Warrior Moon

by Sara Orwig

  He whistled and Vanessa reappeared, hurrying around the bend, holding her riding skirt up slightly to keep it from getting dusty, her trim ankles showing.

  “We go now. I think they’ll return.” As soon as Vanessa mounted, he handed White Bird to her. He swung up into the saddle and they moved off. Except for occasional puddles, the creek bed was dry; the horses’s hooves crunched on the rocks.

  Lone Wolf glanced at her. “How much did you spend in town?”

  “I spent greenbacks and gold pieces,” she replied with a shrug. “I had to give Doc Wilkens a twenty-dollar gold piece to tend you.”

  “That’s a fortune!” Lone Wolf frowned, astounded that she had paid that to have him cared for. “He must not have wanted an Indian patient.”

  “No, he didn’t. But he said for gold he would tend President Lincoln.”

  “That amount is a fortune to the men in town.” Lone Wolf fell silent and then in a moment he turned to study her again. “You don’t have any great interest in money, Vanessa,” he said dryly.

  Vanessa saw the amusement in his eyes. “No, I don’t. Papa has always taken care of us, and I don’t care about fancy dresses. We’ve moved so much I’ve never had many things.”

  “Then you would be a good Kiowa because we move too often to accumulate many things.”

  She smiled at him, and he reached out to catch her chin in his hand.

  “A smile of summer sunshine,” he said quietly, and she felt a rush of pleasure.

  Lone Wolf headed up the slight bank. At the top, her gaze swept the land, noting the sparse mesquite bent to the north by the prevailing southern winds and the prickly pear that were dark splotches near the ground. It was quiet except for the horses’s hooves. Hawks circled high overhead, gliding and drifting. The day was pleasant, warming as the sun rose in the sky.

  She halted and glanced down at White Bird, who slumped against her while she dozed. Glad the little girl felt no fright, Vanessa brushed the child’s hair back from her face.

  An hour later, she drew in her breath because the bandage on Lone Wolf’s shoulder looked bloody. “You should stop. Your shoulder and your side are bleeding again.”

  “No. If we stop, they can catch up with us. We keep going.”

  “How do I know you’re not leading me back north?”

  He gave her a level look. “You have to trust me.”

  His answer irked her, and she continued to ride in silence. When they didn’t stop as the sun moved across the sky, she realized he must be greatly concerned about being followed.

  White Bird awoke and wriggled, and Vanessa caught up with him. “We need to stop. White Bird should get down and run, and we haven’t eaten all day.”

  “Drink water. We keep going.”

  Annoyed, but afraid to argue because they might be in terrible danger, she nodded.

  “When we go through another town,” Vanessa said, “I want to purchase a pistol and I want you to teach me to shoot.”

  He glanced at her, his dark eyes twinkling. “And you will turn it on me, Vanessa?”

  Shaking her head, she smiled. “You’d take it away from me.”

  “Why do you want to learn to use a weapon?”

  “Because we’ve been in danger and I felt helpless. You were unconscious, and Jethro Hankins frightened me.”

  Lone Wolf nodded. “It is good you learn to use a pistol, but I’ll probably regret it.”

  “No, you won’t. And I wish you would teach me some words or some signs in your language because I feel helpless when I’m unable to converse with White Bird. I know a few Kiowa words, but not many.”

  “It is not an easy language, but I shall teach you—and some sign language as well. There’s no r in the Kiowa vocabulary, and sometimes meaning depends upon pronunciation. Sign language is easier.” He clapped his hands in front of his chest. “That means peace. Keep the palm of your left hand up.”

  She followed his example, reaching around White Bird.

  He shook his own hand. “Friend.”

  Gradually, she began to learn the sign language as they rode. He glanced at her. “If I lose consciousness again and you encounter the Comanche, make the sign for peace and make the sign for husband. You’ll be safer if they think you’re my woman.”

  He held up his right index finger, the back of his hand away from his face, the finger in front of his face. “That’s man. Now add to it the sign for marry.” He joined his index fingers side by side, pointing away from himself. “That’s the sign for trade or marry. But together with the sign for man, it will indicate that I’m your husband.”

