Dakota Dream (4 page)

Redfoot's deep laughter was prompted as much by relief as by amusement. He gathered the other articles of clothing as a sense of urgency overcame his desire, and then he approached the woman. She was weaving again. He had wasted too much time trying to reason with her. They must leave now if she was to arrive at the fort before daylight. Redfoot gathered her in his arms and tossed her over his shoulder like a sack of grain. Then he pulled a pair of knee-high moccasins onto her feet and adjusted a buffalo robe across her shoulders.

When she groaned as if to protest, Redfoot slapped her bottom in warning and made his way through the opening in the tipi. The bite of the frigid morning air nipped at his face, cooling his heated body, and he stopped long enough to inhale its crispness. Then he continued on his way, amused by the feeble pounding of her fists against his back. When he reached a string of horses, he loosened his grip and leaned forward. Dominique slid off his shoulder and landed in a thin patch of snow at his feet, a tangle of arms and legs.

Dominique's hands sank into the slush, and the cold air revived her enough to realize she was in danger. She swallowed hard and said, "What are you going to do with me? Who are you?"

Redfoot ignored her as he separated his horse from the rest of the mounts and tied a rope around its muzzle. When he grabbed a fistful of the stallion's mane and launched himself onto the animal's back, the woman's demands grew louder.

"Well?" she
said,
her tongue thick and unwieldy. Dominique glared up at the Indian's shadowy figure, but her eyes crossed as she strained to make out his features. She shook her head,
then
warned, "Either you tell me what's going on here, or I shall have to—"

With a sigh, Redfoot reached down and gripped the back of the buckskin dress. Leaning farther away from the animal's neck, he gave a mighty tug,
then
draped her flailing body across the horse's withers as if she were his kill for the day.

When he gave the rope hackamore a sharp tug, the stallion wheeled around to the right, then reared before it took off at a dead gallop. As he'd hoped, the combination of surprise and speed stilled the fiery woman's tongue and ended her struggles as she clung to the horse with a death grip.

Knowing sunrise was
near,
Redfoot urged the horse on, never slowing the speed as they crashed through a thick stand of trees, and not even as he neared their final destination. When the clearing between the trees and Fort Lincoln was finally in sight half an hour later, Redfoot reined the stallion to an abrupt halt and slid off the animal's rump in the same movement.

Too breathless and disoriented to move or speak, Dominique inclined her head and followed the Sioux's silhouette with wide round eyes. He crept to the edge of the meadow and surveyed the countryside, then returned to the heaving animal and reached for his sputtering gift.

"Ow," she complained as he dragged her off the horse's back. "You hurt me. I think my ribs are broken."

"Be still," he muttered under his breath. "I will break a lot more than your ribs if you don't quiet yourself, and now."

Dominique opened her mouth to speak, but instinct and a growing sense of danger snapped it shut as her mind finally began to clear.

"That," he whispered, "is the first clever thing you have done. If I were as clever, I would have left you in the river to sink or swim and never thought of you again."

Dominique stepped toward him, hoping to get a glimpse of the mysterious savage, but he backed deeper into the shadows. She stamped an unsteady foot and said, "Why did you save me, then? Why
didn't
you just leave me in the river?"

"Because, crazy woman"—he grinned, unsure of the answer himself—"because you have a spirit in you that is not ready to die, because I do not wish to be the cause of that spirit leaving your body."

Taken aback, Dominique felt off-balance, flattered, yet manipulated somehow. She averted her gaze,
then
noticed the clearing in the pale gray dawn. "Where are we? What are you going to do with me now?"

"There is a fort with many soldiers not far from here. I am sure your flapping tongue will make them return you to Bismarck."

Struggling to bring her eyes into focus, she peered out through the trees. "Fort Lincoln?"

"Yes, crazy one.
Fort Abraham Lincoln.
Do you think you can hold your tongue long enough for me to take you to its gates?"

"I—" Dominique looked to the Sioux, then back to the clearing. "I had no idea we were so close to the fort. We were just outside of town when I fell out of the boat."

Eager to convince her he and the Hunkpapa had been nowhere near Bismarck, he said, "You rode with the waters of the river for many miles. You are lucky your soul did not soar to the heavens during that long ride."

Watching as she drunkenly pondered this possibility, anxious to be free of his burden while lingering shadows of night still hid his features—and his purpose—he said, "We must go now."

But Dominique snapped to attention and sidestepped him. "I think you've done more than enough," she said, suddenly delighted to know she was so close to her destination. "I can make my way across a little old field without your help. I suppose I ought to thank you for pulling me out of the river. Thank you for your gallantry, Mr. ah, Mr.—"

"Redfoot," he
supplied,
his expression grim. "You cannot go to the fort alone. In this dress, a soldier will think you are a squaw and perhaps he will shoot you."

"Don't be ridiculous," she scolded, her mind clawing its way through the final mists to sanity. She flipped her long golden-red curls down across her shoulders and laughed.
"With this hair?
Who's going to think I'm an Indian?"

Relief dissolving any fears Dominique still harbored about the savage, she pressed her fingertips against one of the long thick braids he wore pulled forward and draped across his chest. "Thank you for saving my life, Mr. Redfoot. I'll be going now."

