White Dusk (11 page)

One of the enemy, dressed and elaborately painted, shoved the horse of another man circling Swift Foot out of his way. “He is mine,” he said in a snarl.

Swift Foot smiled grimly. He recognized Hawk Eyes. “We meet. You will die this day,” he promised. All his years of anger and guilt were forged into a will of steel against this man. He would avenge each loss of his tribe, each injury.

“It is the son of Runs with Wind who will die,” Hawk Eyes shouted.

The two men swung at the same time. Hawk Eyes wielded a club with a large stone head. The force of its blow against Swift Foot’s shield jarred the nerves in his wrist. Pain traveled up to Swift Foot’s elbow. Brought down in a swift arc, his own club tore through Hawk Eyes’s shield.

Again, both chiefs lifted their clubs and brought them down. The weapons slammed against each another. The sharp horn tip of Swift Foot’s embedded itself into the thick wooden handle of his opponent’s club. The force unbalanced both warriors. As one they fell onto the muddy ground, their horses skittering away but well trained to stay close to their masters.

Hawk Eyes stood first, whipping out a knife. Swift Foot did the same. The two men circled each other.

Swift Foot eyed his sworn enemy. “You spoke falsely of peace. It was nothing more than a trick.” He crouched and waited.

“Ha! It is you who lie. You do not want peace. We came to you.” His dark eyes burned with rage.

“Yes, you came to us. But if you want peace, then why are you here with clubs and arrows? Actions speak louder than words.” Faster than a striking snake, Swift Foot’s knife flashed out, cutting his enemy on the arm.

“I will do whatever it takes to protect my people and my son.” With the same speed and skill, Hawk Eyes jabbed back.

Swift Foot dodged the blade but it nicked his shoulder. Feeling it burn across his flesh, he reminded himself who he was. He was Swift Foot. Powerful. Courageous. No one would ever kill the innocent women and children of his tribe again.

Around and around the two men circled, striking out and slashing at each other. Around them, similar hand-to-hand combat took place. The skies once more filled with clouds. Reflecting the violence on the ground, lightning exploded overhead. The white-hot fury of the heavens matched the bloodred rage on the ground. Rain burst through the clouds, turning the ground scarlet.

A jagged bolt of light slammed into the earth, blinding Swift Foot. Its force threw him to the ground. Overhead, a menacing rumble grew to a low roar as if the very spirits were ready to vent their wrath. Warriors on both sides shook their heads and glanced fearfully up at the flashing heavens.

Slowly Hawk Eyes backed up until he reached his horse. Swift Foot did the same. While he didn’t fear his enemy, he did fear the wrath of the spirits. A second sizzle sounded, followed by the bolt of heavenly fury slamming into the earth. All the warriors scattered.

Hawk Eyes mounted. “We will finish this at another time,” he promised. Then he whistled, a shrill sound.

At the given signal, the Miniconjou scooped up their dead and injured and rode off while Swift Foot’s warriors retrieved their horses. Swift Foot mounted, ready to go after his foes, but the driving rain made it hard. Then he took note of the number of injured and dead.

He bellowed in anger. Instinct made him reach for his bow, but he stopped himself and got himself back under control. It was too late. The slick ground and the blinding rain made it unsafe to pursue the enemy. He might ride into a trap. And the exhausted state of both his men and their horses made it a bad strategy even without the rain and darkness.

When they were sure their enemy was gone, Swift Foot and his men fanned out and collected their fallen. Breathing heavily, the young chief jumped down from his horse each time he came across a wounded member of his tribe. Pain tore through him.
More lives lost.
He’d seen the enemy littering the ground; they had lost a large number as well. That should have given him a small feeling of victory, but all he felt was an empty, hollow ache.

“So much waste. So much loss,” he murmured after calling a warrior over to load up several of his fallen comrades.

