So Wide the Sky

by Elizabeth Grayson

  "Is that all you did?"

  "Sometimes we shot back," Hunter said with the hint of a smile. "Pretty early on, someone found out I could follow a trail, and General Forrest took me on as a scout."

  "But how did you end up at Fort Caspar?"

  "I got captured."

  In spite of the sun beating down on his shoulders, Hunter felt the chill. He didn't remember much about the months he'd been locked away. There had been a pounding in his head, a panic that crawled over him like ants, a fury inside him that made him a menace to both the other prisoners and himself. Then a Union officer had come to Rock Island Prison and offered salvation.

  The United States Army needed soldiers in the west. Any Confederate willing to take an oath of allegiance to the United States and fight the Comanche and the Sioux could leave the prison. Hunter had been ready to swear away his soul for a glimpse of the sun. He'd made his pledge, been given a new blue uniform, and marched into Fort Laramie eight weeks later.

  "Hunter?" The concern in Cassie's voice shattered the spell of those dark days. "What happened after you were captured?"

  "I got away" was all he said, and urged his horse into a canter.

  Hunter maintained his silence for a good long while as a dozen mule deer ambled across their path headed toward the creek that lay just off to the east, as a hawk looped lazily above them hoping to spot his evening meal. They had ridden nearly three miles when a party of a half dozen braves suddenly crested the rise off to the west. With the sun casting them in silhouette, Hunter couldn't make out anything except that they were Sioux.

  "Do they mean to harm us?" Cassie asked under her breath.

  "I don't know," he told her, but prickles of danger kept dancing up his back. "Just keep riding."

  The Indians followed them for more than a mile. Hunter fancied he could hear them speculating. Why were these whites so far from the fort? Did they have anything worth stealing besides the horses? Was the child strong and the woman pretty?

  "You still got that pistol I gave you, Cass?" he asked, keeping his tone quiet and cool for Meggie's sake.

  "Right here," she answered, her voice every bit as calm. He sliced a glance in her direction. Cassie rode tall, her back straight and her chin high. She had that cavalry pistol nestled in her lap and her hand was tight on the grip as if she were ready to use it. There was color in her cheeks and resolution around her mouth. She was as worthy of being a warrior's woman as anyone he'd ever known. White-hot pride flashed through him.

  Then all at once, one of the braves detached himself from the group at the top of the rise and galloped toward them.

  Hunter pulled his horse up short. Whipcord taut, he watched the Sioux brave come at them. He was bowed low over his horse, his body lithe and graceful, his hair and breechclout flying.

  Hunter tucked Meggie into the crook of his left arm, and pulled the rifle from the saddle holster with his opposite hand. "Don't fire unless you have to," he told Cass. Without so much as a glance at her, he knew she'd stand her ground.

  As the Indian bore down on them, they could see that he was broad-shouldered and strong, all done up in paint and feathers. A young buck out to prove himself—which meant he was unseasoned, inexperienced. And probably crazy.

  As the youth thundered past, Hunter saw his face light with recognition. Lone Hunter the half-breed scout was known among the Sioux as a fierce fighter, a worthy adversary. In that instant, Hunter bore the weight of his hard-won reputation.

  The brave circled around behind them and galloped back.

  Hunter followed the man with his eyes.

  Two hundred yards beyond them, the brave hauled his horse to a prancing stop. He pulled his war club from his belt, and howled with a challenge to single combat.

  Hunter shivered with a thrill of response. He'd have to fight. To ignore the summons would insure their deaths. Yet a fierce, bright hostility ran deep in his bones and sinews, a hard-driving need to defend this woman and child. His horse danced beneath him, as eager as Hunter for combat. For an instant it was all he could do to keep from howling his answer and riding out to do battle.

  "What—what's he doing?" Meggie asked, her quaking voice reminding Hunter of his obligations.

  "It's going to be all right, Meggie. I'm going to take care of this."

  He urged his mount a few steps forward in acknowledgment of the challenge, then glanced toward the Indians on the rise. Would they wait while he played this out or ride down on Cass and Meggie while he was fighting this single brave?

