Journey of the Heart

by Mills, DiAnn; Darty, Peggy;

  He swung the big horse around and motioned to his braves. The hard-packed snow flew into the air, settling again into wet clumps as the horses thundered through the gate. As soon as the gate slammed shut, shouts of panic erupted across the post. Men cursed, women cried out in fear, and Tommy tore across the courtyard for the kitchen, yelling for Elisabeth as he ran.

  The sound of wood striking wood captured the attention of the shuffling crowd as the kitchen door was flung wide and banged against the wall. Mary marched out into the courtyard, her long skirts billowing in the wind, her plump hands still floured and thrust in determined fists on her large hips.

  “Nobody’s proved Elisabeth belongs to this Indian woman!” she yelled, her pale blue eyes moving over each face in the crowd. “Why, she’s lighter skinned than half of you! They just want her, that’s all. They’ve seen her and they want her.”

  “Mary, why start a war over it?” someone yelled. “Couldn’t Elisabeth just visit the old squaw? Be nice to her, then come on back to the post?”

  “No!”

  “Are you askin’ us to fight ’em off, then?” A small, scowling man stepped forward. “ ’Cause we got a war on our hands come sunrise if we don’t figger somethin’ out.”

  “I’ll not turn my daughter over to them!” Mary shouted, her voice and her eyes daring anyone to challenge her. “And that’s final!” She whirled and lumbered back inside, her large body stiff with pride. But her spine felt the cold breath of terror, a terror that surpassed all other terrors of her life.

  Her steps quickened until she was almost running by the time she reached the kitchen. Her hands trembled on the door latch, trembled even more as she slammed it and shut the bolt. She turned slowly, dreading to face Elisabeth, who was now pacing the floor, wringing her hands.

  “Here now,” Mary laid a protective arm around her shoulder. “Don’t look so scared, honey. Nobody’s taking you away.”

  “Is it true?” Elisabeth demanded. “Am I the daughter of Morning Dove?”

  “Course not!” Mary began to pace the floor with her. “They just watched you from the cliffs and want you—like all red-blooded males!” She yanked a stray hair back into her bun. “Why, the Cheyennes and Arapahos are attacking wagon trains and taking the women home as squaws. The Utes are getting ideas now. But they’ll not get you, baby.”

  Pulling her daughter close to her, Mary could feel the erratic pounding of her own heart. Fear clutched at her chest, choking the air from her lungs. She drew a slow, measured breath and forced a smile to her stiff lips. “I love you as my own. They’ll not get you!”

  “Ma, I don’t want anyone killed because of me,” Elisabeth protested, anxiously rubbing her forehead, trying to think. “Maybe I should go.”

  “No! You’re not that squaw’s daughter. And they’ll keep you once they get you into their camp. I’ve heard the miners and trappers talking. The Indians want white women.”

  She paused to catch her breath. “You were kidnapped from another wagon train,” she said forcefully, her tone more rational. “We all knew that.”

  A fist pounded the door. “Open up, Mary,” Jed yelled. “We gotta do something.”

  As she unbolted the door and he burst into the kitchen, a torrent of words spilled from his mouth. “Them savages may not wait until sunrise. They may get a hankerin’ to come back tonight.”

  Jed rarely wore a hat, and his thinning gray hair now stood on end. He tugged at his nose, marbled with broken blood vessels. “Her features ain’t Indian, and her skin ain’t real dark, but her hair and eyes…” He was muttering his thoughts aloud, distressing Mary even more.

  Her hands clutched and unclutched the folds of her apron. “It’s the craziest thing I ever heard, Jed. Elisabeth, an Indian.”

  “Well, she was wrapped in an Indian blanket, remember? You always figgered she was stolen, but…” His voice trailed off as he stared at Elisabeth’s features then the shape of her long, slim body, examining her as though she were a stranger. “How did that Indian know a baby was put at our wagon if the ma didn’t tell him?” he asked Mary.

  “They just want her and they’ll lie to get her,” Mary snapped, beads of perspiration breaking over her upper lip. “All that matters is, she’s our daughter now. So help me, they ain’t getting her.”

