Cries from the Earth (49 page)

“In the name of God, please stop for my children!”

At the last possible moment Mrs. Benedict lunged out of the way, that horse passing so close her cheek was stung with the hot foam flying from its lathered jaws.

“Damn, woman!” a soldier shouted at her as he raced past, his face clayish with fear, cheeks so pale below those liver-colored bags of fatigue hanging beneath his eyes.

“Whoa-a-a!”

The instant she turned, Mrs. Benedict confronted the wide nostrils of the horse a middle-aged civilian
1
struggled to bring to a halt—mere inches from her forehead.

“What the hell?” growled a young soldier
2
as he skidded to a halt beside the volunteer and leaped from his horse. He grabbed her upper arm and roughly shoved her to the side of the trail as more horsemen shot past.

“You'll get yourself kill't—”

“Please, sir! Your horse for me and my daughters.”

Releasing his tight grip on her arm, the man turned to gaze up at the civilian still mounted, his skittish horse prancing sideways as the retreat washed by them.

“There's loose horses comin', Schorr,” the mounted volunteer grumbled as he peered back downtrail. “Catch one of 'em for the woman so we don't hafter ride double.”

“You heard 'im, ma'am,” the soldier said as he dragged his horse around and stuffed the reins into her hand.

In a crouch he leaped into the middle of the trail just when at least a half-dozen riderless horses were straining up the slope into the narrowing mouth of the canyon, following their four-legged kind in the mad retreat.

The moment the soldier dove and snagged the reins of one of those racing horses, he was yanked off his feet. But he dug in with his heels and managed to whip the animal's head around, forcing it to a halt.

“Lady! We ain't got all morning to get outta here!” he bawled at her as he dragged the fractious animal toward Isabella. The moment he halted, the soldier grabbed hold of the off-hand stirrup and held it steady for the woman.

“Here, hold her,” Isabella ordered, handing her youngest to the soldier.

Having to drop the stirrup so that he could maintain his hold on the reins in his left hand, the soldier accepted the tot into the crook of his right arm as Mrs. Benedict clambered into the saddle. As soon as she settled, the man turned and passed the youngest child up to the civilian, where that man settled the girl in front of him, tying the toddler against his chest with Isabella's shawl.

The instant the soldier leaped back into his saddle, leaving the older of her daughters alone on the ground, Emmy began to wail, holding her arms up for her mother.

“I can't leave her!” Isabella shrieked with terror that she would be forced away without her child.

“We ain't going 'thout her!” the soldier hollered above the noise of snorting horses, cursing men, and gunfire gradually drawing closer and closer.

She watched him lean off the left side of his horse and hold down his long arm.

“Grab me!” he ordered.

The moment Emmy put her little hand up, the soldier latched hold of it and with a mighty heave swung the youngster onto the horse's rump behind him.

“Snug up here, child!” he commanded as he pulled her against his back. “An' hold on for your life!”

Mrs. Benedict watched her oldest daughter lock her blood-streaked arms around the soldier's waist and stuff them into the man's coat pockets.

“Ma'am—you hold on tight yourself and let the horse run fast as he'll go!”

And with no more warning than that, she watched both men bolt away with her two children.

Slapping the reins against the horse's neck and kicking it with her scuffed, muddy boots, Isabella thrashed the lathered, weary beast into an uneven lope. But from its very first steps she sensed something wrong with the saddle. With every uneven lunge it took in crossing the broken ground, the army saddle beneath her began to shift more and more from side to side until the cinch eventually gave way completely and catapulted Isabella into the brush at the side of the trail while the noisy, mindless retreat swept on past her.