By the time all of his men were accounted for, Swift Foot’s mood had turned black. The loss to his people had been great: ten dead, four injured so severely, he knew they’d die of their wounds. And of the others, just about every man had an injury—some small, some great. One man’s wounded arm would render him useless for fighting forever.

Kneeling in the mud with the storm pounding angrily over head, Swift Foot felt his tears mingle with the rain. His chest hurt; his lungs burned. Grief left him paralyzed.

“Get up, my son,” a voice commanded.

Swift Foot glanced up at his uncle. “Is my life worth so much loss?” he asked.

“It is not for you to put a price on.” Charging Bull’s eyes closed wearily. The man’s shoulders slumped with exhaustion.

“Is it right that one person cause so much pain, my uncle?”

Charging Bull drew himself up. “You were chosen a long time ago. You have no choice but to do the job you were born to do. You are a leader.”

The smell of mud and blood stung Swift Foot’s nostrils. “Yes, I am a leader. I’ve led my people to their death.” Without another word, he stood and walked to his horse.

As he mounted, he heard another ravaged cry of grief. Another warrior had been found.

“Nooo! Nooo!” The cry rivaled that of the howling wind.

Swift Foot rode over, through the rain, to a group of warriors kneeling on the ground. Lone Warrior was there, bent over an older man. The brave threw his head back and bellowed with the red rage of a buffalo bull.

Swift Foot sucked in his breath. Lone Warrior’s father, Tall Shield, lay there. The man was still, his lifeless eyes unblinking against the steady downpour. Staring at his father-in-law, Swift Foot bowed his head. Small Bird’s father had died in battle.

“He is dead.” Kills Many Crows’s harsh voice brought a hush to the battle-weary men.

Swift Foot motioned to three of his warriors. “Load him. Carefully.”

“This is your fault,” his cousin continued. “You brought bad spirits to our people—and now to those who joined us. Many die be cause of you.” Hatred blazed in the young man’s eyes.

Night Thunder nudged his horse between him and Swift Foot. “We have wounded who need to be treated. Now is not the time to lay blame. This war began before the birth of our chief.”

Kills Many Crows glared at Swift Foot. “Yes, but he is the one who will destroy us all. Think upon that.” He jerked his horse around and rode off.

Swift Foot dismounted to help the other warriors and his brother-in-law lift the body of Tall Shield.

Lone Warrior shook his head. “No. Do not touch him. I will take care of him.”

Nodding, understanding the other man’s pain, Swift Foot turned his attention to the others and supervised the last of the loading of the dead and wounded. When it was done, they all started back.

He sat his horse tall as he rode, trying to lead his exhausted warriors with a show of pride, but inside Swift Foot felt defeated. At the moment, it all seemed too much for one man to bear; the war, the resentment, the hatred. As he stared up into the clouds, blinking against the assault of rain, even the storm seemed too much.

Sunshine. Peace. Gentleness. Love. He yearned for those things—needed them, or he feared he’d break like a dead, dry twig under a boot.

“The enemy retreated. They ran from us,” Night Thunder said.

Swift Foot stared at his friend. “They retreated, yes. But they ran from the wrath of the spirits. They will return.”

Victory was theirs today, but death had made it hollow.

Small Bird rode for what seemed like hours. The storm continued to unleash its power, as if in retaliation for the battle taking place somewhere behind her. As she had so many times she’d lost count, she glanced over her shoulder. Where was Swift Foot? Was he all right? She also thought about her brother. And her father. And the others.

Shortly after leaving camp, they’d headed away from the river, which flowed deeper and faster from the rain. The land rose, then fell into shallow gullies that were starting to fill with water, then rose again up and out of them to become more flatland. Finally, when Small Bird feared she’d fall asleep on her horse, the group stopped at the ridge of a deep, dark ravine. The rain had stopped, but the moon had not returned. They made their way carefully.

The two warriors riding on either side of her dismounted and rolled away three huge boulders. To Small Bird’s surprise, a hidden path led down into a chasm. One of the warriors remounted and urged his horse first down the trail.

