A Whisper In The Wind (17 page)

Chapter Thirty-One

A scream, loud and brittle and edged with pain, sliced through Michael’s dreams and brought him instantly awake. He sat up, head cocked to one side, wondering if he’d only imagined it, but then he heard the voice of a woman raised in fear, the shrill war cries of the Cheyenne Dog Soldiers.

Beside him, Elayna sat up, her hand at her throat. “What is it?”

“We’re being attacked! Stay here.”

He pulled on his clout and sprinted for the village, quietly cursing the fact that he was armed with only a knife.

Rounding a bend in the trail, he burst into the open, his heart pounding as he took in the scene that met his eyes.

Two dozen Pawnee warriors were riding through the village, tomahawks and lances swinging right and left as they tried to escape. They had come in the predawn darkness, undoubtedly to steal the valuable war ponies that were kept near at hand each night, but their presence had been discovered before they could achieve their goal.

He saw Mo’ohta-vo’nehe grappling in the dirt with a shrieking Pawnee. Farther away, he saw Soaring Eagle in hand-to-hand combat with a burly warrior. Everywhere he looked, men were engaged in a struggle of one kind or another, and over the grunts and war cries of the men could be heard the shouts and screams of the women, the wailing of frightened children, the moans of the wounded, and the roar of gunfire. At the far end of the village a lodge was in flames.

As he ran toward his own lodge, Michael saw a Pawnee warrior strike Two Ponies across the back of the head with a war club, saw the blood gush from the fatal wound as Two Ponies collapsed face down in the dirt. And then the Pawnee fell from his horse as Red-Furred Bear’s arrow found its mark.

By the time Michael reached the center of the camp, six of the Pawnee were dead. Two others were mortally wounded, and these were at the mercy of a handful of boys who were not yet warriors.

It was considered an act of bravery to strike a living enemy, and a couple of the boys darted forward to count coup on the injured men.

He saw younger boys run forward to count coup on the dead men.

“Nanotomasen!”
cried Ma’o’hoohe as he stuck the body nearest him. “I strike the first coup!”

“Nahonaovehotaneve!”
hollered Badger. “I strike the second coup!”

“Nanahahotaneva!”
cried Young Bear. “I strike the third coup!”

Michael ducked as one of the remaining Pawnee raced past him looking for a way out of the village. He felt the tip of the warrior’s lance graze his arm as the Pawnee swept past, felt his anger rise as blood oozed from the shallow gash, and then saw Yellow Spotted Wolf and forgot everything else. His great-grandfather and a heavyset Pawnee were locked together in a deadly embrace as they fought for possession of the long-bladed knife in the Pawnee’s hand.

The Pawnee was older, heavier, more experienced. He had inflicted several minor cuts on Yellow Spotted Wolf’s arms and chest. Blood trickled from the wounds, streaking his great-grandfather’s body like war paint, but Yellow Spotted Wolf seemed unaware of his injuries. He was young and strong and determined, and he fought bravely, valiantly, until the Pawnee made a quick feint to the left, then drove the blade into the younger warrior’s side.

Time hung suspended for the space of a heartbeat as Michael stared at the scene before the Pawnee, his face streaked with black paint, grinned triumphantly as Yellow Spotted Wolf fell back, the knife embedded in his left side. Yellow Spotted Wolf stumbled backward, his right hand groping for the knife, and then he fell heavily. He made a weak attempt to get to his feet, then fell back and lay still.

Michael screamed with rage as he charged the Pawnee, felt his blood run hot in his veins as he loosed the ancient war cry of the Cheynne, felt his body fill with power as he lunged at the enemy.

The Pawnee ducked and sidestepped, his teeth flashing in an evil grin as he jerked his blade from Yellow Spotted Wolf and wheeled around to face his new attacker.

Michael’s haste and anger made him reckless and he charged wildly, his knife slashing from side to side as he rushed the enemy a second time. He felt the tip of the Pawnee’s blade pierce his forearm, but his need for vengeance was stronger than pain or fear and he threw his arms around the Pawnee and wrestled him to the ground.

