White Dusk (10 page)

Burying his face in the nape of her neck, Swift Foot tasted her, his tongue flicking over her collarbone, teasing the flesh beneath her tunic. When his fingers reached the apex of her thighs, he drew in a deep, ragged breath. She threw her head back and moved restlessly beneath him, pushing her soft womanhood into his palm.

Swift Foot groaned.

So long. It seemed so long since he’d let himself go. Since he’d given himself over to his primitive side completely and without maintaining a thin layer of control.

Always in control. Always thinking. Always planning. Even with
Emily.

Emily.

The name burned through his brain and shattered his haze of desire with the same intensity that lightning ripped across the sky. He rolled off Small Bird, shocked at his loss of control.

Even during his mating with Emily, he’d never been able to completely lose himself or forget who he was. The past retained its presence in all he did. Until now. For once he’d forgotten who he was, what he was and what his duties were. He’d forgotten everything. He’d lost himself so completely in Small Bird’s arms that it shook him to his core. He felt as though he’d been slammed into the ground and left there to die.

“What am I doing?” he whispered, sitting. His manhood was swollen. It throbbed, ached for release. Minutes ago he might have given in to that need. Now he could not.

Guilt churned deep in his heart. In its shadowy corners, he imagined condemning blue eyes filled with shimmering tears. Once again he heard Emily’s desperate pleas for him to return to her. She’d loved him. He’d loved her. He’d fallen asleep to the memories of warm summer nights beneath the moon and stars as he made gentle love to her. Peace and quiet had followed those sessions and left him relaxed for the first time in his life.

With Emily, there had been none of this wild torrent of emotion. He had loved the white girl. With horror, Swift Foot realized he’d used the term in the past tense. He swiped a hand over his jaw. That wasn’t right.

He loved Emily still.

I love Emily,
he repeated over and over in his mind.

Then how could you have lost yourself so completely with Small Bird?
Swift Foot felt confused and angry over the extent of the passion he had just shared with his wife. He ran his hands through his hair and stared into the fire. “What am I doing?” he asked again harshly.

Whatever reaction Small Bird had expected to the wild and wonderful lovemaking between herself and Swift Foot, it wasn’t the deep shadows of pain darkening his eyes. Waves of anger radiated from him. His voice held harsh fury. The sweep of cold air blowing in from the tent flap brushed over the heated thigh he’d just touched.

Sitting quickly, she stared at her husband. Grabbing a fur, she pulled it around her shoulders. “What is wrong? What did I do?” She reached out and softly touched his shoulder. He’d seemed to want her. He’d enjoyed their kisses, she knew he had. He couldn’t deny the evidence of his desire.

He jumped to his feet as if she’d burned him. He stared down at her, his eyes hard as arrow tips. “This should not have happened.”

Getting to her knees, Small Bird clutched the buffalo robe to herself, more for comfort than warmth. She didn’t understand. “Why?” she asked. “We are man and wife. It is right we share the marriage bed.”

Swift Foot turned to go.

Panicking, Small Bird dropped the fur, jumped to her feet and ran after him. “Don’t leave. Tell me what I did wrong?”

“You did
nothing
wrong.” The words were torn from him.

He looked at her with such pain, Small Bird fell back. “Then why did we stop?”

Before Swift Foot could answer, a loud cry sounded outside. It echoed as if it came from far away. The call repeated then, as if from one person to another. Or one guard to another!

Small Bird sucked in her breath. The shrillness of the calls signaled trouble.

Swift Foot rushed past her, discarding his shirt and leggings. As if she weren’t there, he whipped off his breechclout, unashamed of his nakedness or the undeniable evidence of his desire for her.

Working fast, he redressed. When he was finished, his fine wedding garments lay in a heap at his feet. Then he grabbed his weapons, brushed past her and dove through the door. Small Bird followed, scanning the distance and looking for trouble. Rain poured from the sky. Warriors ran from their tipis with weapons in hand and mounted their warhorses. Several warriors rode into camp, shouting out warnings that a group of riders were heading toward them—fast.

The enemy had found them. And this wouldn’t be a wedding party.

In minutes all the warriors were assembled. Swift Foot faced them on his own black warhorse.

“Break camp. Take the women and children to safety,” he ordered one group.

“You know where to go. The rest come with me to meet the enemy.”

As he whirled around to ride off, he stopped to stare at Small Bird. “Go. You will be safe.”