Small Bird urged her mount forward to watch his progress as he skillfully made his way down the side of the ravine. At the bottom he rode off. They waited in silence. A few minutes later he returned and signaled.

The warrior beside her nodded. “It is safe. Go, wife of my chief.”

The rain had slicked the earth. The path looked treacherous. Small Bird took a deep breath. Huge boulders on either side of the trail made the cleared area just wide enough for her animal. As the rest of the ravine was rocky, this one path seemed out of place; she realized that Swift Foot’s warriors had cut it.

“Go now,” the warrior behind her said.

Small Bird nodded and gently coaxed her mare to descend. The horse slipped halfway on the slick ground but quickly regained its footing. It faltered once more before they reached level ground. At last safe, Small Bird let out a huge sigh of relief and glanced around. The moon had come out of the clouds once more.

Tall cottonwoods grew along yet another river. Although narrower than the stream they’d camped along that morning, this one looked deeper. She moved onward, following the warrior ahead of her. Drenched and sick with worry, Small Bird tried to keep her attention on the rock-strewn ground. She hated not knowing what was happening with Swift Foot and the rest of the men.

Behind her, women, children and the elderly or maimed continued to descend into the hidden valley. Their horses’ hooves churned up the narrow path, turning it into a sticky quagmire, and the long journey had shortened tempers of both beast and human. Children fretted and bickered, mothers snapped, dogs whined and horses tossed their heads in protest. The two warriors in charge sent fierce looks to everyone to reinforce the need for silence. The enemy could be near.

A collective gasp behind Small Bird made her stop and look back. A long line of refugees stretched up the side of the ravine as yet more of the large Hunkpapa tribe continued to pick its way down. Small Bird held her breath when she spotted a horse sliding midway down. The animal struggled to regain its footing. At last he did, and a great sigh of relief feathered the air.

Turning back to the seemingly endless ride, Small Bird tried not to think of her husband, or any of the others. She rounded a bend and stared. The land dipped gently and widened into a full canyon. “Is this where we will camp?” she asked.

One of the warriors answered: “Yes. Our enemy will not be able to find us. There is also a secret path out, should we need to flee. The ground is also far from the top. We will wait here for the others.”

Small Bird nodded. But before she could again set off, she heard a shrill scream from somewhere behind her. More cries followed. She whirled around, but was out of sight of most of her refugee people.

Without a thought to her own safety, she nudged her horse in the sides with her heels and rode back. She ignored the shouts of her guards to stay put. Rounding the bend, she scanned the slope where everyone was descending. The women there were rushing to ward the bottom, where she saw a horse scrambling to its feet with no rider.

Small Bird spurred her mount forward. Stopping near the crowd, she jumped down and rushed forward.

“Who was injured?” She pushed her way through. As wife to the chief, she had duties.

Reaching the fallen rider, she came to a stunned stop. “Oh, no,” she said under her breath. It was Makatah, and the girl lay deathly still. She was white-faced, her eyes were closed, and a line of blood dribbled down her temple.

Kneeling, Small Bird called her cousin’s name and gently patted her bruised face. “Open your eyes, cousin,” she commanded as she ran her hands over her cousin’s body. She didn’t feel any broken limbs, but she did find a large lump on the back of the girl’s head.

Moving her face close to Makatah’s, she felt the warm stir of air and noted with relief the rising and falling of the girl’s chest. “Wake, cousin. Obey me in this!”

Finally, and slowly, Makatah’s eyes fluttered. Her face dark with pain and confusion, the girl tried to sit.

Small Bird kept gentle hands on her cousin’s shoulders. “No. Rest. Tell me where you hurt.”

“I—I am fine,” Makatah said, her voice faint. Ignoring Small Bird’s orders, she sat, then tried to get to her feet. No sooner had she stood than her knees buckled. She cried out, doubling over and clutching her belly.

“Oh, no,” Small Bird said again.