  The words were ordinary, but their effect on her was not. When he’d said I’m your husband, the words had carried an emotional impact. She glanced at him, studying his profile, remembering the moments in the quiet of the night when she had been close beside him, remembering his hard, powerful body.

  At last the sun slanted close to the horizon, and she realized they were heading southeast. “You’ve turned back east.”

  “Otherwise we’d be in New Mexico Territory.”

  “Do you think we’re still in danger from the men of Martin’s Gulch?”

  “Yes. That looked like a hideaway of men on the run from the law. If they thought they could get even one hundred dollars in gold, they would ride after us with eagerness. Vanessa, do you know how much you carry?”

  His gaze was intent and she dreaded answering him, suspecting her gold had placed them in greater danger.

  “No one in town saw or knew how much I had.”

  “That isn’t what I asked.”

  She drew a deep breath. “I left the wagon train with five hundred dollars in gold and another two hundred in greenbacks.”

  “Eha’eho’!” he exclaimed, his brow furrowing, his expression fierce. “For that amount the entire town would ride after us! Did the Parsons woman know how much your father was sending?”

  “Yes, she did.”

  “So by now, the soldiers that accompanied the wagon train know. When you made purchases in town, did anyone see how much money you carried?”

  “No. I divided it up and left most of the money in the room with you.”

  He nodded, glancing behind them, speculating.

  “How far until you’ll feel we’re safe from them?”

  “Tonight we can change course. If we ride all night, I don’t think they can catch up—”

  “You can’t ride all night!”

  His dark eyes bored into her. “I’m stronger than I was. If we stop, they may find us. I had the advantage today because they were on open ground and I had cover so I could pick them off, but next time I probably won’t be as lucky. I think they could number as high as twenty men. Maybe more. I can’t battle that many.”

  She nodded, trying to reassure herself that if he had made it this far, he would survive, but as her gaze drifted over his bandages, she felt a stirring of alarm because they were now thoroughly soaked with blood.

  Knowing it was useless to argue, she grew silent. As the moon rose in the sky that night, she kept dozing and jerking awake. She was too weary and groggy to try to figure out in what direction they were headed and hoped he hadn’t circled around and turned north. She jerked upright and glanced at him. How he managed staying awake now, she couldn’t imagine.

  Vanessa battled sleep until they reached some trees and moved down onto a creek bed. A faint trickle of water—only inches wide—ran through it, but it was enough for the horses. Lone Wolf reined in and dismounted. He stepped in front of her to take White Bird.

  “Spread a blanket, and I’ll put her down while we get some water and food.”

  Too weary to protest, she spread the blanket and, as he lowered White Bird to it, Vanessa stretched out beside her and closed her eyes.

  The next thing she knew, Lone Wolf was gripping her shoulder. “Vanessa,” he whispered loudly. “Get up. We have to go.” He pulled her to her feet, picked up White Bird, and handed the child to Vanessa, who settl
ed the little girl on the saddle in front of her.

  Finally, Lone Wolf mounted up and led the way as they followed the stream.

  At the first faint glow of dawn, Lone Wolf turned to ride beside her. He reached over to place his hand on her arm, and his fingers felt warm against her flesh. His brow furrowed in a frown, and she realized there must be trouble. He tugged her reins, and the paint halted. Lone Wolf leaned close. “We’re being followed. Stay with me,” he ordered.

  Tiredness vanished as fear replaced it, and she glanced over her shoulder.

  “When I see a place where we can ride out of this low spot and make a break for it again, I’ll motion to you and you ride away with White Bird.” He tilted Vanessa’s chin up and gazed into her eyes. “This time, don’t stop. I think many men follow us.”

  A chill ran down her spine, and she glanced behind them. She couldn’t see or hear anything unusual, but she remembered how long he had known Hollings was following them before Hollings and the soldiers had appeared.

  As she nodded, he motioned her to go ahead. Frightened, she rode quietly, her skin prickling because she didn’t doubt for a moment that Lone Wolf was correct in his assumption that they were being pursued.

