The Bride Wore Feathers (26 page)

Drowsy by the time she'd swallowed the last of the soup, Dominique dropped into a deep sleep, too weary to give her plight another thought. Unable to face the terror of reality, her mind soothed her as she slept, replaced the primitive tipi with dreams of her cozy home overlooking Lake Erie, and convinced her she rested in front of a crackling fire.

Platters of hot, steamy muffins, thick, juicy steaks, and smoked oysters paraded through her head. She could see herself presiding over fine meals of leg of mutton smothered in caper sauce and baked pickerel in wine sauce. Her mind did an excellent job of convincing her she was well fed and safe.

An enormous slice of plum pie swimming in thick sweet cream was her undoing. Dominique awoke, ravenous for a taste of the sweet. The pungent odor of the dirty tattered buffalo robe filled her nostrils instead.

Dominique fell back asleep with only the salty taste of her tears to flavor her mouth.

Chapter 12

Fort Abraham Lincoln,

May 17, 1876

The morning dawned bright and summerlike. A gentle breeze, as wispy as a baby's first locks of hair, warmed the men of the Seventh Cavalry and set them to joking and laughing.

At the front of the column, General Custer sat astride his most treasured mount, Dandy. Preparing to call the order to move out, Custer surveyed his troops. The regiment stretched out for nearly two miles and included seventeen hundred animals—pack mules, horses, and cattle. These were accompanied by twelve hundred men and wagons filled with supplies and artillery.

Through the morning mist, the column appeared shrouded and ghostlike, premonitory somehow. Custer blinked, and when he opened his eyes, the men seemed to be rising off the ground toward the heavens. Scattered among them, several Sioux warriors rode, waving tomahawks and bloodied scalps.

Custer shuddered and turned to Libbie. Perched on her mount, shading her eyes from the glare, she was no vision, but an oasis, his link to the real world. She would accompany him, as she often had, to the first campground a few miles away from the post. There she would stay overnight, then say her final good-bye and return to the fort the following morning. Would it be just that—the final goodbye—this time? He opened his mouth to speak, but again, a feeling of gloom, some ominous forewarning, washed over him. Perhaps it was because of Dominique and the fact that a handful of renegades had been able to snatch her almost before his very eyes. Then again, maybe it was something else.

Swallowing hard, Custer lifted his chin and swiveled to his right. The company bugler sat rigid awaiting his orders to sound the signal. Usually Custer couldn't wait to get going. What held him back this morning? Shaking off the feelings as nonsense, he prepared to give the order, but the band struck up his favorite marching song, "The Garryowen." Custer sat back in his saddle, relieved at the delay, and listened to the boisterous lyrics: "We'll break down windows, we'll break down doors, we'll let the doctors work their cures, and tinker up our bruises. We'll drink down ale, no man for debt shall go to jail, for Garryowen and his glory. Wherever we go they'll dread the name of Garryowen and his glory."

In mid-column, oblivious to the band and its music, Barney stood with Hazel. Gazing down into her amber eyes, he searched for the words to express what she'd done for him, what she'd come to mean to his very life. "It don't matter what happens to me now, Hazel. If I got to die in battle, I can die a happy man."

"Now, stop that," she said in a harsh whisper. "I can't stand it if you talk like that. You've got to stay alive, if for no other reason than to help find Dominique."

"Aw, I didn't mean it literal. 'Course I'll find Dominique. Don't you worry your pretty head about her one more minute. I just know we'll find her safe and sound."

"Oh, Barney, do you really think so?"

And although he didn't believe it for a minute, he said, "Sure."

"Well ..." She hesitated, slightly disgusted with herself for thinking of Barney and the wonderful evening they'd spent together when poor Dominique was in such peril. But unable to stop herself, she went on. "Then why did you say that about dying? I thought I gave you a reason to come back to me. You sound like a man who'd rather not."

"Oh, no, Hazel. That's not what I meant at all. You know how happy you made me." Again he struggled, wondering how he could possibly explain what last night had meant to him, what he hoped it had meant to her. He'd gone to her fearful and hesitant, unsure of his abilities as a man. Somehow she'd convinced him that he'd known what to do all along. She had tutored him, yet made him feel like the instructor; she had shown him how a man pleased a woman, but made him feel as if he was the only one who ever had. She'd given of herself and shown him what it was to love. "I don't know how to say it, but I want you to know that last night, well, being with you was the best, the most wonderful thing ever."

"Barney," she whispered, her eyes moist, "the only thing I want to hear from you today is that you'll be coming back to me."

He gulped, looking away for a moment, then said, "If it's the last thing I'm able to do, you know I will." He screwed up his lips, working his mouth until his mustache was completely out of sight. Sounding as if some giant hand squeezed his throat while he spoke, he said, "If'n you would, if it pleases you, there's something I'd like for you to do while I'm gone."

"Anything Barney."

"I never done this before, so I'm not right sure how to go about it, but, well ..." Barney twisted his hat in his hands, spun it in a circle, then rumpled the brim as he gathered his courage. "What I'd hoped, I mean, when I get back, if you think you'd like to, if the army life don't seem too bad to you, I thought maybe we could get a little more together."

"I'd be honored to be the wife of a fine man like you if that's what you're trying to say, Barney."

"That'd be it," he choked out, the hand suddenly releasing his throat, then swamping it with tears. Embarrassed, unused to such unmanly reactions, he jerked her into his arms and buried his face against her hair.

