Elaine Barbieri (3 page)

“That’s enough, Lieutenant.” Struggling to maintain control, the major directed, “Carry on as ordered—daily patrols in broadening, overlapping circles, and nothing else—is that understood?”

“Yes, sir.”

His chest heaving, the major remained motionless as the door closed behind the stiff-faced officer.

There’s no telling what they’ve already done to her.

His knees suddenly weak, the major sat down abruptly. Covering his face with his hands, he whispered, “Miranda … dear … where are you now?”

Miranda emerged from Rattling Blanket’s lodge in the dim light of early morning. A week had passed since she had been brought to the Cheyenne camp. Strangely, Shadow Walker had departed the camp the morning after her capture—for some deadly purpose, she was sure—and she had not seen him since. In the back of her mind the thought nudged that she needed to escape before he returned, but escape had proved to be more easily contemplated than accomplished.

Miranda scanned the wilderness terrain around her, noting that the Cheyenne lodges glowing an eerie white in the dim light of early morning were pitched in a broad circle between endlessly rolling hills. Although the sun had not yet risen, gray columns of smoke from cooking fires
were already trailing up into the still air. As she watched, squaws began emerging from lodges at all quarters of the camp to join the silent parade making its way to the stream to gather “living water,” fresh water for the day. She knew that as morning lengthened, the men would exit the lodges to take their daily baths in the area where the stream pooled; that horses turned out to graze during the night would be driven back into the camp by the older boys; and that after the morning meal ended, the men would mount up for the hunt—or for whatever darker pursuit they intended.

Rattling Blanket brushed past Miranda to join the women walking toward the stream and Miranda frowned as the old squaw negotiated the rocky slope down to the stream on unsteady legs. She gained little satisfaction in knowing that Rattling Blanket no longer expected her to perform that chore.

Ignoring the dark glances sent her way as the squaws filed past, Miranda was well aware that animosity toward her had intensified. She recalled her first full day at the camp. She remembered being prodded awake at dawn and having her bonds cut, only to be pushed into the parade of squaws in their morning trek down to the stream; being forced to join a group of hostile women when they went out to gather firewood a short time later; and having a primitive tool shoved into her hand for the intention of digging up roots for cooking as the day progressed.

She had refused to perform any of those menial chores. Instead, when dispatched to the stream to get living water for Rattling Blanket’s lodge, she had boldly used the time to bathe the dirt from her face and arms and to wash her hair. Her relief had been so great that she had returned to the camp without a thought for the way her dampened shirt adhered to her female curves—until she noticed the attention she had drawn from Spotted Bear, a young Cheyenne warrior. Her discomfort had grown when she had then remembered that it was Spotted Bear who had ridden in close pursuit beside Shadow Walker when she was captured. Something in his eyes had frightened her. The thought that it might have been Spotted Bear who’d caught her had sent a chill down her spine.

When pushed to join the squaws gathering firewood, she had finally accompanied them. No amount of threat, however, had been effective in forcing her to play the pack-horse along with the other women when they returned to camp with huge loads tied to their backs.

She had simply refused to dig up roots, which she considered a thoroughly demeaning chore. She had justified her refusal by reminding herself that she was a prisoner, and that no matter how kind Rattling Blanket seemed to be, the old squaw was her jailer.

As for Rattling Blanket’s insistent praise of Shadow Walker’s “bravery and generosity,” Miranda had reminded herself that Shadow Walker’s “bravery” had
been exhibited in bloody battles against her father’s soldiers, and that Shadow Walker could afford to be “generous” with plunder taken from the settlers her father strove so hard to protect.

Miranda swallowed a sudden rise of tears. Where was her father? She had thought about him so often during the past week. She missed him terribly and longed for home. Why didn’t he come to rescue her?

Rattling Blanket’s repeated warnings rang again in Miranda’s mind. The old squaw had reminded her that continued resistance would earn her Shadow Walker’s displeasure when he returned a few days hence, but Miranda had refused to entertain the thought of Shadow Walker’s anger by consoling herself that she would not be there when he returned. She had learned the hard way, however, that the apparent freedom she enjoyed in the camp was as deceiving as the tranquility with which the camp appeared to pass its days.