  She hadn’t heard a sound, but suddenly an arrow struck the tree beside Lone Wolf with a solid thunk, the shaft quivering.

  She flinched and tightened her arm around White Bird, ready to gallop away, but waiting for a signal from Lone Wolf.

  “Bo’dalk’inago!” he called. “Kai’wa! Aho’.”

  As if materializing out of the air, dozens of warriors emerged at the top of the embankment and surrounded them.

  Vanessa’s heart throbbed violently. All the men looked menacing with black paint on their faces, feathers in their long hair, their expressions solemn and intent. Some of them wore buckskin shirts; others were bare-chested. They looked as strong and formidable as Lone Wolf.

  She felt a rising panic that she hoped didn’t show. She hadn’t feared Lone Wolf because he had been too weak to harm her, but now she was at the mercy of the warriors.

  While the warriors spread out, circling them, Vanessa sat still. Were they his people? Now would she be their captive?

  Eight

  Lone Wolf rode forward. He made a motion with his hands, closing his fists, thumbs down, bringing them in front of his chest. She remembered that this was his sign for soldiers and wondered if he told them they were being pursued by soldiers. Along with the sign language, he spoke in words she couldn’t understand. One of the men answered Lone Wolf, and the two conversed. The man talking to Lone Wolf looked at her and said something. Reaching up with his right hand, Lone Wolf combed his fingers through his hair as he answered, and the man nodded. They both glanced at White Bird.

  Lone Wolf turned his horse to ride back beside her. “We go with them. They’re Comanche. Their medicine man will tend my wounds. The warrior I talked with is Huusibe, Draw Knife. The Kiowa and the Comanche have made peace with each other. These men are a war party, returning to their camp.”

  “They’ll accept me?”

  “They think you’re my woman,” Lone Wolf said quietly. Again, she felt a strange flutter inside at the words.

  “I’m afraid of them.”

  “If you go as my wife, you’ll be safe. And do not speak. If you were my wife, you would know Kiowa words.” He turned and looked at the man he had talked to. The Comanche nodded to the others, and they turned their ponies to ride south.

  Surrounded by the Comanche, she felt a tremor of fear. What would happen to her if Lone Wolf died from his wounds? None of these men spoke English, and she knew little sign language or words to converse with them. Her gaze ran over two of the warriors who rode in front of her. One’s barrel-chested body appeared hard with muscle, and his thick shoulders were broad. She shivered at the thought of being at their mercy. She looked at the pistol on Lone Wolf’s hip and wished now she had kept it.

  He turned to look at her, caught her glancing down at his pistol, and rode closer. “You’re with me. Do not act afraid.”

  “Don’t you die and leave me with them!” she snapped.

  His gaze shifted ahead as if he hadn’t heard her request, but in a moment he leaned close again. “You will be with the women. Do as they say. They’ll be doing winter chores, making new tipi coverings, tanning hides, making pemmican. When I recover, I’ll join you.”

  His words didn’t reassure her because she didn’t know what they would do to treat him. She glanced at him, her gaze going over his wide shoulders and long length and she felt better when she thought how strong he was. As he looked at her, his gaze held hers and she forgot the problems, remembering the night and being in his arms. How much had those moments meant to him?

  They rode through the morning, entering a camp at noon. She worried about Lone Wolf because his wounds were bleeding even more profusely. He rode ahead of her, his back straight, and she prayed he was all right.

  As they entered the camp, people came out of tipis to look at them. Her fear increased at the thought of being at the mercy of the Comanche.

  He dropped back to ride beside her, glancing at her. “Cooperate with them.”

  She saw the lines of pain around his mouth, the crimson blood-soaked bandage. His eyes fluttered, and her heart thudded because she knew he was on the verge of losing consciousness.

  He leaned forward, slumping over the horse, and she reined in. “Please!” she cried, feeling helpless and at a loss, wanting to get Lone Wolf off the horse before he collapsed and fell.

  Two of the warriors rode beside him; one tugged on Lone Wolf’s reins while the other jumped to the ground to ease Lone Wolf down.

