Wayward Wind (18 page)

Griffin helped Bonnie down, handed her the mare’s reins, and took a position beside Cooper with Lorna’s rifle in his hands.
He waited, rifle ready, but there was no movement or sound.

Cooper cautiously studied the terrain on each side of them and as far as he could see ahead without exposing himself. There
was the chance the Indians might retreat down the trail, but there was a greater chance they would make a fight of it. Cooper
doubted that the four of them could last long against an all-out attack with only the two rifles. The very silence worried
him, because the Indians knew exactly where they were and that there were two women in the group. Of even greater value to
the Indians were the four exceptionally fine horses.

“Cooper,” Lorna’s hand on his arm caused him to looked down into her face, “I’ll try and find out who they are—”

“Good God! You’re not going out—”

“No, of course not. I’ll sing. Almost every Indian in these mountains has heard of me. They think I’m… special because my
voice carries. I’ve done it before to identify myself.”

“They’ll not be the only ones in these mountains to hear you. There are white and Mexican outlaws, too. What about the one
that’s after Bonnie? He’d know right where to find us.”

“I’m not worried about
him
. He’ll not show his hand with Indians here. He’ll think they’re White Bull or some of his people.” Her lips curled contemptuously.
“He only fights women or someone weaker—”

The sharp crack of a rifle and the sound of the bullet hitting the boulder halted her words.

“They’re atryin’ to get us to fire back so they’ll be sure we’re still here,” Griffin muttered. “They want to keep us occupied
while they flank us. They must think we’re stupid.”

Cooper looked down into Lorna’s upturned face. He lifted a hand and gently brushed the hair from her cheek. It was the loveliest
face he’d ever seen. He wanted to hold her, shield her, take her inside himself so she would be forever safe. His hand moved
to the back of her head and his fingers stroked her hair while his eyes held hers.

“Go ahead, sweetheart. It’s worth a try,” he whispered shakily. He couldn’t stop himself; he bent his head and laid his lips
gently on hers. The softness of her parted lips was undeniably sweet. When he raised his head her eyes were closed, but they
opened slowly and looked deeply into his.

She nodded. He’d called her sweetheart! She’d never felt more like singing in her life. She reached for his hand and turned
her face upward. Around them the air was filled with her voice. They could hear nothing else. The notes were achingly pure
and strong, each word crystal clear, although her companions did not understand them. She sang in the language of the Cheyenne.

“Hear me, brothers of my father, White Bull.

I am known as Singing Woman to all the tribes.

My grandfather was the man the Wasicuns called

Light, but to his Indian brothers he was known as Sharp Knife.

We cross this land seeking the home of my grandfather.

Let not the blood flow among friends.

Let not your women sing the death song in your village.

Let me not sing the death song for my husband, brother to Logan Horn of Morning Sun.

My husband is brave and will fight until he dies.

Then I will die. The spirits will no longer hear the songs of Singing Woman.”

A long quiet settled over the area when she finished. There was not even a birdsong to break the silence or the buzz of an
insect or the rustle of a leaf. Even the wind seemed to lie down to rest and the puffy white clouds stood still. Between them
and the earth a giant vulture soared silently, waiting for death below to provide a feast.

Cooper gently disengaged his hand from Lorna’s so as to lift the rifle again to readiness. “I liked your song,” he said in
an attempt to make her smile.

Her face was still and pale. Her great eyes met his and he knew she was aware of the gravity of their situation. There wasn’t
another woman in all the world like this woman, he thought. She wasn’t only lovely and proud, she was calm, intelligent, and
plucky beyond all reason. The thought of a man, red or white, putting his hands on her caused his to freeze on the rifle,
his muscles to quiver, and a feeling close to panic to knot his stomach.

Lorna glanced behind her to see the horses, ground tied, standing patiently. Bonnie, standing well back among them where Griffin
had placed her, with the reins of the mare in her hand, watched with huge and frightened eyes.

The silence seemed to go on and on as if it would never end. Finally it was broken when Lorna’s horse, Gray Wolf, squealed
in protest when Roscoe edged closer to the mare. And then, as if through the crack made in the silence, the Indian’s voice
reached them. It was strong with authority. He spoke in the tongue of the Cheyenne, but with a different dialect. Lorna strained
her ears and stark lines of concentration creased her face as she strove to understand.

