Savage Courage (12 page)

He smiled cunningly at his sister. “But best of all, George Whaley will never know whom to blame,” he said. “It is enough for me just to know that I
have done something to inflict pain on him. It is not important to me that he should know who caused it.”

“Storm, I will say just one more thing and then I will be silent about what you have done,” Dancing Willow said. “Vengeance should be the last thing on my mind or yours. You are a peaceful man. You have always protected our people from misfortune. They have suffered enough at the hands of the
pindah-lickoyee
. Please, brother, if you must keep this
ish-tianay
, let us leave even now for Canada with our people while the white-eyes are not aware of our stronghold. But I say, leave the woman here for them to find. She has lived as a white-eye. She does not deserve to live among we Apache!”

In truth, Dancing Willow could not help feeling jealous about her brother’s obvious feelings for this woman whom he held so gently in his arms.

She could tell that Storm did not see this woman as a captive. He saw her as a beautiful woman.

It was in his eyes as he looked at her. It was in his voice as he talked about her.

Dancing Willow had been the most important woman in his life since the death of their mother. She would be less important if another woman crowded her way into their family. He would no longer come to Dancing Willow for suggestions . . . for advice; instead he would go to the other woman.

Dancing Willow
must
find a way to discourage him.

“Brother, you have always stood for good, not bad,” Dancing Willow said. “Forget the evils of the past. Forget your hunger for vengeance. If you continue down this road that you have begun to travel today . . . this road to vengeance . . . then you will become bad, yourself.”

She saw how his eyes narrowed angrily, and how his lips pursed tightly as he glared at her. And she understood. But although she had promised not to say anything else, she could not get past her uneasiness and jealousy over this woman.

“Enough,
enough
,” Storm said, then looked past his sister toward Four Wings, who was dismounting nearby. “Four Wings, come and help me with the woman.”

Dancing Willow stepped aside, bitter that her brother wouldn’t listen to reason and see the evil that this
ish-tia-nay
would bring into all of their lives.

An Apache-born woman who lived the life of a white woman could never mix among the Apache again as one of them. That this woman had come to their stronghold as a captive made no difference to Dancing Willow. She knew by her brother’s behavior that she would not remain captive for long.

Gradually, he would bring the woman into their lives. Eventually, he might even marry her.

That would be the worst of all evils, as far as Dancing Willow was concerned. She had to find a way to put a halt to all of this.

Four Wings took Shoshana in his arms as Storm lifted her down to him.

Then Storm dismounted and handed his reins to a young brave. “As you see,” he told the boy, “there is a young wolf pup on the side of my horse in my bag,” he said. “Take him home with you. He will be hungry. Feed him. I call him by the name Gray Wolf.”

“I will care for Gray Wolf for you,” the young brave said, smiling at Storm. Then he walked away with the horse toward Storm’s personal corral at the back of his lodge.

“I will take Shoshana now,” Storm said as he held his arms out for her. “Thank you, Four Wings. Now go for White Moon. Send him to me.”

Four Wings nodded and walked briskly away. All others turned and went their separate ways to their own lodges.

Dancing Willow still stood watching as her brother carried the woman into his large tepee; then she turned and stamped away to her own dwelling. She sat down before her fire and began softly chanting, her dark eyes gleaming in the fire’s glow. “She is bad,” she whispered over and over again. “She . . . is . . . evil. . . .”

As soon as the women of the village had been warned that he was about to return, a fire had been lit in Storm’s firepit in the center of the floor. He placed Shoshana gently on a pallet of furs beside the fire that he used at night for sleeping.

He knelt beside her and slowly ran a hand along her lips, and then gently touched her cheek. “You are more beautiful than all the stars in the heaven,” he whispered. “How can I be anything but good to you? Yet . . . you are here for a purpose other than what I would want you for. I must remember that.”

“My chief, I have come to offer my medicine,” White Moon said as he came into the lodge, wearing his artistically ornamented medicine shirt of buckskin. It was decorated with various designs symbolic of the sun, the moon, the stars, rainbows, and clouds.

