Winter's Touch (6 page)

A low murmur rose, then quickly fell.

“The Bluecoats killed them.”

A woman somewhere near the back of the gathered crowd cried out in grief.

“Their women cry,” Little Raven said gravely. “They cut their hair, score their flesh.”

Another murmur swept through the gathering.

“Yesterday some of our men rode out to avenge these deaths.”

Crooked Oak raised a fist in the air and punched the night.

Little Raven turned his somber gaze on Crooked Oak. “Tell us what happened.”

Crooked Oak felt his chest swell. To be asked to speak was a great honor and proved his importance to the band. “We rode for hours,” he said, his voice deep and strong. “There were no white men along the track they usually follow. Late in the afternoon we heard the noise of an approaching wagon. We hid behind some rocks and waited. When the wagon appeared, we attacked.”

“Yet you did not kill them,” Little Raven said.

Crooked Oak met Red Beard’s gaze squarely. “No, we did not. Red Beard, who had been traveling with them, said the man was his friend. Out of honor for his position in our band, I stayed my hand. I could have taken the white man’s scalp. I had my knife at his head. But I did not.”

When Crooked Oak did not continue, Little Raven asked, “Why have you brought the white man here?”

Innes couldn’t help the way his chest swelled with emotion. To Little Raven, there was only one white man in the camp, and that was the captive. To Our People, Innes was not white. He was Red Beard. Husband of Smiling Woman. Father of Winter Fawn and Hunter.

Little Raven’s continued acceptance of him, when he only visited once a year now instead of living with them, humbled him and gladdened his heart. With a few notable exceptions, he thought with a glare at Crooked Oak, these were good people. He was proud to be considered one of them.

He waited now, knowing that to speak out of turn would make him appear rude and contemptuous of custom. He saw plainly that Crooked Oak did not know how to answer Little Raven’s question.

In truth, Innes was correct. Crooked Oak, even after several hours since the incident, was not certain what to say. He decided to tell as much of the truth as he could bear. If he strayed too far, Red Beard would surely protest, and Crooked Oak wasn’t sure that any but Two Feathers would back him up.

“I did not wish to,” he said straightly. “I do not care that he is a friend of Red Beard’s. He is an enemy. His kind have spilled the blood of Our People. He has brought his children here to this land.” He nodded with his chin toward the two young white girls with Winter Fawn.

“He will claim the land as his own, the way white men do. He we tear it up, drive off or kill all the game, poison the water. He is an enemy. He should die. I am a warrior. I kill our enemies. I bring him here only out of respect for Red Beard, because he did not wish me to kill the man. I bring him here so that others can make Red Beard see that the killing is needful.”

Calmly, deliberately, Little Raven turned to Innes with an inquiring look.

Innes wished again, desperately, for one of the bottles tucked into the supplies he’d carried in on his pack mule. He thought for a moment that it might be to his and Carson’s advantage to pass a few of those bottles around. Get all the warriors drunk, then sneak Carson away when they all passed out.

But it was just as likely that after a few drinks Crooked Oak would take it into his head that he should just kill Carson and be done with it. No one other than Innes would really care one way or the other.

So Innes discarded the idea and fought the burning need in his belly. Slowly he looked around the circle of dark, serious faces, not lingering on any one, until his gaze met Little Raven’s.

“I cannot say what was in Crooked Oak’s heart and mind when I stopped him from killing the son of the dearest friend a man has ever had.” A lie, Innes thought, but a necessary one. He’d known exactly what Crooked Oak had been thinking. “I only know that, as the warriors did not realize that I was traveling with the wagon, neither did I realize who was attacking us until I aimed my rifle at the warrior who was about to scalp my friend. Had he not looked up and recognized me and halted, I would have killed him before I even knew it was Crooked Oak. I was defending my friend. There is not a man here who would not have done the same.”

A murmur of agreement swelled, then faded.

“I am shamed,” Innes continued in Arapaho. “My honor has been stained. I will not say this was deliberate, but it has happened. I swore to my friend that he had nothing to fear from Our People. That if he traveled with me, he would be safe, for I am one of you. Have been one of you for many, many seasons. He trusted me. He believed me. And now he comes to this. He must be set free.”