“We have heard of the Wasicun called Singing Woman. I will talk to the daughter of White Bull of the Cheyenne.”

“Who is it that seeks to speak to Singing Woman?”

“Blue Feather of the Arapaho.”

Lorna turned to Cooper. “They’re Arapaho and they want to talk to me.”

“I’ll go with you,” he said as he unbuckled his gunbelt.

“Of course.”

Lorna stepped from behind the boulder and Cooper followed, moving up quickly to walk beside her. Two Indians emerged from
the woods and came to meet them. One, obviously the leader, had magnificent blue feathers hanging from his braids and a belt
of beaded deerskin around his tunic. The other wore a flat-crowned brimmed hat. They approached to within a few feet of Lorna
and Cooper. If they were surprised to see the woman with the big voice dressed in men’s clothing, their expressions did not
reveal their thoughts, but the eyes they turned on Cooper were alive with hate. They looked at him long and hard, then ignored
him.

“Singing Woman, your songs please the ears of the Arapaho. We make war on the Wasicun, who steal our land and kill our people,
but we no make war on Singing Woman, daughter of White Bull.”

Lorna kept her face carefully composed. She didn’t look at Cooper, but tilted her chin upward and began to speak, slowly,
in case they had difficulty in understanding her.

“To make war on the Wasicun, my husband, and on the Wasicun, my friends, is to make war on Singing Woman.”

“We have heard of Logan Horn, the Cheyenne. How is it the Wasicun, your husband, is brother to Cheyenne?”

“Their father is the same, their mothers not the same.”

The looks the Indians flashed at Cooper glittered with hatred. He knew that something Lorna had said had angered them. He
had caught the name Logan Horn, but that was all of the conversation he understood.

The Indian in the hat now spat an angry word and brandished his coupstick at Cooper. He spoke rapidly to Blue Feather, his
voice shrill as he argued for killing the Wasicun and taking the horses.

Lorna crossed her arms over her chest and listened politely while Blue Feather talked to his companion, stating firmly that
Singing Woman was the beloved daughter of the Cheyenne, and that he, Blue Feather, would be forced to kill him if he tried
to harm her. He said, in no uncertain terms, that
he
would be the one to decide the fate of the Wasicun. His dark eyes, full of contempt, swung around to Cooper and went over
him from the top of his head to his boots before he again spoke to Lorna.

“It is said the father of Logan Horn is Clayhill, the Wasicun, friend of Chivington who killed our women and children at Sand
Creek.”

“Lorna—” Cooper was beginning to understand what they were talking about.

Lorna placed her hand on Cooper’s arm without taking her eyes off Blue Feather’s stern face. She lifted her head haughtily.

“Is it not said Logan Horn despises his father, the Wasicun? My husband, Cooper Parnell, does not take his father’s hated
name. He also despises him. My grandfather, Sharp Knife, was friend to the Arapaho. He said every man makes his own tracks.
Is this not so with the Arapaho warrior? Are the Arapaho so fond of making war on the Wasicun that they no longer hear the
stories of Sharp Knife?”

“There is the other Wasicun, who is not your husband. Why does he hide?” Blue Feather asked scornfully.

“He does not hide. He stayed with the woman who has no hand.”

“We will see him.’

“
We
will see the braves who hide in the forest,” Lorna said, the firmness in her voice matching his.

Blue Feather studied her face. Finally he nodded and without turning he called out a sharp command. When Lorna saw the two
Indians coming from the woods, she called out to Griffin.

“Griff, leave your guns, bring Bonnie and come out. Be sure she’s got the sleeve of her dress rolled up so they can see she
has no hand. They’ll think it’s a sign she’s blessed or she’d have been killed when she was born.” She looked up at Cooper.
“I think it’s going to be all right.” She quickly explained to him about the Indian’s hatred of Clayhill and told him the
next time she used the name while talking to Blue Feather he should spit on the ground. Cooper squeezed her hand and grinned.

Griffin and Bonnie came to stand beside them. Griffin had rolled up the sleeve of Bonnie’s dress, exposing the smooth end
of her forearm. His hand cupped her bent elbow. He could feel her cringe as four pairs of eyes honed in on the stump at the
end of her arm and scrutinized the smooth, scarless flesh.

“Griff, I’m scared.”