  Cass was at his elbow when he turned. She didn't say a word, just grabbed Meggie and swung her into her own saddle. She took his rifle, and, once he'd stripped it off, his shirt.

  She understood what a challenge to single combat meant. She knew exactly what he must do, and how she should comport herself while he was fighting.

  "Both of you stay on that horse," he told her in an undertone. "Don't ride, don't move, don't give any hint of what you're planning unless the rest of those braves start down here." He gave the Indians on the hill another measuring glance. "If they head this way, kick that bag of bones and ride for the fort."

  "Can we make it that far?"

  Hunter gave her his most terrible smile. "If any woman can make it to that fort, Cass, you can. And if I lose out there," he went on, "you won't have a choice about reaching it."

  "Then we'll be fine."

  He had never heard a voice so calm or seen eyes that glowed with such ferocity. His chest burned and his throat tightened.

  Then he turned away. He reached around to untie his war club from the skirt of his saddle. He wrapped one palm around the heavy green-flecked stone that was bound at the head of the club. He could feel its power, its pulse, and its heat. He slid his fingers down the length of the leather-wrapped shank and slipped the rawhide loop around his wrist. He balanced the weapon in his hand. Its weight was familiar, almost comforting. Calm settled in his chest.

  It is a very good day to die.

  Yet he was fighting for Cass and Meggie, not just himself. Today his life mattered. But that was not a weight he could carry into battle.

  His challenger was growing restless out on the field, circling and circling. Hunter's own mount blew and snorted, ready to run.

  "It is a very good day to die," he insisted under his breath. He nudged his mount forward across a wavering sea of yellow and green, where a lone Sioux warrior was waiting to kill him.

  As he closed the distance between them, Hunter looked to the breadth of the man's shoulders. He measured the length of his reach. He gauged the speed his horse was traveling. He planned his strike.

  The two warriors came at each other with their war clubs raised. Hunter feinted to the left as they came abreast. He swung the blow at his opponent's head.

  The younger man twisted to block it. The clubs came together with a thud. Hunter felt the jar of contact the length of his arm.

  The clubs caught head to head. The men glared into each other's eyes, then pulled away. The two of them swerved and circled back, scribing opposite arcs of a circle on the endless plain.

  "I, Cry of the Hawk, challenge you, Lone Hunter, to a fight to the death," the young brave taunted, the cluster of feathers in his hair bobbing with his horse's gait. "You are too old to win such a battle. You are too soft from living with the whites to hope to triumph."

  "Then my death won't be much of a victory," Hunter shouted back, gauging the younger man's eagerness.

  "Even so, I look forward to spilling your blood, to taking the hair of a long-knife scout."

  Hunter saw his opponent rein in and tightened his grip on his war club.

  Yipping like a coyote, the Sioux warrior jerked his horse to the left and galloped toward the center of the circle. Hunter did the same.

  Their horses met shoulder to shoulder, dancing and pushing against each other. The younger man swung his club at Hunter's head. Though Hunter battered it back, the stone at the top glanced off his shoulder. Numbing p
ain ran down his arm.

  He gritted his teeth and swung in spite of it, knocking the young brave forward on his horse. Cry of the Hawk clung there, gasping for breath, as the horses danced away again.

  This time as they circled both men rode as if they felt the toll the fight was taking. Hunter's shoulder ached up into his teeth. The younger man's face was the color of chalk.

  Still, Hunter's nerves were singing as the age-old bloodlust set every muscle afire. He craved the taste of victory.

  "What is wrong?" Hunter called out as his horse pranced beneath him, kicking up dust. "Has this old fox proved too cunning for you, cub? Have you lost your stomach for fighting?"

  "I have lost nothing, Lone Hunter," the younger man called out breathlessly. "You have seen your death in my eyes."

  "Or you have seen your death in mine. I am sorry about how much of life you are going to miss."

  "I am not afraid," the younger man shouted.

  "It is a good day to die!"

  Across the width of more than a hundred yards the two men reined in their mounts. They turned them in tighter and tighter circles.