Scratched, bruised, and bleeding, she lay there in the willow, catching her breath while she tenderly brushed a fingertip across the new gash a branch had opened in her cheek. Isabella rolled onto her hands and knees, slowly getting to her feet. Shaking her head groggily, she shoved her way out of the brush that refused to let her clothing go. And from the middle of the old wagon trail she watched the last few soldiers goad their horses farther and farther away, accompanied by that horse with its loose saddle slung under its belly: swaying crazily, swaying—

Aware that hoofbeats were approaching, Isabella lumbered around, her shoulder crying out in pain from her fall. She gazed back down the trail, hoping she could find another soldier, praying she could get the man to halt so she could climb up behind his saddle and flee the valley with him. Find her daughters …

But there were no more soldiers to race past her. Over there on the slope more than a quarter of a mile away to the west, the last handful were racing toward the mouth of the canyon. Already too far away to help. Thank God the girls were on their way to safety.

With all the soldiers gone into the canyon, the only horsemen stabbing up the trail in her direction were those red-skinned bastards.

Isabella opened her mouth to scream … but no sound came out.

The only horses coming at her carried warriors. Shrieking, grimacing warriors who had spotted her standing there in the open, helpless as could be.

She felt her heart go cold, certain one of the devil's whelps would recognize her for the store man's woman.

*   *   *

By the time Wounded Head reached the top of White Bird Hill, he could see how the others were right on the heels of the frightened soldiers, driving them like those docile cattle the white man had transplanted here to the land of the
Nee-Me-Poo.

Proud of his new gun and cartridge belt, Wounded Head turned aside to join some others who were gathering up the loose soldier horses. As he leaned over to grab up the reins of one of the animals, Wounded Head heard a strange sound. Two others heard the noise too and came up to investigate.

It did not take long to find two wounded soldiers who had dragged themselves back into the brush. While Wounded Head stayed on his pony, the others stepped over to the groaning Shadows and bashed in their heads. The warriors stripped the dead men of their weapons and bullets, then started back for the village with Wounded Head and their horses.

They hadn't gone very far when some men farther down the slope called out Wounded Head's name, flagging their arms to get his attention.

“Look above you!” they cried.

He scanned the hillside; then his eyes spotted the figure lumbering up the trail that led out of the canyon. It wasn't a man, not hard to see that for the seafoam wave of a long dress making it extremely difficult for the woman's legs to flail step by clumsy step in her strenuous climb.

This confused Wounded Head: why had these white men brought along one of their women to the fight? The
Nee-Me-Poo
were far wiser than that! These Shadows were a simple-minded lot to needlessly put their women in danger just to have someone warm to sleep with on the war trail.

“Take my horses to camp,” he asked of the others.

Then he started for the woman. The farther he followed her up the slope, the quicker he closed the gap between them. Suddenly one of her feet slipped and she tumbled into a clump of low willow.

The woman was just clambering out of the brush and grass at the side of the trail when Wounded Head reached her. She must have heard him coming, because the woman whirled around—her muddy, red face went white, her eyes filling with terror. Her mouth flew wide open as if to scream, but he was surprised when no sound came out. Her jaws moved, and her tongue wagged, but no sound.

Only tears streamed down her dirty face, making tiny tracks like claw marks on her grimy cheeks.

“I will not harm you,” Wounded Head told her in his tongue.

She closed her mouth, staring at him dumbly, almost as if he had clubbed her on the side of her head.

Then he repeated that he would not hurt her and laid his new carbine across his thighs so that he could make signs with his hands—some signal or gesture that would tell her she did not have to fear him killing her.

Dragging a hand beneath her runny nose, the woman bobbed her head twice, as if she understood.

He held down his arm, offering his open hand. “Get up behind me.” And he gestured with a sweep of that arm, patting the rump of the pony behind him. “Get up now, woman.”

She reached out and grabbed his left forearm with both hands, then kicked her legs as he hoisted her onto the pony that shifted sideways in protest of the sudden additional weight.

Slowly turning the horse, Wounded Head started back down the trail with his prisoner. No telling how much she might be worth if the
Nee-Me-Poo
had to barter for the return of prisoners when making peace with the Shadows after this fighting. This frightened, blood-splattered, mud-coated white woman might be worth something after all. He was anxious to show her off to others. Not only had he earned himself a rifle and bullets, but he had earned himself a prisoner too!