Next to the chief, the medicine man was the most powerful and influential member of their band.

“Come,” Storm said, nodding. “I shall sit on the other side of the fire as you care for Shoshana.”

“Her name is Shoshana?” White Moon asked, sinking to his knees beside her.

“She is Shoshana of our Apache tribe, but not of our band,” Storm said. “She was taken long ago by whites and raised as one of them. She has returned
to her homeland to search out her true Apache heritage, but she had not planned to stay. It is my decision that she will.”

“I heard you and Dancing Willow from my lodge,” White Moon said as he burned sweet grass over Storm’s lodge fire, then cleansed his hands in the smoke.

He leaned closer to Shoshana and placed his hands on her wound. “I have seen you and your sister disagree before, but this time your differences seem worse,” White Moon said as he took from his bag some
hoddentin
, a powder made of the tule plant. He took only a pinch of it and sprinkled it across Shoshana’s wound.

“Yes, like many a brother and sister, we do argue,” Storm said, nodding. “Especially on this matter, my sister does not agree with her brother.”

“All who know you, even your sister, know that you do not take any action without thinking it through thoroughly,” White Moon said.

He took more of the same plant and others from his bag and mixed them with water in a small pot that he placed over the fire.

He found this plant often as it grew along creeks. It was used in every medicine he made. He could not make medicine without it. It was like a grass. It had no flowers, but a root like a small carrot, and it was the root that he used for his medicines.

Now, after the mixture in the pot grew thick and warm, he began slowly drizzling it into Shoshana’s mouth from a narrow wooden spoon.

At first she choked on the mixture, then began to swallow it freely.

White Moon fed it all to her slowly, then replaced his things in his bag and gazed at Storm.

“She will be well soon,” he said. “And so will the feelings between yourself and your sister. Your love for one another is strong enough to sustain any hurts caused by loose-tongued words.”

“Yes, I know,” Storm said. “Thank you for your wisdom and medicine.”

White Moon rose slowly to his feet, hung his bag across his left shoulder, then left the lodge.

Storm continued to watch Shoshana, hoping she would awaken soon. He would like to know more about her . . . about her Apache band . . . especially about her mother.

“Perhaps I can help you, pretty woman,” he whispered. “But you must awaken. Please . . . awaken.”

Let us hope the future
Will share with thee my sorrows,
And thou thy joys with me.

—Charles Jeffreys

George Whaley glared at the flames of a newly built fire where a rabbit cooked on a spit and coffee brewed in a cup in the hot coals. He cursed the one who had taken his daughter, placing him in this terrible position out in the middle of nowhere, where first one minute he was sitting comfortably beside a roaring campfire beneath the moonlight, then the next soaked to the bone by a sudden storm.

This storm had not only made things uncomfortable for everyone, but had delayed the search for Shoshana.

Everyone’s clothes were finally dried, and after they shared a morning meal of cooked rabbit and hot tin cups of coffee, they would move onward.

Several complained that this was a waste of time, that they should turn back. There had been no sign of Shoshana anywhere.

But George would not give up yet. There was one thing that might change his mind, though. His “invisible” leg, the amputated part below his right knee, ached unmercifully as though it were still there.

During damp weather, George’s pain worsened, and after his thorough soaking the night before, the pain was almost unbearable.

He would never understand this mysterious pain. There was nothing there to hurt. There was only a piece of wood where his flesh had once been.

But the pain was real enough. At this very moment, the ache felt like icy stabs going up his leg.

Because of this pain, George was beginning to doubt whether he could continue the search. If he was in such pain after just one night on the trail, how would he feel once they climbed to higher elevations, and then had the entire journey to make back down on their return to the fort?

“Damn bad,” he whispered to himself.

Yes, his misery was real enough, and it was doubled because he missed Shoshana so much and was so concerned about her welfare. Anyone who would
kill a young soldier and scalp him in such a way had no heart.

