The Bride Wore Feathers (32 page)

"Stop that." He pointed at her cheeks, wet with tears by now, and repeated the order. "I mean it, Dominique. Stop that right now. You know I do not like this."

"I don't care what you like, you savage. I want to go home." She stomped her foot and squeezed her eyes, working to bring as much moisture to her cheeks as possible.

Perplexed, Jacob reached down and picked up his shirt, never taking his eyes off her. "Please, stop that," he said softly, trying a new tack. As he buttoned the shirt, he began to back away. "I must leave, please don't do this anymore."

"Don't leave—please don't leave," she begged, increasing the volume of her tears and raising the pitch of her voice.

Unable to stand it any longer, Jacob ducked outside the tipi and jerked the flap closed. He lowered his voice, speaking in his most authoritative tone: "Stop that at once, woman."

From inside the lodge, the wails increased followed by a resounding, "No!"

Jacob glanced around the campsite. Several warriors stood around, their heads cocked, their expressions a mixture of curiosity and disbelief. Jacob closed his ears to his bride's sobs and straightened his shoulders as he strode through the village. His voice gruff, he explained as he passed by his peers, "My woman has burned herself on the fire. She will be quiet in a short time. I have ordered her to do so." Then he continued on toward the horses, hoping to God he was right.

* * *

Inside the tipi, Dominique abruptly stopped crying and listened at the wall. Jacob was gone. "Bloody hell," she muttered, looking around for something to break. She spotted Jacob's lance resting against the wall and stomped over to it.

Grabbing both ends of the wooden handle, she slammed it downward and lifted her right leg. The lance split in half. Dominique dropped to the ground, howling in pain.

"Damn, damn, double bloody hell and damnation," she said, a flood of authentic tears pouring down her cheeks as she cradled her injured leg.

The following morning when Dominique awoke, she found a bright blue welt running across the width of her leg just above the knee. When she stood up, her pulse pounded against the engorged area. She bit her lip and moaned, "Damn your bloody eyes, Jacob Stoltz."

Hopping on one foot, she did a pirouette, but as she got halfway though the second circle, she stopped and her mouth dropped open. Spotted Feather stood at the entrance of the tipi, her lip curled with malice.

"You are a poor excuse for a dancer, white devil. Do not waste your feeble energy on such nonsense. There is much work to do in our camp."

Her eyes like cold flat stones, Dominique quietly said, "Get out and leave me alone."

Spotted Feather advanced a step, her fists clenched, but stopped when she realized the futility of such a move. This pale-faced woman was now the wife of Redfoot,
her
Redfoot. And while she could hardly wait to deal with this intruder, the deed would have to be done in a manner that would not cast suspicion her way. Attacking the white filth, killing her in broad daylight, in her own tipi, would be a very foolish act.

Spotted Feather grinned, knowing she would have her chance, hoping that chance would come along very, very soon. Not bothering to cover her hatred, she spat, "Even though Redfoot has stupidly chosen you for his woman, you still must do your share of the work around camp. Follow me. I will show you what you must do."

And because she knew ignoring the Indian's orders would only add to her considerable pile of troubles, Dominique set her jaw and trailed along behind the nasty-tempered squaw.

When they reached the tipi with many poles leaning against it and several pouches scattered along the ground, Spotted Feather stopped. She turned her head and shot a wad of spittle near one of the pouches. Pointing to the spot of damp earth, she said, "Stand there, dog face."

Hiding her disgust, Dominique lowered her head and obeyed. As she stood, the Indian balanced a long pole across her shoulders, then hung a pouch on either end. Again a beast of burden, feeling like an ox harnessed for a day's plowing, she meekly followed Spotted Feather as she wove her way through the lodges and out of the camp.

She limped along, sidestepping sagebrush and prickly pear cactus as the Indian led her down into a heavily wooded ravine, then on to the banks of the Little Missouri River.

Motioning for Dominique to approach the water's edge, Spotted Feather spouted her orders: "Take the pouches from your shoulders. Fill one with water and hang it from the branch of that tree. Fill the other; then put it on one end of your pole. After you have done that, hold it with one hand and take the other from the tree and put it on the pole. When you come back to camp, I will show you where to dump the water. Then you will come back and fill them again. Do you understand, stupid white dog?"

Through clenched teeth, Dominique said, "Yes, I think I can manage that,"
stupid red bitch.

Spotted Feather sneered and said, "We shall see. Fill the pouches. I will watch to see that you
manage."

Dominique grabbed a pouch and dropped to her knees. Leaning forward tentatively, she balanced herself on a small boulder and reached into the rapidly flowing current.

"Put the pouch into the water, stupid dog." Spotted Feather gave her a shove. "You will take all day like that."

Dominique cried out and pushed away from the current. "Don't do that," she demanded.

"What is wrong?" The Indian woman laughed. "Are you afraid of a little water?"

Dominique averted her gaze, returning it to the river, then stared down at the grass-covered banks.

"You
are
afraid," Spotted Feather said. "So white women do not swim, is that it? Are you afraid of getting your precious white skin wet, dog?" Again she laughed, but stopped abruptly as a solution to her problem bloomed in her mind. The white she-dog could
not
swim. Nature would be her ally and help her to kill this woman who had blinded Redfoot with her golden hair.

Through another burst of laughter, Spotted Feather said, "Fill the pouches and bring them back to me quickly. Do not make me wait too long." Then she whirled, laughing into the wind, and hurried back to the village.