This time the murmur was of protest, and came from only a handful of warriors.

“I would speak,” said Bent Old Man. “If we let the white man go, will he not tell the Bluecoats what has happened and bring them down on us to kill our women and children?”

People shifted where they sat. Mothers pulled their children closer to them. The murmurs were of anger and fear.

“No,” Innes said. “That he would not do. He just spent four years fighting this same Bluecoat Army that plagues Our People. He has been their enemy, the same as we have. They killed his father—my friend. He would not go to them.”

“He fought against his own kind?” Little Raven asked.

Innes shook his head. “Not like you mean. He was of the Gray army and fought against the Blue. Just as Our People fight the Utes.”

That comparison they understood. Many faces filled with consideration and turned to study the captive more closely.

But some were not convinced. “He is still a white man,” Crooked Oak stated. “They are not to be trusted.”

“I am a white man,” Innes reminded him. “Am I not to be trusted either? Would you kill me because my skin is not as dark as yours?”

The struggle on Crooked Oak’s face was plain. His mind cried
Yes! I would like to kill you!

Innes could not fathom from where such hatred sprang. He couldn’t recall anything he’d ever done to Crooked Oak—to anyone among Our People—to cause such hatred.

But Crooked Oak won his battle with self-control. “You are not white,” he said to Innes “Not in your heart. In your heart you are one of us.”

Innes was forced, for the sake of politeness, to nod in acknowledgment of the high compliment.

“Are you willing,” Little Raven asked Crooked Oak, “to set your captive free?”

Crooked Oak squared his shoulders. “I am not. White blood must be spilled to avenge the deaths.”

“You have spilled his blood,” Innes pointed out. “Your bullet struck the back of his head and nearly killed him.”

“Yet he still lives,” Crooked Oak complained.

“Perhaps,” Innes said, “because he is a strong man, a worthy man. Perhaps it is meant that he live.”

“Perhaps it is meant that he die,” Crooked Oak countered. “Perhaps he is meant to live long enough to give him to the women who lost their men four suns ago.”

“If they don’t want him,” came an old, wavering, voice from the back of the crowd, “I will take him.”

Heads turned, mouths flew open. The one who had spoken so boldly out of turn was Old Widow Woman. She had seen many more winters than anyone among Our People. She had outlived three husbands and now lived with her youngest son, who was himself no longer young. The gleam in her eye and the grin on her thin, old lips as she stared approvingly at the captive bound to the tree elicited a burst of laughter from the crowd. It was well known that Old Widow Woman would much prefer a man of her own than to live the rest of her days on the charity of her son.

Old Widow Woman’s daughter, Sits By Fire, was also widowed and lived with her brother, the same brother who provided for Old Widow Woman. “If you get him, my mother, I hope you remember to share with your daughter.”

As unseemly as her words were, the crowd could not help but laugh. Sits By Fire was herself so old that she had no teeth left with which to chew her meat.

The laughter eased the tension that had been building, but soon talk turned again to what to do with the captive. Some sided with Crooked Oak, believing that all whites should be killed—except, of course, for Red Beard, whom they did not consider white.

And praise be to the Holy Faither for that bit o’ reasoning
, Innes thought fervently.

Around and around the discussion went, along with the pipe. Deep into the night Innes thought that sentiment was swaying slightly in favor of releasing Carson. Despite the shaking in his hands and the twisting need in his gut for a drink—just a small one, that was all he needed—he was elated.

Then Crooked Oak rose to his feet. “I would ask that we consider again tomorrow what to do. I would think on this matter overnight. I would pray on it.”

Aye, an’ you’ll be lookin’ for a way to slit the lad’s throat afore mornin’,
Innes thought sourly. “What is there to consider? What would you do?” he asked Crooked Oak. “Kill him where he sits, helpless and tied to the tree? Where is the honor in such a thing?”

“The honor is in the death of an enemy,” Crooked Oak replied hotly. “You say you have been shamed by what has happened. What of my shame? I vowed to avenge the deaths of our friends. Instead of acting honorably, we sit around the fire and speak of honor. Like old men who are too feeble to do anything else.”