With a wild cry, he plunged his knife into the warrior’s belly, driving the blade deeper, deeper. He felt the Pawnee’s blood spray over his chest, felt a growing sense of satisfaction as he gave the blade a cruel twist.

Uttering a savage shout of victory, he yanked the knife from the dead man’s flesh and sprang to his feet, his eyes seeking another victim for his hungry blade.

But the fight was over. Nineteen Pawnee warriors lay dead on the ground. And now Michael had eyes only for Yellow Spotted Wolf, who lay face down in the dirt in an ever-widening pool of his own blood.

A high, keening wail filled the air as Hemene knelt beside Yellow Spotted Wolf.

He can’t be dead,
Michael thought as he ran toward his great-grandfather.
He can’t be dead.

He knelt beside Hemene and carefully turned Yellow Spotted Wolf over. Blood covered Yellow Spotted Wolf’s left side and Michael pressed his hand over the wound to slow the bleeding.

“He’s alive,” he told Hemene. “Go, quickly, find the medicine man.”

Hemene rose to her feet and ran toward the shaman’s lodge while Michael sat with Yellow Spotted Wolf. People were hurrying from place to place, looking for loved ones, searching for children, battling the flames that raged at the far end of the village. But Michael saw only Yellow Spotted Wolf, felt nothing but the warm, wet blood beneath his hand.

“Hang on, Grandfather,” he murmured. “There is nothing to fear. Death will not find you today.”

The medicine man arrived a few minutes later, closely followed by Hemene, Mo’ohta-vo’nehe, and Badger. Michael relinquished his place at his great-grandfather’s side, but he stayed close by, his eyes damp with unshed tears.

It took a moment for him to realize that Badger was pressed against his side, his shoulders shaking as silent tears tracked his cheeks.

“He will be all right,” Michael said, dropping his arm around the boy’s shoulder.

“But there is so much blood. And he lies so still.”

“I know, but he will not die, I promise you. He will not die.”

Badger nodded, his eyes full of trust. Manfully he wiped the tears from his eyes, determined to be strong and brave, like Ho-nehe.

Michael stared at the blood that oozed from his great-grandfather’s side. How much blood could a man lose and remain alive? How much blood had Yellow Spotted Wolf lost?

He can’t die,
Michael thought dully.
Hell, if he had died here, I’d never have been born.

But he could not stop the hurt that welled inside him as he watched the medicine man dress the ugly wound in Yellow Spotted Wolf’s side.

It was only later, after Yellow Spotted Wolf had been carried to his father’s lodge, that Michael remembered Elayna.

Muttering an oath, he ran out of the village toward the river, knowing she must be frightened half to death as she waited for him, wondering what was happening in the village, wondering why he was taking so long to come back for her.

“Elayna!” He called her name as he neared the riverbank. “Elayna, where are you?”

He saw the pony tracks in the dew-damp grass, saw the signs of a struggle, her moccasins lying near the water’s edge.

Nineteen warriors had been killed, but five had escaped.

“Elayna!” He shouted her name even though he knew she was gone, and then he was running back to camp, his heart hammering with fear.

Mo’ohta-vo’nehe was standing outside his lodge as Michael ran past. “Wolf, wait.”

Michael stopped in his tracks and glanced over his shoulder. “I cannot talk now. The Pawnee have taken my woman.”

“I will go with you,” Mo’ohta-vo’nehe volunteered. “Get the horses while I tell Soaring Eagle what has happened. He will call the Fox Soldiers together and we will go after your woman.”

Twenty minutes later Michael rode out of the camp with Soaring Eagle, Mo’ohta-vo’nehe, and a dozen Fox Soldiers. Back at the village, the Dog Soldiers were in charge of cleaning up and taking care of the wounded, but Michael’s thoughts were focused on Elayna. He knew that Yellow Spotted Wolf would be all right. He was fated to live to a good old age. But Elayna was another matter. What if it was her fate to die at the hands of the Pawnee? Had he come back eighty years through time to bring her to her death?

