments, he was tempted to start running, to force the soldiers to fire upon him and end this lethal game quickly. He could not show such cowardice, nor could he permit his retreating son to hear the call of death take his life. He remained where he was, as the soldiers did. Gray Eagle was amused by their timidity in approaching him. Was he not bound? Did they not hold firesticks in their hands? Were there not many of them and only one of him? These white-eyes were cowards!
Finally, an entire detail of armed soldiers came hurrying out to surround him. Since Hawkins was the only man who could speak Sioux, they were at a loss to communicate with this powerful warrior, ignorant of his ability to speak fluent English! Hawkins’ trampled and mangled body was futilely checked for life. None found, a prompt burial was ordered. Several nudgings of firesticks to his broad back instructed Gray Eagle to move forward.
Once inside the fort, he was taken to Hodges’ office. All but three men left and the door was closed. Gray Eagle stood in the middle of the small room, his muscular frame intimidating all three men even though they presumed he was helpless. The guard remained in front of the door, his rifle directed at Gray Eagle’s gut. A strange-looking man sat in a chair to his left, while the barrel-chested leader of the Bluecoats strolled around Gray Eagle several times.
Hodges’ eyes scanned him up and down, back and front. “So, this is the infamous Gray Eagle,” he contemptuously sneered. “He don’t look so awesome now, does he?” When his hands punched a firm muscle here and there to test the might of this so-called invincible warrior, Gray Eagle neither moved nor spoke. His gaze remained stoic, set upon the back wall. He suppressed an amused smile when Hodges fumed at the absence of trophies upon his body. He knew the white man well; they relished such bloody souvenirs.
Hodges stepped before the warrior’s line of vision; yet it seemed to drill right through him to continue its gaze upon the back wall. Hodges’ nerves tingled with pricklings of vexing fear. He suddenly delivered a forceful blow into the unprotected stomach of the infuriating Indian who revealed no speck of fear or weakness. The only response from the brawny, intrepid warrior was a rush of air from his flaring nostrils!
“Damn you! I wish Hawkins were here to tell you what I plan to do with you, you red bastard! Your people’ll get their great warrior back again, piece by piece,” he threatened bravely, though he quivered inside.
Gray Eagle’s expression never changed. Laughing wildly, the smug major stated, “Come over here, Don Diego. Get yourself a glimpse of a real live savage. Is this why your gov’ment wants to rid itself of this wild frontier? Did they send you here to check it out? You can see it ain’t worth much. Full of bloodthirsty redskins, wild animals, places where nothing won’t grow, and work that’ll kill the best men!”
“If it is so bad, amigo, why did you come here?” Don Diego de Gardoqui, official representative of the Spanish Government, asked in a polite and direct tone. “Though this territory belongs to Spain, there are more Americans and French here than my people.”
“That why you want to sell ‘er? She’s closer to us than Spain. You can’t rule a growing land like this from across an ocean.”
“I did not say my government wished to sell this vast wilderness to your people,” Don Diego corrected him, toying with his thin mustache of sooty black before thoughtfully stroking his goatish beard. His complexion was fair and as smooth as a baby’s, his perturbed expression revealing his displeasure at Hodges’ crude manner.
The white men spoke in circles; this land belonged to the Indian, not the whites or the Spanish, as he called himself. Dressed in black and adorned with expensive silver, this man did not look like the others here. Diego’s speech and garments were different, the astute warrior noticed. Some unknown power and smugness flowed from him. It was clear the Bluecoat leader respected and feared his rank. Alerted to this curious fact, Gray Eagle listened to their words closely.
“Why do you boast so highly of only one man’s capture? When one leader is slain, another can easily and quickly take his place. I do not understand your immense fear of this solitary warrior.”
Rankled, Hodges scoffed, “Only one man? Caesar was only one man! Genghis Khan was only one man! Alexander The Great was only one man! William of Orange was only one man! Your beloved Columbus was only one meager man! It only takes one such man to fill hearts with dreams of greatness and mindless unity! Gray Eagle is such a man! Every warrior in this territory would follow him to Hell and back if he commanded it!” Hodges snapped, then flushed red at his rude outburst. “Forgive me, sir; I forgot my place,” he hastily apologized, witnessing the disapproving scowl of the willful Spaniard.
