Quicksilver Passion (127 page)

That’s the way war is, Wannie. Now get your dolls.”

The half-breed Cheyenne warrior, Iron Knife, rode his bay Appaloosa stallion at the front of his braves across the prairie. Over the next rise lay the river.

Sometimes he knew the bluecoats used the stream to float their boats as they journeyed upriver to their forts. For that reason, he paused on the rise and searched along the water for any signs of danger.

He was a big man, a warrior who had counted many coups, a honored owner of the
hotamstit,
the Dog Rope awarded to only the four bravest of the brave among the Dog Soldiers.

The sun felt hot to his whip-scarred, muscular back, for he wore little besides a breechcloth and moccasins. On his sinewy brown chest were scars from the sun dance. His hair, black as a crow’s wing, was pulled in a braid over his left ear, and a single earring, formerly a brass button from a cavalry officer’s uniform, gleamed in his right ear. The others rode up beside him, looking toward the water.

He signaled his cousin.
Lance Bearer, we camp at the water for the night.”

The other Dog Soldier nodded.
You think we have found all the war parties then?”

Iron Knife nodded.
I am satisfied that we have carried out Chief Black Kettle’s orders. All our people will be gathering in now to await instructions while he and the other chiefs are in the white man’s city, Denver, to return the white hostages and ask for a peace parlay.”

His other cousin, Two Arrows, frowned.
Iron Knife, you have lived among the whites. Do you think they are sincere? Will the bluecoats keep their word?”

Iron Knife, son of the great chief, War Bonnet, and the beautiful white captive, Texanna, furrowed his handsome face and considered.
Any more than the graycoats who promise us our own country if we help them in their war?” He shrugged.
We can only hope so. This fight the tribes have waged since last spring has taken a terrible toll on whites and our own people. When we gather at our camp on the Big Sandy, we will know more.”

Two Arrows laughed.
We are both eager to get home to our families. We have been gone too many suns.”

Iron Knife nodded, thinking of his love, the Boston debutante, Summer Van Schuyler, who had run away with him in the spring of ’59. Now she was known as Summer Sky, his woman. He was never happy when she and their three little ones were not close by his side. But as an honored warrior, he was bound to carry out the Cheyenne chiefs’ orders.

The young boy, Bear Cub, rode up beside him.
I am glad you brought me along. The bigger boys will envy me when I tell them of our advantures.”

We brought you because your brother is one of my warriors and you begged so hard.” Iron Knife grinned.
Besides, Bear Cub, your drawings interest me. And too, you turned out to be handy at gathering fuel and hobbling horses. Speaking of that—I’m hungry. Let us ride on down to the river and camp.”

His sharp eyes missed nothing as they topped the rise and looked around. The treeless prairie stretched like a sea of grass around them and beyond that lay the muddy river the whites called the Missouri. He and his men had been sent out to call the stragglers in, urging the war parties to stop attacking wagon trains and passing army patrols. They could not win against the whites, he knew. The few years he had spent among his mother’s people in that faraway place called
Tejas
—Texas—had taught him that.