  Jed’s eyes narrowed on his wife while his mind pondered the value of those buffalo skins, buffalo so hard to come by now! And the trinkets and beads—why, he could make a hefty profit in no time.

  His eyes shot back to Elisabeth. If she belonged to the Indians by blood, why start a war over it? He scowled and shook his head. Then turning to open the door, he stormed out.

  “He’ll trade me.” Elisabeth’s voice was a mere whisper as she stared at the space where Jed had stood.

  “He’ll do no such thing!” Mary cried. “I’m going to find Trapper John and get to the bottom of this.”

  Trapper John was a slight yet hardy man in his sixties. A grizzled gray beard and sideburns covered most of his thin, weathered face. Straggly white hair fell from beneath his coonskin cap, brushing the collar of this rabbit-skin jacket. He had survived blizzards, famine on a wagon train, and had even been trapped in a cave to escape a hungry mountain lion—and it all showed in his leathery face.

  But nothing equaled the threat in Mary’s face as she poked a loaded musket into his chest, backing him against the slab wood of the horse corral.

  “Tell me what you told them, and for once you’d better get your story straight!”

  Constant exposure to bitter wind and summer sun had weathered and darkened John’s skin to the bronze hue of the Cheyennes. All color drained from his face, however, as the tip of the barrel slammed against his breastbone.

  “I been tradin’ with Black Hawk for years, Mary,” he sputtered. “His camp’s half a day south of here. He’s been pestering me lately about a young squaw that one of his braves seen here at the post. I just figgered the brave was hankering after her, that’s all. I thought…” His teeth ground into his bottom lip as though he struggled to reason out the words before he spoke them.

  “You thought what?” Mary challenged.

  Trapper John took a deep breath that made a choked hiss in the night silence, tense with the shocking news. Everyone seemed to be waiting with bated breath to see what the Greenwoods would do.

  “I thought if he knew she was forsook by her parents like there was something wrong with her…Mary, you know how superstitious them Indians are. I figured if he thought something’ was wrong with her, he’d stop asking.”

  “So did he?” each word was like a stone hurled in his face.

  “No.” A heavy sigh wrenched John’s thin frame. “Then Black Hawk told me his sister was dying. That she thought all her pain was coming from the Great Spirit for leaving that baby at the palefaces’ wagon.” The words fell over his tongue, unchecked. “The squaw never could have babies after that, he told me. He said…”

  “He said what?” Mary poked the gun farther into his chest. Her face was ashen, her heart hammered.

  “He said the squaw Morning Dove wanted him to bring that baby back. She knew about you folks. She must have kept an eye on your wagon. She knew you were here.”

  Mary slumped, defeat registering in her eyes as she stared blindly into space.

  Seeing her grip on the gun lighten and the look on her face, as though someone had dealt her a blow, John grabbed a breath and made another attempt to rectify the situation.

  “Black Hawk said the squaw wants to see the girl before she dies. Maybe that’s all there is to it, Mary,” he finished lamely.

  She sank back against the wall of the corral as a hard pain tore through the center of her chest. She lowered the musket.

  “Mary, you better get ahold of yourself,” John said, suddenly concerned. “You look like your heart’s about to take out on you.”

  “Not yet,” she hissed. She had to think what to do. She had to save Elisabeth. But how? She lifted a hand to h
er heart, pressing against the persistent ache. The damage was done, and of course she had no intention of shooting John, although she felt tempted. But he would pay for his mistake later; she would see to that.

  “I’m sorry, Mary,” he muttered softly. “If only I could have done something—”

  “You can do something now,” she snapped. “You can take her to Denver tonight.”

  “Tonight?” John choked, his eyes shooting to the mass of dark clouds rolling in on a northern wind.

  “You can take the best horses, and I’ll pack food and coffee.”

  “Denver,” he repeated limply. “That’s all night and into tomorrow.”

  “You’ll do it, John, and don’t tell me you won’t. You got that poor girl into this mess and you’re gonna get her out.” She raised the musket again.

  John gulped and nodded. “All right, Mary. Get her ready. We’ll head out within the hour.”