“There is no need to insult your elders,” Little Raven said sharply.

Realizing he had gone too far, Crooked Oak unclenched his fists. “I meant no disrespect. I meant only that I am a warrior of the Dog Lodge. I am supposed to kill our enemies, not talk about it.”

“You are also supposed to protect Our People,” Innes countered. “Yet you attacked whites only a few hours from this camp. What if the Army finds the abandoned wagon and follows your trail here?”

Another murmur rose from the crowd. This time it was mixed. The dog soldiers would welcome such a thing, for their blood was hot and they were tired of this peace Little Raven kept urging on them. But the women murmured in fear, for they had not forgotten the massacre of so many women, children, and old people of the Cheyenne and some Arapaho at Sand Creek.

A woman called Basket Maker jumped to her feet, panic in her eyes. “Kill him! Kill the captive quickly, I say. Hide his body and let us leave this place now, before the sun comes up. Let us be long gone from here before they come. They will slaughter us in our sleep. Our children and old people will be helpless against them. We will die! We will all die!”

The knot in Innes’s belly tightened, tore a hole that could only be filled by whiskey. He was losing them. Bloody damn and double damn.

“They will not come riding down on us in the middle of the night,” Little Raven said sharply. “And we are not defenseless as they were at Sand Creek. Do you think so poorly of our warriors? We will not panic and flee like cowards in the night.”

“Like women, you mean,” Crooked Oak said with disgust.

The meeting might have gone on all night, but a strong wind came up suddenly and played havoc with the big fire around which everyone sat. Sparks and hot ashes whirled upward in the gusts and were carried through the camp, threatening to set everything on fire. It was agreed that they would put out the fire and resume the discussion in the morning.

“For tonight, the captive will be neither harmed nor set free.” Little Raven looked at Crooked Oak, then at Innes. “I will have your word on that, both of you. All of you.”

Innes gave his word because there was nothing else he could do. So, too, did Crooked Oak, Two Feathers, and the others.

Hours later the wind had died and Winter Fawn lay awake in her blankets. For once her grandfather’s deep, rumbling snore from across the softly glowing embers left in the fire pit failed to comfort her; her grandmother’s lighter whistle, accompanied by the sound of lips flapping, failed to amuse. Her troubled thoughts and emotions left no room for comfort or amusement.

First in her heart was the excitement and pleasure over her father’s return. Oh, the thrill and joy of seeing him again! The agony of hoping that this time he might stay, this time he might show some small sign of approval, of affection, as he had when she’d been a child. Before the rabbit.

She knew she was setting herself up for another ache in her heart by hoping, but she could not stop herself. Knew, too, that she was too old to be clinging to her father. Grandmother was right; it was time she took a husband and had children of her own. But the mere thought of being given to Crooked Oak made her skin crawl.

He had grabbed her once last fall, in the woods along the creek. She’d never told anyone, too afraid that if her uncle and grandfather knew that Crooked Oak had put his mouth on hers, had put his hands on her breasts, they would force him to take her as wife. So she had kept silent, and kept out of his way as best she could. So far it had worked to keep out of his grasp, but not, apparently, out of his thoughts, for he had spoken to her uncle recently about taking her to wife.

She knew that if she was forced to mate with him she would become one of those sad-eyed women whose husbands beat them, because she would not be able to tolerate his repulsive touch. She would not, in all likelihood, be able to stop herself from trying to push him away. For that he would beat her. Not being a docile person, she would fight back. Not being very large, she would be beaten that much more severely.

No, she could not marry Crooked Oak. Now that her father was here, she must talk to him, must convince him to put a stop to any plans in that direction.

But her father’s mind just now was occupied with saving the life of his friend, the captive.

Winter Fawn looked to the blanket beside hers. In the dim glow of the dying embers she could just make out the faces of the two young girls, curled into each other and clinging tightly in their sleep. Tears had left clean marks down their dusty faces. Winter Fawn could not begin to imagine their terror.

Or their pain, she thought, noticing again the raw scrape and dark bruise on the forehead of the older girl, the one her father had called Bess.