The first several days in the Kutenai village were a nightmare of endless chores for Jamie, from dawn until dark. Scraping and stretching hides, gathering wood and water, picking chokecherries and serviceberries—all at the beckoning of the ill-tempered Red Leggings. The woman stood over her, constantly scolding and chastising in her shrill voice, screaming words that were only a collection of grunts and hisses to Jamie. Frequently, if Jamie did not understand the commands of the overbearing Indian woman quickly enough to satisfy her, she would administer a few sharp raps across Jamie’s back with a willow switch that she constantly carried. Jamie soon learned the Kutenai words for “bring,” “wood,” “water,” “come,” “carry,” and a few other terms that required instant compliance.
Left Hand seemed impervious to his wife’s treatment of her slave and showed very little interest in Jamie beyond occasional curiosity, as when she would attempt to clean herself at the edge of the lake—before Red Leggings jerked the rawhide thong around her neck and dragged her back to the task at hand. Jamie was thankful for Left Hand’s lack of interest in her. She had feared that he might be intent on forcing himself upon her, even taking her as a wife. At least she was spared that. She told herself that she could endure the harsh treatment at the hands of Red Leggings as long as she was not sexually attacked. She even hoped that somehow her salvation might yet come.
In the days that followed, Jamie saw very little of Polly Tyler. When she did catch glimpses of the child, she was surprised to see her seemingly content in the company of other little girls her age. Most of the time she saw Polly with her new mother close by, teaching the child how to prepare animal skins, how to cook and sew, and how to do other women’s chores. In the Kutenai camp, the little boys were free to run and play nearly all of the time, but with the girls, it was a different matter. They were trained at a very early age to do the chores that Kutenai women did all their lives. Polly appeared to respond well to her new life. After a few days she no longer seemed to notice Jamie toiling under Red Leggings’s doleful eye.
During these dreadful times, especially when left to sleep at night, Jamie often thought of Trace, and sometimes she cried herself to sleep. She had always nourished the thought that Trace would one day return to Promise Valley and to her. Now she wondered where he might be, and if he even knew she had been abducted. If he did know, would he come to find her? To hang on to her sanity, she would pretend that Trace wanted her as his wife and was even now on his way to rescue her.
As time passed, Jamie’s thoughts of rescue faded. Soon she no longer contemplated escape at all. Resigned to her existence, she abandoned all thoughts of the future. Her world was only the work she did from sunup to sundown. Finally a day arrived when Red Leggings did not draw the rawhide loop around her neck but merely beckoned for her to follow. Accustomed to the taunts of the other Kutenai women as she went about her tasks, Jamie realized that the verbal abuse had gradually subsided until now she was generally ignored. Apparently no longer amused with holding a tyrant’s hand over her white slave, Red Leggings even abandoned her switch. After the cessation of abuse, life was almost tolerable, with no more than her daily work to worry her.
* * *
The village awoke one morning to find a heavy frost on the grassy banks of the lake. The men of the camp gathered in the council lodge, and after a short discussion they agreed that it was time to strike the camp and move into the mountains. Winter would soon arrive, and the winds that swept the open plain around the lake would be cold and hard. The men had made a good hunt and the women had worked hard, drying the meat and skins necessary to keep them warm and well fed. It was time to go into winter camp, where there was shelter from the winds and plenty of wood for the fires.
Jamie’s grasp of the Kutenai dialect was sufficient by now for her to understand Red Leggings’s instructions when it was time to take down the lodge and prepare a travois with the lodgepoles to carry it. While she was busy with this chore, she noticed that a warrior called Beaver Tail came to their fire and sat down to talk with Left Hand. This was not unusual—many of the men of the village came by periodically to talk with Left Hand. But Beaver Tail had come on several occasions during the past three days, and Jamie could not help but notice that his gaze often fell upon her. Though mildly curious, she didn’t find the matter interesting enough to dwell on—until Left Hand approached her and bade her pause in her work while he talked to her.
“Willow Switch,” he called, using the name the people had given her because of the frequency of Red Leggings’s switch across her back, “we will talk a little.” He waited for her to stand and look into his face. “You have worked hard. Red Leggings is pleased with your work and says that you have learned well. Others in the village have said that you have learned many things from Red Leggings’s teaching.” His voice was gruff even when he was not chastising, but now he chose his words carefully, pausing often between statements to make sure she understood what he was saying. “One who has noticed your good work is Beaver Tail. He has come to me and said that he thinks you might now make a good wife.”
Jamie had been concentrating on following Left Hand’s words, listening carefully lest she miss the meaning of his statements. Though she was much improved in her knowledge of his language, some of the words escaped her. But she was well aware of the word for “wife,” and when she heard it in connection with Beaver Tail and herself, she must have blanched, for Left Hand quickly continued. “I think it would be a good match. Beaver Tail is well respected by the people. He is a brave warrior and has counted many coups. His wife is barren and cannot give him a son. He does you great honor in offering to trade for you.”
Jamie was dumbfounded, unable to speak. The horror of the proposition stunned her for a moment. The possibility of this dilemma coming to confront her had been on her mind for some time now. She didn’t even know if she had anything to say about the decision. She was a slave, yet Left Hand seemed to be making a case for Beaver Tail in an attempt to persuade her. She was aware then that Left Hand was carefully studying her reactions.