She had never known such gut-wrenching fear. Held face down across the withers of one of the Pawnee’s horses, her hands bound behind her back, she watched the ground fly by as her captor whipped his mount again and again. The Pawnee were making no effort to conceal their tracks. The horse raid had been a disaster and now they wanted only to get as far away from the Cheyenne as possible in hopes that the pursuing warriors would give up and go home.

They rode for hours, and each mile seemed like ten. Elayna’s body ached from the constant jarring of the horse, her neck hurt, her back felt as though it would break in two at any moment. But worse than the pain was the constant fear of what would happen when the Indians stopped. She was acutely aware of the heavy hand on her back, of the hard-muscled thighs crushing her breasts.

She had heard tales of the Pawnee from the Cheyenne. The Pawnee were a cruel people. Some of the women said they practiced cannibalism. Elayna shuddered with renewed terror as the Pawnee’s hand moved up her back to stroke her neck, then slid downward to cup her buttocks. She did not need to understand his words to know what he was saying, or what he intended to do to her when they stopped for the night.

Trembling convulsively, she closed her eyes and prayed that she would die first.

And still they rode, pushing their horses relentlessly. The sun rose high in the sky, beating down upon her back and shoulders and head. Sweat pooled between her breasts, trickled down her back and neck, making her feel sticky and dirty. Dust clogged her nostrils and stung her eyes. But as uncomfortable as she was, as thirsty and hot and tired as she was, she prayed they would never stop.

It was midafternoon when the warriors drew their horses to a halt beside a shallow stream. Dismounting, Elayna’s captor pulled her to the ground and shoved her toward the water. She inched forward, heedless of the rocks and weeds that bruised her legs and scratched her face. The water was wonderfully cool and she drank greedily, wishing her hands were free so she might rinse her face and arms.

She was still drinking when the Pawnee grabbed a handful of her hair and yanked her to her feet.

He spoke to his companions, and she saw the lust in their eyes, heard the hunger in their voices as they leered at her, pointing at her hair, her breasts.

She took a step backward, the bile rising in her throat as she thought of them touching her bare flesh, their hands pawing her, tearing her clothes, pulling her hair, fondling her breasts.

But it was not to happen now.

Her captor mounted his horse and hauled her up in front of him, and they were riding again. His arm was like steel around her waist, imprisoning her, asserting his ownership. She could feel his breath on her cheek, smell the rank odor of his body, feel the heat of his thighs. Once he raised his hand to her breast and squeezed it, squeezed until tears burned her eyes and she cried out from the pain. His coarse laughter assured her that her worst fears would be realized before the day was gone.

She prayed to die, prayed that the horse would fall and crush the life from her body, but they only rode onward, ever onward, toward the setting sun.

It was the longest day of her life, and over too soon.

At nightfall the Pawnee made camp in a shallow draw. There were five of them, all that was left of the raiding party. They had lost the battle, but they had still come away with a prize, and now they turned their attention toward the white woman. She stood helpless before them, her dark red hair falling in a tangled mass about her shoulders, her face stained with sweat and tears, her eyes wild with fright. Her fear quickened their desire and they closed in around her, slowly circling her like wolves around a wounded buffalo calf.

Courage she did not know she possessed squared her shoulders and lifted her chin. Defiance blazed in her eyes. Defiance and contempt. She was powerless to fight them, powerless to resist. But she would kick and bite as long as there was strength in her body.

She whispered Michael’s name as the warrior who had captured her grabbed a handful of her hair and forced her to her knees. A second warrior unfastened the ties of her tunic and let it fall, exposing her breasts and belly.

A chorus of male approval rose on the air, and then the warrior who had captured her knocked her backward to the ground.

She bucked and kicked, knowing a brief moment of triumph as her heel caught one of the men in the groin, but her struggles were in vain and only made the warriors angry. Her captor screamed at her in Pawnee, then slapped her, hard, again and again.

She tasted blood in her mouth and prayed silently that she would die before he violated her, and when death did not come, she closed her eyes and prayed that they would kill her when they were through…