Quicksilver Passion (128 page)

Besides he could not bring himself to spill the blood of beautiful Summer Sky’s people anymore. A truce and peace were the only answers, but it was difficult to convince the Cheyenne warriors, greatest fighters of the plains. There was only one white man that he hated enough to kill—Jake Dallinger,—and that man was safely in the white soldiers’ prison.

But now his keen eyes spotted something by the river and he reined in, raising his hand in warning.
Hold on! What is this we see?”

For a minute more they looked. It was a man, a big man, clad only in bluecoat pants and sprawled in the mud, his face partly in the water.

Lance Bearer said,
I see only one. Why would one soldier be out here on patrol? Where are the rest? Can it be a trick?”

Iron Knife looked up and down the river. From here, they could see for miles.
It is strange,” he admitted.
Maybe he is dead and fell from a passing boat.”

The others grunted and nodded. That was the likeliest explanation.

Cautiously, Iron Knife led his men down the rise.
Be careful, our experience with whites tells me it may be a trick. He may have a weapon.”

They rode toward the man slowly. He was a big man, Iron Knife noted, big as he himself and dark as a half-breed in the sun. The man lay on the riverbank, his muscles rippling in the sun. As they rode up, the man leaped to his feet, brandishing a stick, and Iron Knife realized he had been trying to kill the tiny frogs that splashed in the water as the horses approached.

Cherokee tensed, his stick at the ready. For several days, he had been able to see nothing at all, and now all he saw was the barest blur of approaching horses.
Who’s there? Stay back, I’m armed!”

So we see,” said a deep voice in stilted English as if the owner didn’t use the language often,
although your little stick doesn’t strike fear in any of us.”

Another rider translated the words into an unfamiliar language and a bunch of men laughed and hooted.

Indians? Soldiers? Renegade robbers?

A man fights with what he has, even though he may die,” Cherokee said with as much dignity as he could muster, although he knew he hadn’t a chance against armed men.
Who are you?”

Well spoken like a brave man,” said the leader again.
We are Cheyenne, on our way back to our camp in the Shining Mountains that you call the Rockies.”