The two warriors had followed her. One said, “We must continue. We cannot stop here. It is not safe.” But they looked worried as they stared at Makatah.

“She needs to rest. She cannot ride,” Small Bird implored. She feared that moving her cousin any farther than to a safe, dry shelter would cause her to lose her babe—if it wasn’t already too late. Once more she glanced up at the slope of the moonlit ravine and saw the mire and the huge boulders. She also saw the fearful faces staring down at her, filled with fear as they glanced back and forth over their shoulders, then down to Small Bird and her cousin.

Small Bird knew they couldn’t stay where they were. But she also knew Makatah couldn’t go far. “Help me get her onto my horse.” Her voice brooked no argument.

Cradling her cousin before her, Small Bird shuddered with every cry of pain Makatah gave.

“We must find shelter. Quickly,” she said.

An elder walked up and stared at her with wise and knowing eyes. “It will not matter,” he said. Then he turned, his gait awkward as he hobbled back to his horse.

As she resumed her ride toward the canyon that was their final destination, Small Bird feared he was right: her cousin had already lost her child.

Though the storm had entirely fled, it left the air heavy with moisture and an unrelieved quiet that settled across the hidden canyon like banks of early-morning fog. The moon had disappeared again, and though they’d managed to rebuild their camp, the blackness of the night surrounded and suppressed everyone. Women and children huddled close for warmth, as there was no dry wood for fires.

With the warriors still gone, all present quailed at the uncertainty of their future. Would the guards posted on the hidden path down the ravine and at the canyon’s mouth send the signal that the enemy had found them? That fear kept most adults awake, staring blankly, waiting. Most were silent. But in the unnatural quiet, there was one sound that, though faint, set hearts to pounding: a young woman’s sobs.

Makatah had lost her unborn baby.

She wept, inconsolable. Shy Mouse cradled her sister’s head in her lap, trying to muffle her gut-wrenching sobs. Moon Fire paced near the doorway, where Small Bird’s mother and her aunts huddled close for warmth. Moon Fire’s younger sister sat beside Small Bird.

Outside the tipi, nothing moved. Small Bird glanced toward the door. Where were the men? Where was Swift Foot? Had their tribe been victorious, or had the enemy won? The soft sound of mud sticking to moccasins broke the silence. The women all stiffened. Then it faded, and they relaxed slightly—just one of their own warriors standing guard.

Moon Fire stuck her head outside.

“Sit, daughter,” her mother commanded when a gust of cold air rolled over them. “Your cousin needs to be kept warm.” Moon Fire tossed the tipi flap down. She refused to sit. Instead, she paced restlessly.

When the toe of her foot brushed Small Bird’s thigh for the hundredth time, Small Bird snapped, “Sit, Moon Fire. Pacing will not bring our warriors home faster.”

The girl snarled at her, but she did as she was told.

Where were they? Listening to her cousin’s sobs, seeing the worry and fear on Shy Mouse’s and the others’ faces, the stoic expressions her aunts wore, Small Bird knew it would be a very long night. It had been already.

Closing her eyes, Small Bird sent prayers to the spirits: to
Wamble
to watch over the warriors. Thanks to
Mahpiya
for ending the storm. A plea to
Sungmanitu,
the wolf in charge of war parties.
Cretan,
the hawk, for swiftness and endurance.

Recalling her dreams of a child with him, Small Bird held on to the hope that Swift Foot would not be killed in battle. Their child represented the future. The image of the boy in her mind gave her hope. She wanted a life that promised peace.

“Where is Matoluta?” Makatah sobbed. “Where is he? I cannot lose him as well.”

“He will return, cousin. Our warriors will prevail,” Small Bird said. Tears slid down her cheeks. Her cousin had lost a male child, and Matoluta would be devastated by that when he returned. She only hoped she wasn’t giving false hope that he would return. But they all needed hope.
She
herself needed reassurance that her husband would return.

Moon Fire glared at Small Bird with contempt. “This battle is not ours, yet we have all paid. Do you see what grief your actions have caused? See what your selfishness caused?”