  Hunter flexed his arm. The muscles were stiff and aching. Was he strong enough to strike the blow that would end this young man's life? Could he defeat this challenger?

  With a howl of his own, Hunter turned his horse and urged it to a gallop. The Sioux brave drove his Indian pony forward. They came together with a jolt. Hunter swung his war club with every ounce of his weight behind it. It caught the younger man in the chest, battered up beneath his ribs, crushed his sternum, stopped his heart.

  Hunter surged past him and pulled in his horse. He didn't bother to look back to where the young warrior sprawled broken in the dust. Hunter knew he'd killed the man and experienced a quick, hot surge of remorse for the brave who lay dead. He swallowed the yell of victory that swelled his chest and lifted his gaze to the rise instead.

  The Sioux were there, like vultures waiting for a meal, like old men who had known the outcome of the battle and were compelled to watch it anyway.

  Hunter didn't wait to see what they did next.

  He turned his horse back to Cass and Meggie and rode like the fiends of hell were after him. If the other braves came to get them, he wanted to be armed, he wanted to be where he could defend this woman and child. If he was going to be granted his freedom, he meant for those men on the hill to understand that Cass and Meggie came with it.

  When he reached her, Cassie held out his rifle and then his shirt. He donned one and checked the load on the other. Meggie didn't say a word.

  "You think they'll come?" Cassandra asked.

  "I think we should get out of here."

  Cass nodded once and kicked her horse in the direction of the fort. For as long as Hunter kept looking back, the band of Sioux sat watching them.

  Chapter 17

  The rifles were beautiful—brand-new breech-loading Springfields, specially reconditioned for use with metal cartridges. While Drew's men carried the boxes of "scrub brushes" and "brooms" into the powder magazine in the dead of night, he tested the weight and balance of one of those new rifles. His fingertips skimmed along the smooth steel barrel. He stroked the bright brass fittings with the pad of his thumb. He fit the flare of the stock in his half-open palm. These guns were simple and strong and dependable—and he wanted one for himself so much he could taste it.

  But the rifles weren't meant for the men of Fort Carr. Because of transportation difficulties around Fort Reno, the rifles were being routed west then north to Forts Phil Kearney and C. F. Smith. Those Bozeman Trail installations were closest to the Powder River encampments and in the gravest peril. Besides, taking the rifles north was bound to be glory duty, and what Drew wanted even more than one of the rifles was that assignment.

  The morning after the guns arrived, Ben McGarrity called his officers together to brief them on the mission.

  Drew hunched at the end of the long, crowded table, his fingers wringing the life from a mug of cooling coffee. He deserved this duty. He'd honed his men. He'd studied maps until he knew every dip and draw between here and the Powder River. He could already taste the wild, sweet exhilaration of riding out of the fort with those munitions wagons.

  It was a struggle to rein in his thoughts and turn his attention to the route Jalbert was indicating on the map.

  "Since there have been troubles around Fort Reno," the scout was saying, "we'll head due north and intercept the Bozeman Trail a few miles south of Phil Kearney. The Sioux keep a close watch on the trail, and by staying closer to the mountains, we may get into the vicinity of the fort without drawing their attention."

  "Isn't heading cross-country with such heavily loaded wagons going to be difficult?" Captain Parker asked.

  "There have been trails through this area for years," Jalbert answered, pointing again, "so we'll have wagon ruts to follow. Most of the alternative routes were abandoned when the Bozeman was laid out, but there's no reason we can't use one of them to get the rifles through.

  "This land's also a bit more rolling than the land to the east," he continued, "so we won't be quite so visible. And with the size of the contingent Major McGarrity plans to field, the Sioux may not detect our presence at all."

  "Is the party to be a small one, sir?" one of the second lieutenants asked.

  McGarrity nodded. "In order to make certain these rifles get where they're needed, we plan to make the wagons look innocuous. To that end, I've decided to detail forty men. About half will ride escort, as they might for a civilian wagon train. The rest will remain hidden in the wagons to surprise the hostiles if they attack.