Glancing around at the others, Hazel saw the same scene repeated over and over as husbands and lovers said their good-byes. Somehow, even though many of the other unions were of long standing, she knew her own was more poignant. She pulled away, intending to tell him how much she loved him when the bugle sounded the farewell.

"That's it," Barney muttered, his voice constricted. "I got to mount up. Bye, Hazel, I don't know what else to say."

"Barney, I think I know what you're trying to say, and believe me, I understand."

He pressed a gentle finger against her lips and shook his head. "Thanks, sugar lump, but I got to say this myself. I love ya, Hazel. I love ya like I never knew love could happen. Take care of yourself for me. We got a whole lot of catching up to do when I get back."

"Oh, Barney," she said through a sudden rush of tears, "I'll wait here forever if I have to."

After swinging up into the saddle and adjusting his scabbard, Barney straightened his shoulders and smiled down at her. "I can't imagine the wait being that long, sugar. Shouldn't take the general more than a couple a months to find a few renegade Injuns and wipe 'em out. I'll be back in your arms before the fall air crisps your apple cheeks."

The column began moving then. All Hazel could do was wave good-bye as the horses and wagons thundered on past her, creaking and groaning and kicking up dust to mingle with the damp morning air. When Barney was out of sight, Hazel turned her attention to the final song the band played. As she listened to the words, and really heard them for the first time, her tears flowed.

In hurried words her name I blessed

And to my heart in anguish pressed

The girl I left behind me.

The hope of final victory, within my bosom burning,

Is mingling with sweet thoughts of thee and of my fond returning.

But should I ne'er return again,

Still with my love I'll find me Sweet girl I left behind me.

Uninterested in the songs or the great show of military precision as the regiment finally departed, Jacob nudged his new mount, a black gelding called Hammerhead, out of the pack and up to his commanding officer.

"Captain Ruffing, sir," he said with a crisp salute. "May I have permission to ride up to the front?"

"What for, Private? We haven't even left the damn garrison."

"I know, sir, but I understood that the general may want me out beyond him and the regiment as a scout. I am fit this morning."

"You don't look so fit. In fact, you look like hell. Why don't you tie your horse to the back of a feed wagon and toss your mangy body on a sack of grain? You'll have plenty of time to be a target for the hostiles later."

"But, sir—"

"That's an order, Private, and on this campaign, orders will not be questioned or disregarded. You will do as you're told, or you will be shot. Understood, Private?"

"Yes, sir." Jacob snapped off another salute, then wheeled Hammerhead around and headed for one of the supply wagons. Although his mind resented the order, worked at finding a way out of it, his body longed for the relative comfort of a sack of grain. He and Drooping Belly had done a good job of making him look as if he'd been attacked by Indians—too good a job. It seemed as if every muscle in his body had been pulled or pummeled, scraped or torn. And the cut on his arm—his
right
arm, he grumbled to himself—felt as if a thousand bees were driving their stingers into it. Perhaps another day of rest would serve him and the Lakota purpose better than a journey back to the village.

Jacob slid down off the saddle and tied the horse to the back of the wagon. As he climbed and gingerly stretched out among the flour sacks, his thoughts returned to Dominique. She would have to spend another night alone in his tipi. He would have to spend another day hoping Gall had the patience and desire to keep her safe.

Most of all, he would have to pray the other warriors did not become overwhelmed with her golden beauty and force her to succumb to their demands. A white woman, especially one of any beauty, was a great prize, something to be shared among the most deserving of warriors. A woman like Dominique would be a very tempting morsel for even the most lowly of his brothers.

Jacob pounded a fist already sore with weeping wounds against the wooden floor of his prison.

* * *

Nearly twenty miles to the west, the Hunkpapa village bustled with activity. Buffalo had been sighted earlier in the morning, and now the women were hard at work processing the two bulls killed by their best hunters. Dominique, transferred to a larger tipi at dawn, sat huddled in a corner of her new lodgings, listening to the excited voices, wondering how long she would be left undisturbed and unmolested.

The answer appeared at the flap of her tipi in the form of a squaw who could no longer be called a maiden. "On your feet, white devil. We have much work to do."

Dominique glared up at the woman the others called Spotted Feather. "Leave me alone," she snapped, in spite of Jacob's warnings.

"So, the crazy one does have a tongue." Spotted Feather drew a knife from the folds of her dress and stepped inside the tipi.

Bolting to her feet, Dominique backed away from the squaw, threatening, "Stay away from me. I mean it,. You get away, or I swear, I'll—"

"You'll what, white filth? Fall on your knees and beg me to spare your stupid life? Or is it your plan to fight me?" She leaned her head back and howled with laughter, then sobered and said, "You are no match for me, stupid one. You are no match for a crippled sparrow."

With fright and her temper leading the way, Dominique snapped, "Get out. Get out and leave me alone this instant, you stinking savage."

"Wi witko,"
the Indian raged as she flew at her. "You will die now and then I will boil your tongue for the dogs."

Dominique lunged to one side as the knife arced past her head. Spinning around, she flattened herself against the wall of the tipi, her eyes darting around for an avenue of escape. Spotted Feather circled, standing between her and the flap. She grinned, exposing her square blunt-edged teeth and the yellow gleam in her black eyes. And Dominique read the message. The woman not only meant to kill her—she couldn't wait to do so. Why hadn't she listened better to Jacob? Why hadn't she
believed
him?