The Holy Warrior (22 page)

He picked up the boy and turned to Con. “We’ll have to tie her up and gag her.”

“No time—and she’d make a noise somehow. I don’t like it no better than you, but it’s her or us, Chris!”

An agony of indecision held Chris motionless, and then a dog barked in the distance, and he almost nodded to Con, who had drawn his knife. Then the woman’s eyes were framed by the flickering light of the torch he held, and he knew he could not do it.

Her eyes were large and beautiful, with a plaintive quality in them that he could not ignore. She was trying to say something but the words were muffled by Con’s hard hand. Then she flung up her left hand—and pointed to it frantically with her right.

The ring finger of her left hand was missing!

Chris cried hoarsely, “Con! Let her go!”

“Chris—!”

“Let her go—it’s Dove!”

Con stared at Chris as if he had lost his mind, then slowly took his hand away; but the knife in his other hand was raised and placed along her neck. “You jest keep nice and quiet,” he whispered.

Chris could see her clearly now—older and very thin, but her eyes had not changed.

“Bear Killer!” she cried softly.

“I—I thought you were dead!” he managed to say. His mind reeled. “Red Ghost—he showed me your scalp—and your ring!”

There was a sudden sound of movement in the distance, somewhere in the village, voices and dogs yelping. “Chris! We got to git outta here!” Con urged.

Chris shook his head. “Let’s go! I’ll carry the boy. Dove, you go with Con.”

She tried to speak, but there was no time to argue. Con jerked her around and pulled her outside, hissing, “Douse that light, Chris!”

Chris tossed the torch down, snatched up the boy and plunged outside, blinded by the darkness. Dawn was only
a thin line of light to the east, and his eyes had adjusted to the torchlight so he could not see Con or Dove. The voices were getting louder. Recklessly he plunged across the open, barely able to pick up the two figures ahead of him running for the timber.

Suddenly a yell of alarm ripped the air, and the dogs cried out. Others joined in, and when he was still a hundred yards from the timber, he heard the sound of other voices.

“They’re on to us!” he said, catching up with Con. “Make for the river!”

It was a deadly footrace; both men were sure that the Pawnees would head straight for the river, knowing it would be the best path for the raiders to follow. As he followed Con and Dove’s fleeting forms along the well-beaten trail, Chris hoped that Frenchie had done his job.

They were halfway to the river when Chris heard the sounds of pursuit.
Going to be close!
he thought. The light was coming fast, and as they ran around a bend in the path, he glanced back and thought he saw the flash of sunlight on steel. His breath was coming in short spurts and he saw Con stumble and almost drag Dove down with him; but when they topped a rise, they saw Frenchie, holding his rifle in his hands. He waved to two canoes behind him and cried out, “Come on!—We go!”

With legs almost like rubber, Chris stumbled down the bank past Frenchie, and put Sky in one of the canoes. He glanced back to see that Con had fallen—and spotted a small group of Pawnees atop the hill.

As Chris dashed back to pull Con to his feet, one of the Indians raised his rifle, but Frenchie dropped him with one shot. The other Indians split to each side as Frenchie stopped and pulled another rifle, taking cover behind the trees.

“Get heem in thees boat!” Frenchie yelled, and Chris half carried, half dragged the winded man, shoving him into the boat as a shot from the trees knocked bark from the gunwale of the canoe not five inches from his hand. He heard Frenchie’s
rifle bark in response. Leaping out, he saw Dove standing on the bank staring at Sky in the canoe.

“Get in the canoe, Dove!” he shouted. As she jumped into the canoe, he seized the last loaded musket from Frenchie. “Get out of here—I’ll hold them off!”

Frenchie leaped in the boat, and with a few powerful strokes drove the canoe into the stream, where the current took him. “Come on, Chris!” he yelled.

Holding his rifle steady, Chris paused beside the canoe where Dove crouched low over Sky, who was beginning to stir. An arrow whistled close beside Chris’s ear, followed by a shot that dimpled the water at his feet. He knew they would soon pick him off, so he leaped into the boat and shoved the canoe forward, dropping the rifle and grabbing the paddle with the same motion. He propelled the canoe toward the middle of the river, hearing the cries of rage and the ragged volley of arrows whistling through the air. One of them pierced the top side of the canoe, and another tore the leather of his left legging, drawing blood but not penetrating the flesh.