  "In addition, a decoy wagon train is starting out from Fort Laramie under full guard. We hope that if the Indians have heard about the rifles, they'll assume that's the party carrying them. We leave Thursday at dawn."

  Drew breathed deeply, pleased with the plan and prepared to accept the assignment with equanimity. A good officer never gloated.

  McGarrity cleared his throat. "Before I make the assignments, I'd like to say how pleased I am with the training you've provided your men. You've turned what were in some cases raw recruits into crack troops—"

  Get on with it! Drew thought, impatience eating holes in him.

  "—a pleasure to serve with all of you," McGarrity concluded a few minutes later. "Now, about the rifles."

  Drew held his breath. Anticipation crackled along his nerves like current along a telegraph wire.

  "Captain Amos Parker will command—"

  Parker! Drew's face caught fire. What the hell was McGarrity thinking? Blood roared in Drew's ears. He hung on to the mug of coffee like it was salvation. What had Parker done to deserve this?

  Drew was the one who had graduated at the top of his class at West Point. He'd distinguished himself in battle back East. He'd worked like hell since he'd been at Fort Carr. He'd trained nine long years to fight Indians. How could McGarrity pick someone else?

  Only discipline kept Drew in his chair while the others asked questions and discussed contingencies. It was the change in the timbre of McGarrity's voice that cut through the buzz of anger in Reynolds's head.

  "The Springfields are so far superior to anything being used on the frontier today," the major was saying, "that a company of men armed with these guns could subdue the tribes in a matter of weeks. But let me caution you, should these guns fall into the wrong hands, they'll start a bloodbath. And we'll be the ones to mop up afterward.

  "Speak of this to no one. For this plan to succeed, we need to maintain complete security. Now good luck, keep your mouths shut, and get back to work. Dismissed."

  Amid the hum of voices and the thud of boots on the wooden floor, Drew climbed to his feet. He stood there rigid while the others filed out, not sure where he wanted to go. No soldier worth his salt questioned orders, yet the need to confront McGarrity was raging through him like a bonfire.

  The major must have guessed what he was feeling because he stopped beside
Drew on his way to the door. "I'm sorry about giving Parker this duty instead of you," he said. "But Parker's been out here longer and has a good deal more field experience."

  It was rare for a senior officer to explain his actions to a more junior man. That McGarrity had chosen to do so was a measure of his respect for Drew's abilities. Drew knew that, and still he couldn't seem to choke down his anger.

  "Goddamnit, Ben," he finally said. "I came out here to avenge my family's death, and I can't get any closer to Indians than the friendlies' camp!"

  McGarrity laid one broad, sun-browned hand on Drew's shoulder. "I know why you're here, son, and when I need someone to lead the charge, I'll send you. This action calls for something else, and I know I can count on Parker to behave with restraint."

  Drew shook his head, his nerves still humming. There had to be more to it than a question of experience. "This—this isn't because of Cassie, is it? Because she's—"

  "No," McGarrity answered gruffly and took back his hand. "Cassie doesn't have a thing to do with how you fight. There may be times in your career when Cassie and what happened to her will make a difference. This isn't one of them."

  Drew had wanted so much for this to be Cassie's fault, but he squared his shoulders and nodded. "As you say, sir."

  McGarrity paused as if he meant to offer something more, then moved along.

  Drew stood there after McGarrity left, alone with his frustration and his failure. His head ached with the need for sleep, but the nightmare was waiting every time he closed his eyes. He'd been painting every night until almost dawn, even though his hands shook so hard he could barely control the brushes. He could feel himself coming apart.

  If they'd just given him this command, he might have been all right. If they'd just let him go fight Indians, he'd be able to hold himself together. But he was failing to keep the most important vow he'd ever made, and he couldn't live with that or with himself.

  Drew yearned to put his ghosts to rest. He had a woman who should have been able to give him love and comfort. He had a child who should have brought him joy, but he couldn't let either of them close enough to touch him or ease his pain. He couldn't let anyone in—not while he was accountable to his family, not when the army denied him the vengeance he needed so desperately.