“Beaver Tail has some concern,” Left Hand continued, hesitating in his effort to phrase his speech so he was sure she understood. “He wonders if you are ready to become one of the people, or if you will try to run away someday.” Left Hand paused, looking at Jamie with a question in his eyes. “Will you?” he finally asked.
Jamie found it astounding that Left Hand would ask her such a question in childlike innocence, as if he expected a frank and honest answer. How could she answer truthfully? She had no doubt that if she told him the truth—that she would certainly escape if the opportunity presented itself—he would resume the practice of tying her up at night. She did not want to lose that small measure of freedom she had worked so hard to gain. One thing she was sure of, however, she did not want to be Beaver Tail’s—or any other brave’s—wife, even though such an arrangement would certainly make her life easier.
Reluctant to return to the cruel conditions of her early captivity, she reconsidered the proposition. She sneaked a long look at Beaver Tail, who was sitting solemnly by Drags Him’s campfire, apparently awaiting an answer. Staunch and dignified, he sat there, a man of average height with less-than-striking features. She suddenly formed an image of him in a state of passion and knew at once that she could not endure it.
Left Hand pressed for her answer, so she decided to risk his anger, for she could not consent to Beaver Tail’s proposal. Averting her eyes so as not to meet his glare, she finally said, “I do not want to be Beaver Tail’s wife. I want to stay with Red Leggings.”
To her surprise, Left Hand did not erupt in anger. Instead he simply gazed at her for a long moment before nodding slowly, as if giving her words serious consideration. “You may go back to your work,” he said and turned away without showing even the slightest hint of irritation. Jamie returned to the task of packing up the lodge. As she busied herself with the travois, she stole glances at the two men now talking by the
fire. Beaver Tail nodded as Left Hand talked to him. Then, after a polite word on parting, he turned and walked away, never sending another glance in Jamie’s direction. Later, Left Hand apparently told Red Leggings the girl’s decision because Jamie noticed an almost immediate change in Red Leggings’s disposition. She was evidently pleased that Jamie had expressed a desire to stay with her. Maybe my life will take a turn for the better after all, Jamie thought.
* * *
Trace McCall made his way through mountain passes that he had not traveled since trapping the east slopes with Buck Ransom years before. When the trail of the Kutenai war party had finally petered out on the rocky slopes of the Bitterroot Mountains, he had no choice but to search out every favorite Indian camping spot he could remember—and that was more than a few. Bands of Indians were camping in several of these sites, but none of them were Kutenai. As he scouted each camp, getting as close as he thought safe, he saw preparations being made to go into winter camps. He hoped to find the Kutenai war party before they traveled back into some secluded valley, making it even more difficult to find them. As each day passed with no sign of them, he began to think his chances of finding Jamie were growing slimmer and slimmer. “Dammit!” he muttered, “that war party came from a village somewhere.” Maybe the village was on the western side of the mountains. It didn’t figure, he decided, and determined to continue on north, keeping in mind that he was now skirting Blackfoot territory and had best keep a sharp eye.
* * *
Jamie wasn’t sure what had caused her horse to rear back, almost breaking the lodgepoles that formed the legs of the travois. Moments later, she was amazed to discover the arrow protruding from just above the animal’s chest. At almost the same moment, the terrifying whoops of the Blackfoot war party echoed throughout the valley as a screaming hoard of warriors swept over the low hills that framed the lake.
Left Hand’s village was taken completely by surprise. Since all the people were busy preparing for the move to winter quarters, there were no scouts watching for enemies and none of the men were out hunting. So there was no notion in anyone’s mind that a Blackfoot war party had approached, making ready to attack the unsuspecting Kutenais.
For a moment Jamie was frozen. Her heart racing, she was too terrified to move. Over the crazed scream of her wounded horse, she heard the shrill cries of the women and children of the village as a general panic set in. People were running everywhere, women trying to herd their children to safety, men dashing for their weapons. And all about her, people were falling—wounded or dead, she couldn’t tell. It was like a dream to her, as if she was not a part of the melee, but only an observer. Suddenly Red Leggings ran past her and yelled for her to run. Jamie simply stared at her, still too confused to move. And then Beaver Tail was by her side. He opened his mouth to say something to her, but before he could speak, a rifle ball split his forehead and he slumped to the ground. As if just realizing at that moment that the terrifying wave of painted warriors sweeping through the village was real and she was not exempt from the slaughter, she finally registered the signal from her stunned mind to flee.
Her first reaction was to jump on the horse to escape, but the poor animal was finished. He crumpled as soon as Jamie jumped on his back, and she was barely able to dive out of the way and avoid being pinned under his weight. She picked herself up as quickly as she could and started running after Red Leggings and some of the other women, who were trying to gain the cover of the willows by the lake. Gasping for air, she dared not slow down, although her lungs were aching. On all sides of her people were falling. It seemed the air was thick with arrows and rifleballs, and the ear-shattering noises of the massacre combined to make a nightmare of sound. Her mind barely noted a vague recollection of Left Hand and Black Elk, their weapons in hand, running to try to defend the horse herd. She glanced up just in time to see Left Hand stopped suddenly by an arrow in his chest. Unaware of her own screaming, she ran harder.