Three scattered shots whizzed past him, so he dropped his paddle, seized his rifle, and whirled in time to drop a tall Pawnee who was taking a direct sight on him. The Indian’s rifle flew up and exploded, the ball passing so close to Chris’s head that he flinched. Dropping the rifle, he poured every ounce of strength into getting the canoe out of range. There were no more shots, and he was thankful that they were safe for the moment. Frenchie slowed enough to allow Chris to catch up with him. “Chris! Con took a ball!” he called out.

“Is it bad, Frenchie?”

“Don’ know. I theek maybe yes!”

“We’ll pull to shore—soon as we gain a little distance,” Chris said grimly.

They paddled hard, and Chris saw that the boy had regained consciousness and was sitting in front of Dove. Her hands were on his shoulders and his eyes were blue in his bronze face. They were hard eyes, Chris saw; there was
nothing in them but a burning hatred. Once Dove leaned over and said something to him, but he shook his head angrily, never removing his eyes from Chris’s face.

“Over here!” Frenchie called, and paddled his canoe into a small opening in the thick bushes that rose six feet out of the water. Chris followed and saw that the quick eyes of the riverman had seen the tiny natural harbor that was shielded from the other side by the vegetation. By the time Chris was able to pull in, Frenchie had beached his canoe, picked up the limp body of his friend, and carried him to a dry spot.

Jumping out of the canoe, Chris went to where Frenchie was pulling Con’s leather shirt up, seeing the small round hole high on the left side of the back. He caught his breath and his eyes met Frenchie’s, who shook his head silently.

Carefully Chris rolled Con over and for a moment he thought the man was dead. Then the eyes opened, and Con looked up. He opened his mouth to speak, but could only cough, and a stream of crimson ran out of his mouth and down his chin.

Must have pierced his lung.
Chris wiped the old man’s mouth, and knelt beside him with a helpless feeling. Even if the finest doctor in the world had been there, he could have done nothing. Frustration and guilt ran through him.
God, why did it have to be now—right when we almost made it!

“Chris... ?” Con’s eyes were open, and his voice was faint. “We got the boy?”

“We got him, Con.”

“Wal—that’s all right then.” He lay quietly, his eyes studying the faces of the two men; then he whispered, “Frenchie, I been with you—a mighty long time, ain’t I?”

“Yes, my friend,” Frenchie managed to say. He put his hand on Con’s and said hoarsely, “You and me—we ’ave been—ze best of friends, always.”

“Reckon—there’s somethin’ you can do for me.”

“Anything!” Frenchie answered fiercely.

Con smiled, his eyes fixed on Frenchie. “Don’t think—I’m
gonna enjoy the pearly gates—without you bein’ there. Sure would like—to know you’ll be comin’.”

Frenchie’s face contorted with the effort to contain the tears, but it was no use. “I will do my best—our Chris, he will help me.”

“That’s—good...”

Con’s face relaxed, and he seemed to sink. But in a moment he opened his eyes and reached up a hand. Chris seized it, and the old eyes considered him; then he whispered, “Good thing about this... Chris... I went out... doin’ something... that will last. Don’t grieve... and don’t let Sky... forget... me...”

His eyes closed and his body went completely still, and his hand limp. Chris laid it carefully across the old man’s chest, then rose and turned toward the river. Dove was alone! He lunged toward the canoe, and saw a head bobbing as Sky forged across the river with determined strokes. Throwing himself into the stream, Chris reached the boy in a few powerful strokes. He ignored the fists that struck at him, gathered the fighting boy, and hauled him to the shore.

Reaching the bank, Chris held him down, saying in Sioux, “Why did you try to get away? I’m your father, boy.”

“Black Elk is my father,” Sky retorted.

“It is no use, Bear Killer.” Chris looked up to see Dove standing beside him. “He has been taught to hate you. He is Pawnee—and he is too old to change. He will never be your son.”

Chris looked at her, shocked. “What about you, Dove? You are my woman.”

She dropped her gaze. “I—am no longer White Dove. I am the slave of Black Elk.”

Then Chris understood the reason for her shame. The role of wife and mother was the only respectable status Indian society offered a woman. Had Black Elk made her his wife, her life might have been bearable. As his slave, he could use
her as he wished, and share her with his friends—or even those who were not his friends if they gave him gifts.