Small Bird, like the rest of the women, rushed into action. She didn’t doubt the need to hurry. The attack of Swift Foot’s enemy so many years ago, the one she’d lived through, spurred her to work faster. In one minute, the perfectly taut and straining tipis were waving and flapping with each gust of wind. Another minute had more than fifty tipis flat on the ground. As soon as the women began taking poles down, the boys and older men who had run to fetch horses returned. Belongings were made ready for travel. Families who owned dogs called the animals. Horses and dogs were loaded.

As Small Bird secured her belongings, she glanced up. A bolt of lightning ripped the heavens apart and illuminated the drops of falling rain. She was soaked, her new wedding garments splattered with mud.

Considering the omens with which her marriage had started, despite the brief moment when all seemed well, this ending to what should have been the happiest day of her life seemed fitting.

Two warriors rode over and urged her onto her horse. She mounted and set off. A young boy had been put in charge of the steed carrying her belongings. With a warrior on either side, as befitting her status as the chief’s wife, she rode in the opposite direction from her husband.

Earlier, she’d told her father she was ready to meet her future. With a quick glance behind her, she sent a prayer to
Wakan Tanka
to watch over her husband and give her a chance to lead the violent past to a peaceful future.

Swift Foot rode away from camp. At the first warning cry, his mind had reverted to its training. Emotions and problems were set aside, and nothing mattered but his people. At that moment he was nothing but a warrior—a chief and a leader of his tribe. Protecting that tribe overrode everything else.

He’d planned long for this moment. Confident that his orders for the evacuation of the village would be followed, Swift Foot began thinking of the forthcoming confrontation with the enemy.

Leaning low over his warhorse’s neck, he let his mind work furiously. Who approached? Were these the warriors of Hawk Eyes? Or were these riders from the Mandan tribe?

He discounted the latter idea. Over the years, raids and skirmishes with neighboring tribes had occurred, but they were mostly meant to prove stealth and skill as each side sought to steal horses or other goods. Those raids were also carried out with small bands to keep from being detected, not with large war parties.

Deep in his gut Swift Foot knew his enemy had finally come after him, and it caused him a pang of disappointment. He’d hoped there could be peace. Hawk Eyes had sent Many Horns to speak to Charging Bull three times now. Though his uncle had feared that the offer of peace talks was a trick, he could not discount the opportunity to end the feud. Now, if it was indeed the warriors of the Miniconjou riding toward them at night, it was clear that their chief had other intentions than ending the fighting.

Above Swift Foot, the rumble of thunder continued. Rain lashed down through the darkness, making it hard to see. The air carried with it an acrid smell, burning. The very atmosphere hummed with violence.

Swift Foot allowed himself a moment to think of his people. His wife. Though he hadn’t wanted one, she was now his. And the enemy, if they knew of her, would seek her out. But he’d anticipated this day. His tribe would head south. There, after many days of travel, they would see the land undergo a dramatic change: it would become dusty and inhospitable, with deep canyons, little water, little vegetation and the earth filled with jagged rocks and peaks that would make good places to hide.

Ever since his uncle had led them to this place—to hide the son of Runs with Wind—Swift Foot had explored each canyon, ravine and gully. He knew each bend in the winding river, and each of the smaller creeks leading away from it. He knew the land his people referred to as the badlands. There were many places to hide. Food and pouches of water had even been hidden in many places in case of an emergency.

At the base of the hilly mounds, Swift Foot’s warriors split into two groups. The young chief himself went around to the left. Beyond the rocks’ gently sloping base, he saw the approaching tide of shadowy riders, in the far distance, he heard their war cries mingling with the howl of the wind. His warriors had been spotted.

He firmed his lips and prepared to meet the enemy. Angling his horse slightly to the right, he moved to rejoin his split war party. Those warriors who had been on lookout atop the high peaks joined them as well. Swift Foot’s men came together, then rode out onto the plain.

Close enough to see his foe’s number, Swift Foot held up his lance and came to a halt. Warriors surrounded him. Soon each man shifted until they all formed a long, intimidating line stretching out on either side. Overhead, the rain pelted the earth, soaking the horses and the warriors. Flashes of light jittered from cloud to cloud.

Swift Foot kept his gaze trained on the enemy riding out of the night. Behind him, another row of Hunkpapa warriors formed, then a third row, each line stretching out into the darkness. Their numbers were many now. Since the attack so long ago that had killed his wife, Charging Bull had set about preparing for this day. Each year, at the summer gatherings, he had sought out the best warriors from other tribes and enticed them into marrying into his own. Under his wise leadership, the Hunkpapa tribe had prospered. But judging from the large number of Miniconjou, that tribe had also grown.