  A warrior took the reins from her hands, and she looked into dark brown eyes and an impassive face. She reached for the reins, wanting to dismount to see about Lone Wolf. But the moment she pulled on the reins, the warrior met her gaze and yanked the reins from her hands.

  “Yee!” he said fiercely, the word drawn out in a hiss, and she drew in her breath, letting him have his way.

  She glanced back over her shoulder. A short, broad-shouldered man strode to Lone Wolf and stood over him, shaking an object above him and then talking to the others. A man took Lone Wolf by the arm to drag him across the ground, and she cried out.

  She glanced at the warrior who led her horse. He didn’t look around; and when she turned back to look at Lone Wolf, he was no longer in sight. White Bird wriggled and Vanessa smiled at the little girl and brushed a long strand of hair from her face.

  White Bird smiled in return and then leaned around her to look back toward Lone Wolf. “Guipago?” the child asked, but Vanessa could only shake her head and motion with her hand toward the direction the men had taken him.

  As she looked across a clearing, she saw men clustered around Lone Wolf, who was stretched near a firepit. Smoke rose beside him, curling in the air. The short man stood over Lone Wolf, facing east. He had a gourd rattle decorated with feathers high over his head. He turned to face south, and she heard the faint sounds of his voice chanting in words she didn’t understand.

  She turned around when they halted. The warrior motioned to her to dismount, and a small boy appeared to take her horse. The warrior unfastened her portmanteau, canteen, and quilt, handing them to her. She felt a sense of loss as she watched the boy lead her horse away. She stood holding the portmanteau with one hand and White Bird’s hand with her other.

  Three women came toward her. One, who looked about Vanessa’s age, was tall with a cascade of thick black hair. Her prominent cheekbones and an arched nose gave her a noble air. The woman next to her was short-legged, stocky, with black hair that had jagged ends just above her shoulders. Her face was broad, her eyes large, and she gave Vanessa a smile that revealed a missing front tooth. The third woman reminded Vanessa of a tiny bird. Looking old enough to be Vanessa’s grandmother, the woman was small, slightly hunched. Silver dangled from her ears and glinted around her wrinkled neck; bracelets cli
nked on her arms. She wore silver in her hair, and silver glittered at the end of her braid. Less than five feet tall, she gazed up at Vanessa with bright eyes and then smiled at White Bird.

  The warrior left them alone; and while Vanessa gazed at the women, the youngest one reached down to pat White Bird’s head. The woman looked at Vanessa.

  “Siiko,” she said, thumping her chest, and Vanessa guessed that must be her name.

  “Vanessa,” she said, touching herself in return.

  “Vanessa,” two of them said.

  “Tsihpoma,” another woman said, and Vanessa echoed the sounds. She patted White Bird’s head. “White Bird. Tainguato.”

  They repeated the names, and she wondered if they knew they were speaking English when they said White Bird. The elderly woman patted herself.

  “Muaahap,” she said, looking down at White Bird and taking her hand. “Kaku.”

  Siiko motioned to Vanessa to follow, and they walked through the circles of tipis that all faced east. With Muaahap and White Bird trailing behind, Siiko led Vanessa to a large tipi. Outside the door, a warrior’s shield hung on a tripod made of lances. The tipi of translucent hides was lined with skins. The lining was tucked beneath the bedding to keep out winter wind. The spacious tipi was far roomier than Vanessa would have guessed, with hides stretched on poles to give privacy and divide sleeping areas.

  Through signs and guess, Vanessa learned that they were to share Siiko’s family’s tent with seven already in the family unit. Muaahap also shared the tent, but Vanessa did not understand the connection between Muaahap and Siiko.

  Ten hides and buffalo robes lay on the ground for sleeping. Warming the tipi, a cozy fire smoldered in the firepit in the center of the area. Siiko and Tsihpoma unpacked the portmanteau while Muaahap brushed White Bird’s hair. Then Muaahap left and came back with a doeskin dress to put on White Bird.

  Siiko and Tsihpoma studied Vanessa’s blue and red gingham dress, turning it in their hands and talking to each other. They looked just as long at the pink muslin that she had packed away. One of them crossed to a rawhide bag and returned with folded buckskin, extending it to Vanessa.