More hesitant and unsure than before, Dominique inched back to the water's edge. As she lowered the pouch, she stared into the muddy water and trembled at the memory of another muddy river—wider, faster, deadlier. She turned away and filled the pouches as quickly as she could, then limped on back to camp. As she promised, Spotted Feather was waiting by a large cooking pouch made from the lining of a buffalo stomach.

"Dump them in here," she ordered loud enough for the other women to hear. When Dominique finished, the squaw gave another order as loud as the first. "Now go back to the river and fill them again. When you return, I will show you where to dump them."

Still the obedient prisoner, Dominique returned the pouches to the pole and stumbled off toward the river again.

Waiting until the white woman was out of sight, Spotted Feather glanced around the village. Everyone was busy with chores. None looked in her direction. This time holding in her laughter, she dashed behind a tipi, then quietly made her way through the trees on a path that ran parallel to Dominique's,

Silent and anxious, the Indian crouched a few feet from her quarry, waiting for the perfect moment. When Dominique finally crawled to the edge of the bank and leaned over, Spotted Feather leapt from her hiding spot and sprinted toward her victim.

Dominique heard the footsteps at the same time she felt a tremendous blow between her shoulderblades. She flew up and over the bank so fast that her scream was still lodged in her throat when she hit the water.

Chapter 15

The turbulent waters of the Little Missouri raged onward, cutting a zigzag gouge in the Dakota countryside as it raced to merge with the Missouri. Bobbing along in the fast-moving current, a cloud of golden-red hair stood out like the first crocus of spring.

Frantic and wild-eyed, Dominique kicked against the water. She flapped her arms up and down in a vain attempt to save herself, but the river kept pulling her under. Her lungs screaming for oxygen, she finally opened her mouth and gulped for air, but the banquet she brought her starving lungs was nothing more than a cupful of muddy water.

Beyond panic, she opened her mouth and blew, hoping to push the liquid from her system. It was no use. She was dying. Tiny spots, flickering on and off like a thousand fireflies, appeared behind her eyelids. Her arms and legs grew heavy despite the buoyancy of the water. She was becoming numb, unable to feel the sharp sting of rocks and twigs scraping against her thrashing limbs. Then the current slammed her against a boulder protruding from the river's edge.

The impact caught her just below her breastbone, forcing the water from her lungs, sending a veritable fountain spewing out through her nose and mouth. Stunned, still unable to draw the breath she so badly needed, Dominique clung to the boulder, even as the river tried valiantly to snatch her away again. When she was finally able, she took in air, a teaspoon at a time, until she could breathe in large gulps.

Once her appetite for oxygen was sated, Dominique grabbed at anything she could find—twigs, clumps of grass, half-buried rocks—and used them as tools to help her crawl up onto the bank and out of the water. She lay panting in mud and grass still damp from an earlier downpour. Clinging to the last thread of sanity, Dominique tried to get her bearings, to understand what had happened to her, to determine if she was still in danger. Then she heard it.

The snapping of twigs and branches, the ominous sound of something much bigger than she was, crashing through the trees. Still exhausted, her energy depleted, she found just enough strength to turn her head toward the noise. What she saw transformed her heart to stone, her mind to clay. Dominique rolled her eyes to the heavens and passed out.

* * *

Twenty miles to the east, the Seventh Cavalry examined the remains of the Hunkpapa camp.

"Good work, Stoltz." Custer leaned down and tore a rawhide thong from the thistles on a shrub. "They're getting a little sloppy."

"And their numbers are growing," Jacob added, supplying information that was not part of the Lakota plan. "Did you have a chance to look at their grazing circle? This camp supports at least five hundred horses now."

"Well, then," Custer replied, slapping the leather holsters containing his pair of snub-nosed English revolvers. "I guess that's just five hundred more Indian ponies we'll have to shoot."

"And five hundred more Sioux?" Jacob said, barely able to keep the sneer from his lips.

"I doubt that, Private." Custer ran his hand across his ragged auburn beard as he studied the evidence. Then he turned to the group of scouts, amending his orders. "I think it's about time for us to gather up a few of the guides and maybe four companies of men for a little scouting party up river. I'm going to put to rest once and for all these rumors about large bands of hostiles joining together. I have a feeling we're chasing more shadows than Indians." He turned back to Jacob with his final orders. "Private, tell Captain Ruffing I want two more scouts plus you. We'll ride in the morning at five. Go now—be quick."

Jacob saluted, then returned to his mount. He kicked Hammerhead in the flank before he was fully seated in the saddle, then galloped off to the main body of troops. As he rode, he thought of the new danger to his people, of the excellent tracking and trailbreaking instincts the Long Hair possessed. Custer and a small group of men could easily cover fifty miles in one day. The Lakota camp was no more than twenty miles ahead. How could he make certain the scouting party didn't stumble over his people? Over Dominique?

He thought of her, safe and warm in his lodge, and ached to hold her in his arms, to call her his wife. He'd been so sure when he married her that he'd found the perfect way to ensure her safety. Had he instead plunged her into danger again?

* * *

To the west, Dominique came to with a start. She was lying face down in the dirt and mud. Her legs felt as if she'd rolled through a cactus patch. Her arms ached and burned; one of them seemed to be covered with something damp and sticky. She opened her eyes, but saw nothing. Thinking back over the day, Dominique guessed that she'd fallen in the river at mid morning, not more than an hour or two ago. Why was it so dark? What was that dank, feral odor? A low growl, coupled with the swishing of leaves and shrubs, refreshed her memory. The last thing she remembered before passing out on the muddy bank was the sight of a huge grizzly lumbering in her direction. If what she had heard above her was that same bear, he was about to bury her alive.