“Don’t show it. Hold yore head up… honey. Show some spirit,” Griffin muttered. “There ain’t a man jack among us that can
do with one hand what ya can do. Look the bastards in the eye. Ya ain’t got nothin’ to be shamed for.”

Pride and determination to make Griffin proud of her stiffened Bonnie’s back and tilted her chin. All her life she had been
made to feel she was some sort of a freak. Now, although her nerves were strung tight as a bowstring, she looked into Griffin’s
eyes that were almost on a level with her own, and smiled.

“That’s the way to show ’em, Bonnie girl. Smile at ’em They’re either agoin’ to fight us or they ain’t. And if they do, I’m
agoin’ for the mean one with the hat, ’cause I ain’t got one.”

Bonnie felt light and airy and unafraid. She could face anything as long as she was with him. The Indians looked at her with
dark, curious eyes. Something broke loose inside her and she wanted more than anything in the world to show Griffin that she
could stand beside him. She gently shook loose from his grip, lifted the stump on the end of her arm to smooth her hair back
from her face and poke the hairpins more securely into her hair. The Indians watched in fascination as she reached over to
tie the lacings on Griffin’s shirt with her one hand.

“Yo’re somethin’,” Griffin whispered. “Yo’re really somethin’.”

“Will my father’s brothers share our cookfire?” Lorna asked suddenly. “My husband wishes to share meat and tobacco with friends
of his wife.”

To her surprise, Blue Feather nodded without hesitation. Lorna smiled up at Cooper. “I hope you’ve got more tobacco than what
you’ve got in your pocket, because they’re staying for a meal.”

When Cooper and Griffin would have helped build the fire, Lorna quickly shook her head. This was squaw work, she explained.
The Indians would lose respect for them if they should help. The small fire she built was more for ceremony than anything
else. Cooper and Griffin sat around it with the four Indians. Lorna passed out meat that had been cooked the evening before.
The Indians wolfed down the food as if it had been a long while since they had eaten. She and Bonnie stayed in the background
while the men were eating. When they finished, she whispered to Cooper to pass out the tobacco.

Cooper went to his saddlebags and took out three small sacks of tobacco, the last of his supply. He placed them on the ground
in front of Blue Feather. The Indian sniffed at the bags, and his eyes sparkled with pleasure. He produced a pipe, filled
it, and brought a twig from the fire to light it. He lifted the pipe to his lips with dignity, and after taking several long
meditative puffs passed it to Cooper, who puffed at it and passed it on to the Indian in the hat. The pipe made a complete
round of the circle. When it came back to Blue Feather he carefully placed the feathered pipe before him. He looked directly
at Cooper and spoke.

“How is it you do not walk in the footsteps of your father?”

Lorna, sitting behind Cooper, made the translation. She could tell by the way his back stiffened he was surprised and angered
by the blunt question.

“For the same reason my brother, Logan Horn, does not walk in our father’s footsteps.” Cooper looked straight into Blue Feather’s
fiercely proud eyes when he spoke and then spit on the ground contemptuously. He waited for Lorna to translate.

“Logan Horn is Cheyenne.”

“He has as much of our father’s blood as I have.”

“Why do you hate him who is your father?”

“That’s none of your goddamn business, you prying shit-head!” Cooper spat out angrily.

Lorna translated his words to say, “It is because he dishonored my mother.”

Blue Feather seemed to ponder this, then nodded gravely. His fiercely dark eyes studied Cooper with less hostility in them.
Lorna waited for him to speak again, but he did not.

In the silence that followed the Indian in the hat spoke. He was younger and more belligerent than Blue Feather.

“I will barter for the woman with no hand.” He had scarcely taken his eyes off Bonnie. Now he looked fiercely at Griffin and
made the offer.

Lorna repeated the words and heard the gasp that came from Bonnie and the angry snort that came from Griffin.

“Don’t be angry,” she cautioned. “He holds her in high esteem. Make the price so high he can’t possibly pay it.”

Griffin was surprised, but his face didn’t register the feeling. He appeared to be considering the offer. He turned serious
eyes on the brave, measuring him. The brave stared back at him haughtily. He held up his coupstick and waved it to show his
worth. Griffin looked back over his shoulder at Bonnie. Her eyes were a mute testimony of her anxiety. His left eyelid drooped
in a wink to reassure her, and his lips lifted slightly at the corners.