Chris put his free hand on Dove and said, “Nothing has changed between us. You are my woman. We will go to my home, far away from the Pawnees.”

She shook her head silently, and Chris did not argue. He released his son, who did not move or acknowledge him in any way, and spoke to Frenchie. “Let’s bury Con here by the river.” They moved to the place Chris had indicated and began digging the grave. When it was prepared, they put Con’s body in the ground and covered it with stones and dirt. After the last stone had been placed, the two men stood beside the fresh grave.

“Ze bes’ friend I evair had,” Frenchie uttered quietly. Then he looked at Chris questioningly. “You really believe he ees weeth God, yes?”

“Yes.”

Frenchie’s shoulders lifted, and he said, “So—you have one beeg job—to get thees mountain man ready, no?”

Chris put his arm around the burly shoulders and prayed for his friend that God would change Frenchie’s life—and make him ready for heaven. Then they all got into the canoes and paddled around the bend—out of sight of Con’s last resting place.

Sky did not try to escape again, but his hate-filled eyes did not waver from Chris’s face as the canoe swept them closer to the world Sky did not know.
Good thing Con didn’t see this,
Chris thought.
Getting Sky out of the Pawnee camp cost Con his life—but I wonder what it’s going to take to bring back my son.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

THE PREACHER TAKES A WIFE

Asa came running into the house, calling loudly, “Missy! Father! It’s Chris—he’s comin’ down the road in a wagon!”

It was almost dark outside, and Dan was lighting the lamp on the parlor table. Glancing up, he saw Missy’s face brighten. Both of them had secretly been worried about the mission. “Thank God!” he smiled, feeling a burden lift from his shoulders.

Missy ran lightly out the door. Following quickly, her father came to stand beside her and Asa at the edge of the road just as the wagon drew close enough to make out the faces. “He looks all right,” Missy murmured, and she gave an embarrassed laugh. “I’ve been thinking all kinds of things.”

“Look—he’s got a boy with him!” Asa exclaimed, and would have run to meet the wagon that had turned off the main road toward the house, but Dan held him firmly by the shoulder.

The horses pulling the wagon were exhausted and scarcely able to lift their hooves. It seemed to take forever before Chris said, “Whoa up.”

Missy searched his face and saw that he was bone-tired, and his eyes were filled with unhappiness. She shifted her gaze to the boy who sat upright beside him, and was startled at how much he resembled Chris—the same blue eyes and wedge-shaped face; and even in the pale twilight she could see the reddish glints in his long hair. He was looking at her steadily,
with an unfriendly air. Bravely she stepped forward and said warmly, “Chris, I’m so happy you’re back—and this is Sky?”

Chris nodded shortly. “Yes.” He climbed down from the wagon and she went to him, but he did not put his arms around her as she expected, so she stood there awkwardly, sensing the tension in his body and the trouble in his face.

“Glad you made it, Chris.” Dan spoke carefully, studying the pair. “We’ve got something still warm to eat. Bring Sky and—”

Chris held up a hand, cutting him off. With an iron constraint in his voice that made them all stare at him, he said evenly, “You know all these years I thought my wife and son were dead—but I was wrong. I took one look at Sky and knew he was mine—” Then his voice faltered, but he took a deep breath and moved to put his hand on the side of the wagon. Looking straight into Missy’s bewildered eyes, Chris continued. “I found my wife was alive, too. She took sick on the way back from the Pawnee camp.”

As his words sank in, the blood drained from Missy’s face. For weeks she had been apprehensive, wondering how she would be able to love a strange boy as a son. She never dreamed it would end like this.

“I’m sorry, Chris,” she heard herself say. “But I know how happy you must be that she’s alive.”

In that moment Dan was terribly proud of this tall daughter of his. He had watched her blossom into a vibrant, beautiful woman as her engagement to Chris had drawn her out of childhood. Her world had narrowed to her coming marriage—and now as it fell to pieces before her eyes, she was able to take the blow, saying what needed to be said.

“Better bring her into the house,” he said quickly.

Chris hesitated. “Maybe I shouldn’t have brought her here,” he voiced, “but she’s pretty worn out. I’ve got to get to my church, and I didn’t want to leave her with strangers.”

“Of course,” Dan responded. “You’ll have to have some
help with her, Chris. Caroline is over at Clarenton at a meeting, but I’ll go fetch her—”