Anticipating the stinging bite of an arrow in her back at any second, she followed the women into the willows and flung herself on the ground, seeking any protection she could find. The thicket was filled with frightened women and children, huddled together in little groups, hugging the ground in desperation. There was no place to run. The thicket offered the only protection, scant though it was. Beyond the willows lay nothing but open ground. She could no longer see the battle, but the sounds of slaughter were still very real, even though she covered her ears with her hands, trying to block it all out.
The women had been hiding in the thicket no more than half an hour when the continuous clamor of the attack subsided, giving way to only occasional rifle shots and cries of triumph as the Blackfoot warriors finished off the wounded and took scalps. Some of the women began to weep and soon the low moans of songs of mourning drifted through the willow branches.
“Hush!” a voice scolded. Jamie recognized it as that of Red Leggings. “Our only chance is that they did not see us run here to hide. They are Blackfoot—they will kill us if they find us.” There was quiet in the thicket again.
Trembling with fear, Jamie tried to dig herself deeper into the roots of the willow with her hands. “Listen,” someone cautioned. There were no longer any sounds from the village beyond an occasional word shouted between members of the raiding party. Jamie looked to each side, trying to see other women around her in the thicket. The vines that laced through the willows shielded them from her sight, and she felt that if she could just see someone else, she might not feel so all alone. Then the rustle of some willow leaves in the gentle breeze caught her eye and she saw a small Indian girl huddled close to the ground, like a rabbit when a wolf is too close to run. As the wind moved the leaves again, she realized it was Polly Tyler. The girl did not see her, and Jamie could not risk calling out to her. She waited, listening, praying.
Now voices could be heard approaching the thicket. Jamie held her breath, afraid to move. In a few minutes there were voices on the far side of the thicket—the Blackfeet had surrounded them. Jamie crouched lower, her hands trembling with fright. A moment more brought a crackling sound to her ears, and then the smell of smoke drifted to her nostrils. They were going to burn them out!
Although there had been no rain for many days, the willows and vines were green still, leaching water from the lake to sustain them. Consequently, the thicket did not blaze easily, but generated clouds of thick gray smoke. The Blackfoot warriors brought burning limbs from the Kutenai cookfires and threw them into the brush and vines. The willows refused to ignite completely, but the smoke had the desired effect upon the women and children hiding there.
In no time at all, the thicket became unbearable. Crying and coughing, trying not to breathe the acrid smoke, they were finally compelled to abandon their hiding places and make their way toward fresh air. “The lake,” Jamie heard Red Leggings whisper. “Go to the water.” Jamie followed her lead, and one by one, everyone struggled through the tangle of vines and willows.
The Blackfoot warriors had anticipated their escape route and were waiting by the water’s edge. As the women and children stumbled out of the smoky tangle, they were ruthlessly slaughtered. Red Leggings was one of the first to be struck down by a Blackfoot axe, as she was leading the doomed Kutenais out of the thicket. Some of the other women, and many of the children that followed, were able to slip between the line of warriors and plunge into the chilly lake, swimming as hard as they could to escape. They were easily overtaken by the strong Blackfoot warriors, who slit their throats, their blood forming small red pools in the water.
Jamie, still fighting her way out of the now blazing thicket, could see the carnage taking place on the lakeshore. She stopped for only a moment and realized there was nowhere to go but forward. She saw a young girl she was certain was Polly swimming as fast as she could toward the center of the lake. A warrior swam after her. A strong swimmer, the Blackfoot toyed with the child, swimming right behind her, taunting her. He played with her as a cat p
lays with a mouse until she was too exhausted to swim any farther. Then, laughing, he caught her by her hair and held her head under the water until she drowned. Jamie was sick with fear. She decided her only chance was to run along the shore once she cleared the thicket. She tried to hold her breath while she waited for an opportunity to spring out of the willows and run, but the smoke was burning her eyes and choking her. Finally she could wait no longer. Dashing out of the trees, she managed to dodge a waiting warrior and sprint toward the rocky shoreline. She was overtaken almost immediately, and tripped from behind. Down she went, slipping and bumping over the stones. As quickly as she could manage, she scrambled to her hands and knees and tried to crawl. Her head was violently jerked back by a hand in her hair, and she saw the steel blade of the knife flash in the morning sun as it was held poised before her throat.
“Stop!” Little Bull ordered. “She is white.”
Two Kills paused and took a closer look at the woman, still holding Jamie by her hair, his knee placed in the small of her back while she held on to his other wrist with both of her hands. “So she is white,” Two Kills said. “What difference does that make? She is living with Kutenais.” He began to force his knife hand down toward Jamie’s throat. She strained against him but could not hold him off. She could feel the sharp edge of the skinning knife against her windpipe.
“Wait!” Little Bull insisted. “She is also young. Plum will give three horses for a young white girl.”
Two Kills was filled with bloodlust and eager to kill. “We have plenty of horses now. These Kutenai dogs have seen to that.”
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