"You are welcome, crazy one." He sighed. Then he drew back his fist and drove it into her chin.

Maybe he'd hit her too hard. Redfoot grew alarmed as the first slivers of sunlight snaked across the thin blanket of snow covering the meadow, and still the woman remained curled against the base of a leafless sapling. He'd darted across the clearing with her draped over his shoulder the second the sentry disappeared around the corner of the fort. After dropping her as close to the gates as he dared get, he returned to the cover of the trees. She'd had plenty of time to awaken.

Redfoot measured his chances—against the light of dawn, against the soldiers if he should return to check on the woman and be discovered. She wasn't worth the risk, he reminded himself. And yet something deep inside wouldn't let him just leave her there.

The crazy woman stirred,
then
sat up, relieving him of the dilemma. Still unable to leave her alone and vulnerable, he waited until the soldier reappeared and discovered the dazed woman stumbling about in the snow.

Redfoot watched a moment, his clear sapphire-blue eyes twinkling with mirth, as the Long Knife reached out to steady the woman. Then he laughed as she jerked her arm from the soldier's grasp and began flapping her tongue at him.

"Take this gift to your chief, the Long Hair," he whispered into the wind. "May she visit her craziness on
him.
May she also give him something to think of besides ways to rob the Lakota of what is
theirs.
"

Then he wove his way through the trees to his horse and sped back to the
Hunkpapa's
temporary home. After caring for the stallion, Redfoot strode into a camp already bustling with early morning activities.

"Ah, so you return," called an old squaw as she glanced up from the buffalo skin she kneaded with dry cracked hands. "The Father looks for you in the warriors' lodge."

With a nod of thanks, he continued on toward the lodge in the center of the camp. As he passed by a circle of women heating stones with which to cook the morning meal, Spotted Feather fell in step with him.

She carried a parfleche filled with buffalo chips under one arm and a pouch swollen with water under the other. Small fires of jealousy lit her slanted obsidian eyes as she looked up at him and said, "What called you to the hills so early this morning?"

"A mission that is no business of yours, woman."
Although he instantly regretted snapping at her, Redfoot, a true Lakota in his heart, didn't apologize. Instead, he relieved her of her burden. "Go and fetch me something to eat. I have the hunger of a grizzly." Then he turned, carrying the supplies he had taken from Spotted Feather, and stepped into the warriors' lodge.

"Ah, Jacob Redfoot."
Chief Gall regarded his adopted son and smiled. "We have been speaking of you—and of your golden-haired treasure. I see she leaves marks of her great passion for you on your flesh."

"Hah." Redfoot rubbed at the scratches on his neck, then opened the buffalo-hide container and removed several dried chips. He tossed them into the fire as he eased into position at the side of the man everyone called Father. "This treasure was a curse, Father. I have returned her to her people at the fort."

"You have shown yourself to the Long Knives?" Sitting Bull, a shaman revered by all people of the Lakota nation, dropped the pipe he was carving and narrowed his close-set eyes. "You have risked our mission?"

"I was not seen by the woman or the Long Knives," Redfoot assured them all. "My identity is safe. I am known to no one but the Lakota."

The shaman's broad features sagged into a scowl, but he picked up his pipe and resumed carving.

The doubts of another warrior, one of the chief's natural sons, were not so easily assuaged. "So says he, Father. Does not the wolf raised by sheep turn on them when he is grown? Does he not gorge on the bones of those who sought only to protect him?"

"Silence."
Gall glanced around the room, daring any to side with the jealous son of his loins. He knew there would be doubts about this plan. He understood the temptations he would be placing at his white son's feet, yet instinct told him to continue on the course he'd set for Redfoot so many winters past. When his hunting party first found the boy, orphaned and alone, Gall had sensed that Jacob would fit well with the Hunkpapa, knew through his uncanny ability to glimpse the future that someday the loyalty of the white youngster would be of great benefit to the entire Lakota nation.

Now the time had come; now it was Jacob's turn to give back to the Lakota what they had offered to him—his very life. Gall turned to his son—to the tribe's hope for the future—and said, "What if this woman should recognize you when you become a soldier at the fort?"

"I am a shadow in the dawn to her."

"Even shadows have their identity, my son. Can you not tell the silhouette of a deer from that of a horse, a soldier from a warrior?"

Jacob frowned, suddenly doubting his judgment. "The crazy woman is from Bismarck." Then he thought back to the scene in the meadow when the soldier offered assistance to the woman. He laughed and added, "The Long Knives will take her back to her home before I go to the fort. Her tongue is a torment, even to them."

Redfoot regarded his father as the older man considered the possibilities, and his heart swelled with pride. Clad in his ceremonial dress for this, the final council before their plans were set in motion, Gall was a stunning figure to behold. His six-foot frame was draped in a shiny buffalo robe that reached the ground when he stood, and his head was adorned with a long headdress of eagle feathers that skimmed along the hem of his robe. The crown of this headpiece was finished with strips of prime mink, and the legs and tail of the animal hung down on either side of his proud, kind face.

Gall's features—softer, less angular than those of the others at the council—relaxed as he shrugged. "Then we shall hope it is so, and the woman can be forgotten. Now you must prepare to join the soldier we have borrowed from his people."