“I see you are an avid student of history, particularly of war heroes and overblown legends. If this Indian is the great leader you seem to think he is, why did he walk into your trap?” Don Diego reasoned skeptically, his voice insultingly humorous. “Leaders such as you mentioned were not above sacrificing even their families for achieving their greatness. For a man to trade his life for that of only one small son cannot make him so cold and fearsome as you allege him to be. I see no war god standing before me, only a mortal man who has unselfishly and perhaps bravely given his life for his son s.
Hodges could hardly restrain his boiling temper at this dressing down. Yet Don Diego’s safety and pleasure were in his hands. The failure to grant him every whim could be a costly mistake. His orders were to make certain he had anything he desired, anything.
Don Diego walked around the rigid warrior. He inhaled sharply at the sight of the blood that dripped from the fingertips of the Indian’s hands, hands turning blue from a severe lack of circulation. “Untie him!” he abruptly demanded.
“Untie him?” Hodges repeated incredulously.
“The bonds are too tight. Soon his hands will die,” Diego caustically remarked, perturbed by the childish fears of the commander of this fort.
“What does that matter? His whole body will die soon. He’s dangerous, Don Diego,” the major clamored, chafed by this imperious Spaniard.
“To justly execute one’s enemy is expected, sir; childish games of brutality are not. Your guard holds a weapon; you wear a pistol at your side. Surely two armed men can overpower only one man,” he panted. How dare this strutting peacock in blue and yellow question his authority!
Hodges thought he would smite the Spaniard if he said “only one man” one more time! “I said untie him!” Don Diego repeated himself.
Rage-stiffened and crimson-faced, Hodges stammered, “As you wish… Don Diego. I don’t… like this. He’s dangerous and sly.”
Hodges took a knife from his desk drawer and sliced through the blood-soaked bonds. He yanked off his yellow bandanna and wiped his moist fingers upon it, then his knife. He seated himself behind his desk, at a safe distance from the insidious warrior, rashly tossing the stained knife upon his desk. He observed Gray Eagle as he flexed his fingers, then lazily crossed his arms over his brawny chest, ignoring the blood that discolored the sienna-colored buckskins and his coppery flesh. Hodges began nervously to fidget as those obsidian eyes bored into his, never having experienced a more forceful and intimidating stare.
“Keep your gun on ‘im, Clint. He’s fast and cunning.”
“Come, come,” the Spanish official chided him. He stepped to Gray Eagle’s left side and asked, “Do you speak English?” When the brave remained silent, Don Diego added, “Do you understand it?” Often men could understand tongues or words that they couldn’t speak. Nothing.
“Don’t get too close now that he’s free, sir,” Hodges warned, irritating Diego with his bristling caution.
Don Diego slammed his fist upon the desk. “So far, Major Hodges, I have seen nothing to fear! He is
only one man! What can a helpless prisoner d…”
With lightning speed and accuracy, the carelessly discarded knife was in Gray Eagle’s grasp, Don Diego was imprisoned in his hold, and the blade was at his throat. Gray Eagle yanked the Spaniard aside, placing the justly terrified man between himself and his white foes.
“What the…” Hodges cursed in panic and surprise. “Damnit, Diego! I told you he was quick and dangerous! I shouldna cut him free. Only one man, you said. Well, your life’s in his hands!” Hodges exploded before thinking.
“Talk to him, fool! Don’t just stand there babbling like an idiot! You can’t allow him to harm me! I’m here under your protection! If anything happens to me…” Diego left his vivid threat hanging in the ominous air, ignorant of the character of this honorable warrior.
Hodges stared at him. Where were all that arrogance and courage now? Only one man, he mentally scoffed. Gray Eagle wasn’t just a man; he was a war god, a terrifying legend come to life. Hodges was sorely tempted to let the warrior slit Diego’s miserable throat, then shoot him. That way, he would simultaneously be rid of two nasty problems. Diego had flaunted his rank and pranced around like he owned this place. He had demanded the warrior’s release. Let him squirm a while!
“Aren’t you forgetting he killed the only man who could speak his savage tongue?” Hodges reminded the tense man struggling to breathe without nicking his throat with the deadly blade touching it.
“Surely there’s some way to communicate with him!” he shouted.
“No need to. It’s clear he’s trying to escape!” Hodges declared. Was the man also stupid? Could he allow this annoying snake to cost him his greatest victory, the capture of Gray Eagle without a single casualty? Hawkins didn’t count; he was just some trapper down on his luck.
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