Rattling Blanket stumbled again on the steep trail leading down to the stream, and Miranda looked away determinedly. No, she would not feel guilt. She was not chattel, and she would not allow herself to be given as a gift to serve anyone.

She pushed a heavy lock of pale hair back from her cheek, felt its silky texture, and grimaced at the fleeting mental picture of her bright tresses adorning a scalp pole—for the truth was that the squaws hated her. There
was not a moment of the day or night when she was free of their watchful gaze. She didn’t need to understand the Cheyenne tongue to know that the squaws rebuked Rattling Blanket for not taking a firm hand with her, or that their glances raked her with obvious malice. Their antipathy increased her confusion at her apparent immunity from them. The rancor in those glances, however, was a constant warning that if she did not act soon, she might never escape.

Miranda’s thoughts returned again to her father. She wondered how he was faring with her disappearance. She winced at the thought of the anguish she was causing him and of the desperation he must be feeling. And she remembered that during the silence of the night most recently past, she had been unable to restrain the steadily encroaching fear that she might never see him again.

Suddenly ashamed of her fear, Miranda raised her chin in familiar defiance. No, she would not tolerate negative thoughts. Nor would she disgrace her father’s proud record of dedication and courage by submitting to her circumstances in any way.

Miranda turned abruptly to join the squaws as they made their way toward the stream. She ignored their singeing glances, her determination renewed. She would surrender neither to threat nor to fear.

Shadow Walker’s chiseled countenance was stoic as he listened to Chief White Horse’s sober oration. He had
arrived back at the camp at mid-morning, his packhorses heavily laden from the hunt, and had been called into immediate council in White Horse’s lodge. His return had been delayed by the unexpected scarcity of game that had driven him farther than he intended in seeking it, but his time had not been wasted.

Unaware of the unusual number of cavalry patrols in the area, he had almost ridden into one head-on the second day out. The patrol had pursued him with unrelenting diligence and guns blazing, but he had eluded both their chase and their bullets.

Unseen, he had then followed the patrol back to the fort, becoming the hunter instead of the hunted as he remained to observe the unusual activity there. His captive had returned to mind at that moment. He had considered the possibility that the girl might be the reason for the increased patrols, but he had concluded that the disappearance of a common, raggedly dressed, willful female could not possibly be the cause of such military disorder.

He had resumed the hunt later, when he was satisfied that no major strike against his people was imminent.

Shadow Walker maintained his silence as the council continued. The noble warriors present had begun by smoking, by pointing the pipestem to the sky, to the ground, and to the four directions. They had offered a prayer for wisdom and passed the pipe with the sun, from right to left, until it was emptied, but he had been distracted from
the ritual. He had heard the squaws whispering and had seen Rattling Blanket’s wary expression upon his return. The suspicion that all had not gone well at Rattling Blanket’s lodge during his absence nagged him.

Disturbed by that thought, Shadow Walker resolved as the council wore on that if his suspicions were correct, the golden-haired mouse would suffer.

“Shadow Walker has returned.”

Miranda’s throat tightened at Rattling Blanket’s softly spoken declaration. She wasn’t ready for Shadow Walker’s return. She had come back from the stream more conscious than ever of the animosity directed against her. The one exception had been Spotted Bear’s increasingly heated scrutiny. She had taken great care to avoid him by circling the pond in the opposite direction, which had also afforded her the opportunity of a furtive glance at a few Indian ponies left standing in the nearby glade.

The ponies—so near and yet so far from her reach.

Hiding her trepidation with a casual shrug, Miranda responded, “So Shadow Walker’s back. What difference does that make to me?”

“You are not a fool.” Rattling Blanket’s small eyes pinned her. “Do not pretend to be one.”

Miranda’s affectation weakened. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“I have protected you from the anger of the squaws
during Shadow Walker’s absence because I valued Shadow Walker’s gift and sought to regain in you the daughter lost to me many years ago. But I can protect you no longer if you persist in your disobedience.”

“Disobedience!” Miranda’s short laughter was harsh. “No one has the right to give me orders. I’m the one who has the right to demand, and I demand to be returned to my home.”

“I warn you. Do not—”

“I’m tired of your warnings!” Refusing to acknowledge the fear that Rattling Blanket’s words had induced, Miranda stood up and added, “I’m not afraid of Shadow Walker, and you can tell him that, too.”