  Mary heaved a sigh of relief then glanced worriedly at the clouds in the night sky. “The Tillotson family lives on this side of Denver. They’re missionaries. They spent some time here, and I nursed his wife through a bad stomach ailment. They said if I ever needed anything…”

  “Mary, what’ll happen if Elisabeth ain’t here when the Indians come back?” John didn’t want to get killed, but he didn’t want to be responsible for an Indian uprising at the post, either.

  Mary shook her head. “I don’t know, and right now I don’t care. I have to think of Elisabeth.”

  “Does Jed know you’re planning to sneak her out?”

  Mary glared at him, her fingers closing over the trigger of the musket.

  He sighed. “I’ll take her anyway.”

  Chapter Three

  Elisabeth huddled into her fur coat, her teeth chattering, her mind dazed with shock. In the darkness outside the corral, Trapper John led out a gentle mare then turned back to a frisky roan, raising the stirrups to accommodate his short legs.

  “Now, don’t waste any time,” Mary whispered through the darkness, tucking a bundle of food in John’s saddlebag.

  “I’ll send you a message from town,” John said, pulling up into the saddle and lowering his cap against the wind.

  “You’ll be okay, honey,” Mary said, her eyes hungrily searching Elisabeth’s face as though memorizing each feature.

  “Yes, I know. Don’t worry about me,” Elisabeth answered, trying to be brave.

  “Elisabeth, you keep a tight rein on that mare,” John warned from behind her. “We’ll just mosey quiet-like out the gate and across them foothills. That’s the best way to slip outta this valley.”

  Mary’s plump hand shot up to grip Elisabeth’s arm. “The Tillotsons are good people. They’ll take care of you, and I’ll come as soon as I can.”

  Elisabeth’s teeth were chattering, more from nerves than cold, as she nodded in agreement, glancing one last time at the log buildings huddled in a dark mass against the falling snow.

  “Take care of yourself, Ma,” Elisabeth said, her eyes returning to Mary, always so strong, yet reduced to heaving sobs now. The sight brought tears to Elisabeth’s eyes, but she sank her teeth into her lower lip, refusing to break down. She gripped the reins and kneed her mare into line behind John.

  The guard opened the gate, a sad smile on his face as he quietly waved them through.

  Elisabeth shivered even in her coat, her eyes stinging from the tears she fought to control. Her bottom lip ached from the hard thrust of her teeth as she centered her thoughts on getting to Denver. Her eyes were focused determinedly on Trapper John, whose cap was drawn low over his head. Just beneath the bottom edge of the hat, his earlobes glistened, fire red from the cold.

  The mare plodded along, its slow, easy rhythm a soothing distraction to her turbulent thoughts. For the past hours, her mind had been frozen in shock. She was relieved that her mother had taken charge, making all the decisions for her. Now, as she rode along in the darkened night, the cold air had a sobering effect, mobilizing her thoughts again.

  What if Black Hawk spoke the truth? How could she know what to believe? Her mother seemed certain that the Indians had kidnapped her from another wagon train, but was that what had really happened?

  They had ridden in silence for almost an hour when Elisabeth sensed a change in the quiet night. She studied John up ahead of her, huddled against the cold. He seemed unaware of any change, yet her skin prickled. What was wrong, what was different?

  The silence was no longer complete. That was it! She pushed her hood back and strained to hear. Then the change she had tried to identify became apparent even to John, who wheeled his horse around. The leather of his saddle creaked as he shifted his weight to survey the darkness that enclosed them, a darkness feathered by gently falling snow.

  Elisabeth pulled her mare to a halt, following Sam’s searching gaze into the black night and seeing nothing. But here was a sound drifting through the darkness, a thudding that grew stronger—hoofbeats, muffled by snow.

  “Someone’s after us,” John called at the moment the realization struck her. “And we ain’t hanging around to find out who! Kick that mare and ride like the wind!” he yelled. “We gotta reach them rocks up there so we can hide.”

  Wordlessly, she obeyed, slamming her booted heels into the mare’s sides. The horse lunged forward, and the snow spun a white web around her as the mare tore across the frozen earth. Elisabeth’s pulse drummed in her ears as she struggled to hang on, while the cold wind stung her face and blurred her vision.