Shy Mouse snapped her attention to Moon Fire. “Our cousin has always thought of others before herself. It was
for
our people that she married Swift Foot. His tribe provides much that we did not before have. This marriage is also meant to be—did not our medicine man say so before he died? Even Wind Dancer, when he came with Swift Foot’s uncle to speak to the elders of our tribe, said the same thing. All agreed it should be so.”

“You are a fool,” Moon Fire spat. “Why must we all sacrifice what we want for her? I could have married—” She broke off.

Spotted Deer, Moon Fire’s sister, glanced up. “Who could you have married? There were no males in our
tiyospaye
that were not relatives. It is here, among Swift Foot’s warriors, that there are many seeking mates.”

Moon Fire hugged herself. For a moment she looked lost and forlorn, worried, even lovesick. Then her features hardened. “I will not marry a man in this tribe. It will never be safe.
We
will never be safe. And what warrior would wish to join this tribe and put all he has at risk?”

Ignoring the harsh rejoinders from her mother, Moon Fire ducked out of the tipi.

Small Bird hung her head. Maybe her cousin was right; maybe she’d brought about the destruction of her family—of her tribe. Everyone in her tribe was family, either by blood or by marriage.

A hand on her arm tugged her back to the present. “Do not listen to her,” Makatah said, her voice raw with grief.

“How can you tell me not to listen?” Small Bird asked. She paused, her throat closing, choking her words. “She may be right.”

“You cannot blame yourself,” Makatah said. She lay back and closed her eyes as exhaustion took over. It had been an incredibly hard night of travel fraught with fear—all after the wedding.

“But I do,” Small Bird said softly, stroking a tear-soaked hair from her cousin’s cheek.

Anger threaded its way through her pain and grief, and the flood of emotions left Small Bird feeling trapped in a whirlwind. Her joy and eagerness toward marriage had soured upon learning Swift Foot’s true heart, and his confession had left her angry, hurt and confused. But this afternoon she’d replaced those emotions with the conviction of rightness; determination to fulfill her destiny had given her the courage to ride through the camp to marry him. And all her dreams had returned to life when he kissed her. That kiss, his desire, had confirmed the rightness of her decision.

Then the attack had shattered everything.

Once more, anger burned inside Small Bird. But toward whom? Swift Foot? Her enemies? Or at herself for what her cousin had now suffered? Maybe all three. All Small Bird knew was that somehow she had to make everything right.

A small crest of moonlight and a sprinkling of stars provided little relief in the black night. His progress slowed by the darkness, the wounded and his warriors heavy hearts, Swift Foot led the way toward the new campsite. Tired, the group plodded toward its loved ones. Horses stumbled with fatigue, and their riders swayed.

Keeping his gaze fixed forward, Swift Foot went over each of his decisions in the battle. Though his warriors had declared it a victory, Swift Foot knew there had been no winner. Deaths and injuries had been suffered on both sides and had the spirits not brought the violence of the storm to stop the battle, he knew it was likely that the fight would have lasted much longer. The suffering would have been greater.

His shoulders sagged. It didn’t matter either way. The damage had been done.

Suddenly a call, soft as a breath of air, sounded. Tears formed in Swift Foot’s eyes.

There was no sound sweeter. The call of home spurred both man and beast.

His warriors drew close, staying in formation though each was eager to return home. Yet they all dreaded the grief and the bleak days ahead, Swift Foot especially.

He glanced to his right. Night Thunder cradled a young warrior whose injuries were so severe, he’d died a short time ago. Each mortality rested on his shoulders. For each serious injury he blamed himself.

Slowly they picked their way down the hidden trail and followed the river to the canyon, the thought of safety and peace drawing him. Even if the enemy pursued, they wouldn’t find this place. The canyon, surrounded on three sides by deep ravines and gullies, would provide a safe haven. Unfortunately, safe didn’t make up for the loss of life.