With those words and an inner trembling she could not deny, Miranda left the lodge and turned blindly toward the edge of the camp. She had told the old squaw an outright lie before storming out of the lodge.

Shadow Walker had returned—and she
was
afraid.

Turning to glance behind her, Miranda saw no sign of Rattling Blanket—but the scowling squaw, Morning Star, was watching her. Yes, she was allowed to move about the camp freely, but hostile gazes followed her wherever she went. She knew instinctively that with Shadow Walker’s return, even that small freedom might be revoked.

A sudden panic besetting her, Miranda shuddered. Where was her father? What was he doing? Why didn’t he come to rescue her? Didn’t he care anymore?

Suddenly ashamed, Miranda brought her raging thoughts to a halt. Her present situation was her fault, not her father’s. She needed to face that truth—and the reality that if she didn’t escape now, she’d probably never get another chance.

Miranda took a deep breath, then glanced again behind her. Morning Star was still there.

Slowly, casually, Miranda turned toward the stream.

Shadow Walker’s demeanor was grim as the assembled braves prepared to leave White Horse’s lodge. The council had come to an end without any agreement having been reached on the latest communiqu$eA received from Washington.

White Horse had talked solemnly to the assembled braves. He had spoken of years of battle with the white man’s horse soldiers that showed no sign of relenting, and of peace treaties the Great White Father had signed and broken—proving that his word meant little when he was dealing with those he considered savages. He had not needed to remind the warriors that that particular truth had been confirmed on the day Red Shirt had gone to Fort Lyon to speak under a flag of truce only to be thrown into the prison cell where he still remained.

A familiar rage came alive within Shadow Walker. The brave and noble Red Shirt was brother to his father, who was killed in a horse soldier raid on their sleeping village.
He remembered that night well, when the peaceful sleep of youth erupted into a chaos of gunfire, slashing sabers, and fiery torches—all at the signal of a bugle call that still echoed in his mind.

Shadow Walker also remembered the pain of a soldier’s bullet slamming into his back—and the appearance of Red Shirt, who then rescued him.

Shadow Walker scrutinized the warriors around him as the council dispersed. He saw Standing Elk, Crying Crow, Buffalo Chaser, and Black Otter. All were braves who had suffered at the white man’s hands. All shared the same desire for vengeance, the same anger at Red Shirt’s imprisonment, the same frustration at failed efforts to free Red Shirt, and the belief that the white man’s peace would be offered only at a price the Cheyenne were unwilling to pay.

And all disdained, as he did, the message received from Washington declaring that the Great White Father wanted to arrange another peace council.

Outside White Horse’s lodge at last, Shadow Walker breathed deeply of the familiar scents of the camp, but his pleasure was interrupted by children snickering. He turned toward the sound to see Walking Bird leaning toward children gathered nearby, her gray braids sweeping their faces as she reprimanded them sharply.

Walking Bird, who was wife to White Horse and who was harder of heart than Rattling Blanket, was an imposing
woman of broad stature. She turned to approach him, her expression forbidding, and Shadow Walker waited expectantly.

Miranda reached the stream. Her heart pounding, she glanced behind her again, noting that although Morning Star kept her distance, her surveillance was vigilant. Aware that a single shout from Morning Star would bring the camp down upon her, Miranda felt panic rising.

She had to find a way to escape before it was too late.

Miranda scrutinized the area cautiously. Except for Morning Star’s presence—and that of several horses still grazing near the opposite bank—she was alone at the pool. Gathering her courage, Miranda pulled off her boots and placed them on the sandy soil at the water’s edge. She then shed her baggy trousers and placed them beside her boots. Still wearing the oversized man’s shirt that fell past her knees, she waded into the water for what she hoped appeared to be a leisurely swim. Taking her time, she circled the pool, swimming underwater for extended periods in the way she had deliberately cultivated as a child to incite her father’s panic. Never more conscious of the cruelty of her childish pranks, she surfaced each time with a covert glance at Morning Star. Satisfied that the squaw’s attention was beginning to wander, and aware that she could not afford to wait any longer, Miranda took a deep breath, then dived deep below the surface.