Beneath Swift Foot, Kastaka shifted. “Easy, boy,” he murmured. “Soon we will ride to meet our enemy.”

Kills Many Crows’s voice rang out behind him. “And how many more will die this day, cousin?” the man asked in a loud voice.

Beside Swift Foot, Night Thunder shifted. On his other side, Charging Bull angrily turned.

No one spoke, though. The question had been directed at Swift Foot, who chose to ignore his cousin’s bitter question, even if his mind could not.
How many will die because of me?
Over and over the question circled like two snarling wolves.

“Amayupta yo.”
Answer me. Kills Many Crows’s voice was taunting.

Night Thunder’s horse shifted. Swift Foot felt his friend’s fury. With a small movement of his hand, he warned Night Thunder not to act on that anger.

“Hecetu sni yelo,”
Night Thunder said in a snarl, his voice low and harsh.

“No, it is not right,” Swift Foot agreed. He knew his cousin was questioning the tribe’s leadership, something that would never have happened while Charging Bull was chief. But now was not the time to deal with Kills Many Crows’s resentment. He glanced over at Night Thunder. “Clear your mind, my friend. Anger directed at anyone besides our enemy will only distract you and get you killed.”

“You are right. It is only out of respect for you and your uncle that I do not challenge and humiliate your cousin by revealing his cowardly nature,” Night Thunder explained.

Swift Foot nodded. “That day will come, my friend. But the matter will be settled by me.” Lifting his lance high, he attempted to clear his own mind and heart. He could not afford distractions—yet for the first time since becoming a full warrior, he couldn’t focus.

In one day, so much had changed. He had a wife now. This war was no longer just between him and his enemy. He kept seeing that day so long ago, the murder of his aunt, when his father’s foes had been willing to risk so much to get to her, as well as to the son of Runs with Wind. Families were weaknesses. Waiting for the right moment to signal his warriors to attack, Swift Foot could not throw off the heavy cloak of worry that threatened to smother him. He’d always known he’d pay for his father’s actions, and now he had his own sins to atone for. Though he’d done his duty by marrying the woman chosen for him, Swift Foot was no better than his father. He’d fallen in love with a white woman, and had nothing to give the woman he now called wife except the danger of being his bride.

Hawk Eyes cursed the summer storms that had taken him and his men by surprise. Their suddenness and intensity had blinded and slowed his war party, and ruined his plan. He’d intended to arrive during the wedding ceremony, when the Hunkpapa were off guard.

Many Horns had done well; alone, he’d been able to remain close and spy on the enemy. And when he’d returned with the news of the wedding, Hawk Eyes had ridden hard to attack. But the weather had changed, slowing him. He should turn, abort this battle and return another day—but the enemy had already been alerted. And all peace talks had been ruined.

Across the wide, flat sweep of dirty brown grass that had become mud, he spotted the strange mounds of which Many Horns had spoken. He also saw movement: a gathering of mounted figures.

Slowing, he halted to study the land. As he’d discovered, the
maka
in this part of the world was unlike any he’d seen before. It had many faces, many moods. Today anger vibrated through the air. Still, he refused to back down. He could not allow his enemy to survive. There were deaths to avenge.

He thought back to the last bloody skirmish, when he’d lost a brother and friend. It was infuriating. Last year he’d tried to exact his revenge, but had not been able. The peace talk had been a fine idea; if nothing had come of them except perhaps the slackening of the Hunkpapa’s guards. Now that it was down, he’d seek his revenge on the treacherous group.

Lightning flashed, and Hawk Eyes saw the lay of the land. Without warning, the smooth, flat ground dropped away into deep, brown gullies that twisted and turned and snaked before him. The sight reminded him of prairie dog tunnels above ground. Just beyond, he spotted flat earth perfect for battle.

Following Many Horns, who saw the same, he raced ahead of his warriors. Where the gullies narrowed, he and Many Horns jumped from their horses and led them across to the other side. His men did the same; then they all remounted.

To his right, in another lightning flash, he saw jagged spheres spike the horizon among tall, flat-topped patches of land. A winding river cut through the earth. He’d never seen a land so filled with drama. Even the banks of the river shifted, from soft earth and green growth to steep banks of rock and overhangs. There was beauty in such land, and Hawk Eyes was suddenly overcome with doubt.

Many Horns called out over a crash of thunder. “Our enemy comes. We are many. We will destroy them.” The young brave flexed his shoulders, loosening them.