“Wounded Head!”

He turned, saw the five women who were calling to him as his pony carried the two of them onto the creek bottom. They waved him over, so he reined the horse in their direction.

“What is this you have, Wounded Head?” an old woman sang out as he pulled back on the reins.

“See my prisoner! She is mine,” he boasted, chest swelling. “And look at my new rifle—”

“What are you going to do with her?” another woman interrupted.

He was very confused. The five women pushed close around his pony, appearing angry with him. He thought they should be proud of him, envious of his new treasure.

“I—I will keep her,” he sought to explain. “She will be mine as long as there is a war with the Shadows—”

“No, you can't keep her,” a third old woman snapped at him.

Then the first ancient one declared, “That is something the Shadows do. We do not take prisoners of our enemies. We do not own slaves like other tribes. You must turn her loose.”

Now he was really growing bewildered, “T-turn her—”

“Yes. Let her go!” grumbled another, much bigger and very round, balling her fists on her hips.

“She is mine to do with—”

“But she will only bring us trouble, Wounded Head,” the second woman argued more softly. “Get rid of her now. Let her go back to the soldiers so they will not be any angrier with us for keeping their woman.”

“Let her go?” he squeaked in dismay, wagging his head.

And he turned to peer over his shoulder at the woman, then gazed beyond her, across that slope leading up the canyon. For a moment he watched the last of the fleeing soldiers and those warriors in furious pursuit—the
Nee-Me-Poo
fighting men striving to make escape as hard as possible for the white men, striving to inflict even more loss on these soldiers come to attack their village.

“She will only bring us more trouble,” the first woman protested. “Let her go so we can leave with our village when we travel to the buffalo country.”

The big woman said, “That way the soldiers won't follow us looking to get their woman back.”

“All right,” he agreed reluctantly. With a sigh he turned slightly to shrug a gesture for the prisoner to get off.

But she did not understand at first. Only when the ancient one and the big woman stepped over to hold their arms up to her did the prisoner slide off the back of the pony. For a long moment the white woman just stood there as the women stepped back a bit, everyone staring intently at her—so much so that the white woman's eyes filled with fear again.

Wounded Head dismounted, landing right before her to hold out his hand so he could perform that gesture the Shadows put so much stock in. The white woman understood, took his hand, and they shook.

“Go,” he said quietly and shooed her away. “Go now; go fast.”

She turned and took some first, tentative steps. But she got only a few pony lengths before she stopped and looked back over her shoulder, as if afraid someone would shoot her in the back.

Instead, Wounded Head shooed her again, waving both hands. “Go!” he shouted loudly this time, hoping to scare her.

If this was what it took to save her life, to keep the soldiers from attacking again to get back their white woman … then he would scare her away, to make her run far and fast. If he could save his people from another soldier attack, then Wounded Head decided he would give his prisoner back her freedom.

Chapter 39

June 17, 1877

Captain David Perry hadn't seen such panic in a retreat since Gordon's Confederate raiders surprised the Union army's Eighth Corps in their blankets at Cedar Creek, back to October of '64.

Already Trimble's men were well up the canyon, scratching their way across the grassy, timbered slopes above him. Off to his right a ways was Parnell.

Good man,
Perry thought as he fought his horse to keep it from rearing and losing its footing on a steep stretch of hillside. Parnell had persevered on Perry's left as long as he could after most had deserted the captain. There at the last, the Irish lieutenant had refused to retreat—standing like a huge, fleshy oak, barking orders at his immigrant soldiers. But in the end Parnell was left with no more than a double handful after the rest broke and ran. After losing command control, Parnell had little choice but to settle for his few hardcases, all of them covering the rest of the retreat from horseback.

What of Theller, though? Why, with the way the lieutenant's command had disintegrated so quickly and fled for their lives, Perry was sure Theller's men had to be far enough ahead of Parnell that he simply couldn't spot them anywhere on the slopes above. More than likely Theller's detachment was already close to Camas Prairie and on their way to the settlements in headlong retreat.