Had her abductor already killed Shoshana?

Then another thought came to him that made him almost vomit: Perhaps by now the man had raped her. If so, George would have no mercy for the culprit. He would make sure the man died slowly and painfully.

He looked over his shoulder and upward at the steep mountain pass they would soon be traveling. He was not sure if he could make it with the awkwardness he felt now while riding a horse. Having only one leg made it difficult to stay in the saddle.

More than once yesterday he had almost slid off his horse.

He stared into the fire once again. He hadn’t been aware of how his age had caught up with him until he had come back to the land of the Apache.

Missouri was tame compared to Arizona.

He hated himself for being so daft as to think he was young enough to help find the damnable scalp hunter. He must be crazy to have brought Shoshana back to her roots. And he never should have allowed her to leave the safety of the fort.

Oh, Lord
, he thought wearily to himself,
who has taken her?

He wondered if it might be an Apache. If so, would she be safe with her own people?

Or was it the scalp hunter? He wasn’t sure which
would be better. The Apache or Mountain Jack.

With such thoughts racing inside his head, George decided he must find the strength to climb the mountain. Shoshana came first. If he had to, he would die trying to find and save her.

With his mind made up, George rose and went to sit beside Colonel Hawkins.

“I think we should focus on finding Chief Storm’s stronghold,” George said, bringing the colonel’s eyes quickly to him. “There is a strong possibility that he has her . . . don’t you think?”

“I certainly do not think that Chief Storm has anything to do with this,” Colonel Hawkins said flatly. He accepted his second cup of coffee from a young lieutenant, nodding a silent thanks to him. He took a sip, then glared into George’s eyes. “And I will not search for his stronghold. I am proud to have such a peaceful relationship with the young chief. I don’t want to stir up problems. Must I remind you, George, that my fort is not fortified against attacks?”

“Yes, I realize that,” George grumbled. “And I think the army was insane to build such a fort in Indian country. Not all the Apache practice peace. Most don’t know the meaning of the word.”

“Well, George, I can definitely say that we don’t have anything to fear from Chief Storm,” the colonel said, nodding. “Most of the other Apache are on reservations now, and harmless. Those who are not,
are walking a straight line, for they know that one wrong move on their part will make them lose their freedom.”

George pushed himself up from the ground.

He placed his hands on his hips and glared down at the colonel. “My daughter has been abducted, and you won’t even listen to reason!” he spat out.

He leaned down closer to the colonel’s face. “I see where this is coming from,” he growled out. “Your reluctance to go up against the young Apache chief proves only one thing to me. You’re scared. You are damn scared. How can such a young chief put fear in the heart of a powerful colonel? It’s true that most Apache are living on reservations. You’re scared of Chief Storm, or he’d have joined the others long ago and you know it.”

Colonel Hawkins moved slowly to his feet. He leaned his face into George’s.

“Get hold of yourself, George. If you want any more cooperation from me and my men, get . . . past . . . this.”

George sighed and, leaning heavily on his cane, limped away from Colonel Hawkins. He knew now that he had no choice but to do as the colonel said. George was only one man, and his damn “invisible” leg was like a huge, throbbing boil.

“It’s all in your imagination,” the doctor had told George over and over again.

He had also told George that it was his guilt over
killing so many men, women, and children that made him feel a pain that was not possible.

Suddenly George turned and went back to the colonel. “Let’s get off our asses and get going before I have to admit that I don’t have the strength to go on,” he said dryly. “Once I give in to my pain, that’ll be the end of me. Come on. Let’s get going. Now. Not later.”

“Are you certain this is what you want to do?” Colonel Hawkins asked, his eyes searching George’s. “You aren’t looking so good. You are so pale.”

“Like I said, let’s move on,” George said, turning away. He did not want Colonel Hawkins to see how weak he felt, how difficult it had become to breathe. He started violently when he heard a rustling in the nearby bushes.

His heart skipped a beat when he saw green eyes and heard a small hiss, then a crashing sound as the animal leapt away.