Hawk Eyes said nothing. His mind and heart warred. This feud had gone on so long. The first life had been taken by his father, avenging the pride of his mother in having been jilted by Runs with Wind for a white woman. Then Charging Bull had retaliated. On and on it had gone, the two tribes’ leaders striking at each other’s heart and the deaths from each attack fueling the next, and the next. So many lives had been lost in the name of honor, pride and revenge. This was a vicious cycle of war that he feared would never end.

Take a life. Lose a life. When would it end?

It would not end by his killing Swift Foot and his new bride. Logic and the past told Hawk Eyes this. Yet he had no choice. Did he?

Let it be, son,
his mother had counseled him just last night.

Do not take more lives,
Seeing Eyes, his wife, had added.

Let peace begin with us,
both had begged.
You have begun peace talks. Let them be in earnest.

As if he sensed his chief’s weakening resolve, Many Horns tightened his hold on his horse’s reins. “They do not want peace,” the brave said. Fury tightened his voice.

Hawk Eyes glanced over at him. The warrior was a few years younger than himself, and he had been the one risking his life in the faux parleys. Did this youth so want to see bloodshed? He sighed. “Do they not? I am suddenly afraid that this attack will do nothing but destroy us all.”

Pausing, he thought of his own small son. At the age of four, the boy was already eager to become a warrior. Over and over, young Golden Eagle begged to hear the story of Swift Foot. Though his tribe felt anger and hatred for the enemy, there was also grudging respect. That day long ago had indeed been a blight in the history of their Miniconjou tribe: not only had they failed to kill the son of Runs with Wind, but the attack had given birth to a legend.

Hawk Eyes still remembered his own fascination with the tale of Swift Foot. And his admiration and pride in the knowledge that someday he would face the boy who had earned such fame.

It was only recently that his mother, weak and fragile with age, had begged him to reconsider. She wanted to die in peace. To know her son lived with peace, not hate and war.

Unfortunately, Hawk Eyes could not give her this. The peace talks had been a trick to set the Hunkpapa off guard, but perhaps something might have come of them. Perhaps. But not after hearing from Many Horns that Swift Foot carried the rage of revenge within him and had sworn to take the life of Hawk Eyes’s son.

Many Horns shifted restlessly. “We will not allow them to kill your son,” he called loudly. The angry buzz of agreement whipped through Hawk Eyes’s warriors like a swarm of angry bees.

Hawk Eyes drew in a deep breath, flaring his nostrils. He released the air through parted lips. “We
will
protect our own,” he announced, then divided his group into two.

“Go,” he called. He watched one group ride off to the right. He led the rest to the left. Only by forcing Swift Foot’s warriors into smaller groups could he hope to win. It would also give him a greater chance of breaking through the barrier to attack the tribe—to harm Swift Foot’s family as that chief had intended to do to his.

As if holding its breath, the thunder stopped. Even the rain stopped, as if something had suddenly dammed up the clouds. An eerie silence fell as heavily as the rain had moments before. The moon came out, lighting the battleground.

The faint glow of
Haani
was a sign. Swift Foot gave the signal to meet the enemy. In stead of dividing his warriors in two, he split them in three. He charged forward, confident that none of the enemy warriors would break through and reach his fleeing people.

Grabbing a fistful of arrows from the quiver hanging at his side, he began loosening them. His shrill war cry burst forth and echoed through the night air. The sucking sound of hooves kicking up mud accompanied his warriors’ shrieks and whoops of fury.

Two of his shafts lodged in the chests of oncoming warriors, and Swift Foot smiled grimly when he saw. His third arrow took down a horse. All around him, missiles flew back and forth. The whiz of a shaft close to his ear made him bend low. A loud cry came from a warrior behind him who’d been struck.

Rage welled up in his heart as the distance between him and the enemy closed. Shouldering his bow, he grabbed his buffalo-horned war club and his shield. When the warrior whose horse had gone down rose and swung an ax at him, Swift Foot retaliated. The enemy, sliced by his club’s wicked horn tip, fell in a bloody heap.

The battle continued. Horses tired. Arms ached. Bodies fell. Warriors chased, maneuvered, evaded and clashed. Fighting broke down into groups of two against three. One against one. Four racing after five.

Over and over, Swift Foot alternated between swinging his club and using his shield to deflect blows as he guided his horse through the vicious melee. Smaller groups broke off, and he rode after them, a tight band of warriors at his side to aid him, and keep him safe. He would not let the Miniconjou through to the tribe.

He fought to catch up. Following the four warriors racing past his men, he urged his horse faster. Soon he was alone chasing his foes. One fell when struck by his club. The other three turned to fight.