  The night was suddenly rent with shouts, words that were foreign to her. Then suddenly a body had landed on top of John, knocking him from his horse and into the snow.

  “John!” she screamed, jerking the reins. At her panicked tugging, the mare reared then plunged again, throwing Elisabeth headlong into the snow.

  She was half-buried in a mound that froze her face and matted her lashes. She struggled to get up, impatiently brushing the wetness from her face.

  Hoofbeats and wild shouts filled her ears as she shook loose the clumps that clung to her clothes. A rough hand yanked her to her feet, snapping her head back, and suddenly she was staring into the dark face of an Indian brave.

  “John!” she glanced back over her shoulder, trying to see what had happened to him as more faces crowded in. Dark eyes peered at her as though she were a creature from another world.

  She glanced across the snow, looking for Trapper John. They had not harmed him, she was relieved to see that. Two braves were merely restraining him as a hand gripped her and strong arms returned her to her horse. There was no point in asking where she was going, for she already knew.

  Black Hawk had won after all.

  Chapter Four

  Moonlight streamed over the mountains, turning the peaks to a gleaming silver as the Indians led Elisabeth’s mare into a wide meadow enclosed by dark pine forests and jagged boulders. This was the land of the bubbling springs that she’d heard about, where Utes left trinkets for the Great Spirit. She remembered a trapper who had once stolen one of those trinkets and had come to the post with it. Jed had traded some flour and sugar for it, put it in a jar, and told everyone it was a valuable good luck charm from a medicine man. A Kansas mule skinner turned gold seeker had paid a fortune for it.

  Half-frozen and numb with shock, Elisabeth stared through bleary eyes at the small, silent village where a campfire threw flickering shadows on the buckskin lodges clustered in a wide circle.

  The lead Indian broke from the group and loped into camp, shouting hoarsely as he tumbled from his pinto and raced to a lodge in the center of the village.

  Flaps were thrown back, faces peered into the darkness, before torches were lit to flare in Elisabeth’s terrified face.

  Black Hawk appeared, wearing a furry robe and a long, elk-tooth necklace. His black hair hung in thick braids bound by rawhide, which swung about his shoulders as he broke through the gathering crowd and approached her. His dark eyes held a look of triumph.


  “Come!” he commanded.

  The deep voice rumbled over her, sending chills down her spine. She dismounted, pulling her coat tightly around her. Every bone in her body ached and throbbed from the long, punishing ride and the freezing cold. Still, she held herself erect, not wanting the staring kidnappers to sense her fear. She followed Black Hawk to a tall lodge that held colorful drawings of elk and deer. A large painting in the center featured a huge eagle and a young warrior.

  Nearby, a smaller lodge held only one painting, that of a sad Indian maiden staring up at a dove on a tree limb. Morning Dove, she thought. Black Hawk threw the flap back and motioned her inside.

  Elisabeth hesitated, growing apprehensive. Then, feeling Black Hawk’s black eyes urging her on, she forced herself to enter the lodge. A flickering candle offset the darkness within, as she blinked and glanced around her. A young girl sat beside a small, thin body that lay still as death on a bed of animal skins.

  “Morning Dove.” Black Hawk pointed, stepping toward the sick woman.

  Elisabeth’s feet were like stones as she edged toward the small woman whose gaunt brown face was as shriveled as the prunes they sold at the trading post. Her gray hair was swept back from her face in a single braid, and curiously, Elisabeth took a step closer, carefully studying the blunt nose, pale lips, and sunken cheeks. This person could not possibly be my mother, she thought, sighing with relief.

  The woman appeared to be sleeping, but, as though sensing her presence, the sunken eyes began to open.

  The big bronze chief leaned down and touched his sister’s shoulder. He spoke in a low voice, words Elisabeth did not understand. Then suddenly the woman struggled to sit up; dark, pain-filled eyes flew to Elisabeth.

  Elisabeth froze as a gnarled hand flailed through the air and the woman began to babble incoherently. The words died away and the woman lay with her mouth open, gasping for breath, as Elisabeth stared.