Elaine Barbieri (2 page)

A step outside the lodge alerted Miranda to Rattling Blanket’s return the moment before the old squaw entered.

Miranda waited. She had been delivered to the old woman’s lodge by her captor, where she had then been abandoned to contemplate her uncertain future. During the endless time that had followed, a steady parade of Indian squaws had come to gawk and glare at her as she had sat helpless on the floor of the lodge, with her hands still bound. Lurid stories of the fates of Indian captives had rolled across her mind in vivid detail, forcing a difficult admission. Her father had been right about the Cheyenne danger. Out of pure mulishness, she had chosen not to believe him and she had gotten only what she deserved. Her father, however, had
not
gotten what he deserved, and her regrets were many.

Unfortunately, so were her fears.

Determined to reveal neither her regrets nor her fears—and uncertain if the old squaw even spoke her language—Miranda addressed Rattling Blanket. In a voice strong with false bravado, she said, “I demand to be returned to Fort Walters. I’ll be missed by now, and
everyone in this camp will suffer if the soldiers have to come here to get me.”

Turning toward her, the old woman responded in hesitant English, “Such words are not wise. You will suffer at the vengeance they will stir.”

Relieved to be able to communicate with her, Miranda pressed, “I warn you, if the soldiers come for me—”

The old squaw replied, “I know what hardships the white horse soldiers bring. For that reason, Shadow Walker brought you to me.”

Shadow Walker!

Miranda’s heart leaped with fear. Stunned into silence, she realized for the first time that her captor was the notorious Shadow Walker who had so many times been the subject of discussion at the fort. His chilling war paint identified him on sight to every soldier on the frontier and his ferocity in battle was legendary. His exploits were so renowned that his scalp was wagered for in whispers by many of the men.

Determined not to reveal her inner trembling, Miranda spat, “I’m not afraid of him.”

Rattling Blanket studied her keenly, then said, “Shadow Walker is a great warrior.”

At Miranda’s contemptuous grunt, the old woman reprimanded, “You mock what you do not understand. It is the white man’s way.”

“The white man’s way is right!”

“The white man’s way serves only the white man.”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about! You—”

Miranda’s angry response ended in a gasp as Shadow Walker’s towering figure appeared unexpectedly in the doorway of the lodge. Her heart hammered in her throat as he entered and scowled down at her, the threat in his dark eyes deepened by the war paint he still wore.

Shadow Walker turned toward Rattling Blanket and addressed her in the Cheyenne tongue. At the squaw’s reply Shadow Walker looked back at Miranda, his anger apparent. His knife glinted in the meager light of the lodge as he withdrew it from his waist and stepped abruptly toward her. In a swift, snaking movement, he slashed the bonds on her wrists, jerked her to her feet, and thrust her out of the lodge in front of him.

Miranda’s stumbling step was halted by Shadow Walker’s heavy hand on her shoulder when they reached the privacy of a stand of trees. Refusing to reveal her fear despite the obvious wrath that vibrated through Shadow Walker’s powerful body, she glared back at him as he grated, “You are my captive, to do with as I please. I
pleased
to give you as a gift to serve Rattling Blanket, whose old legs so often fail her. Rattling Blanket denies the harsh words that I heard spoken by you as I approached the lodge—but I tell you now that her denials will not spare you if the harshness continues.”

Lowering his face toward hers, his war paint a grotesque mask as he glowered down at her with nearly palpable heat, Shadow Walker spat, “Take heed of what I say. I speak only once in warning.”

Turning her roughly back in the direction from which they had come, Shadow Walker again pushed Miranda ahead of him through the camp. Upon reaching Rattling Blanket’s lodge, he thrust her inside, then left without speaking another word.

Shadow Walker strode across the camp toward his lodge, filled with ire. The golden-haired mouse had looked up at him, her pale eyes bright with challenge even as he had felt her thin body trembling under his hand. His knowledge of the white man’s language—learned by some in his tribe from a white hunter who had resided with his people during his youth—had served him well countless times, but never better than when he had overheard the girl’s harsh response to Rattling Blanket. The old squaw was his mother’s sister, who had cared for him after his mother’s death when he was still a boy. He would not tolerate the girl’s disrespect for that gentle woman, and his warning was sincere. If the girl was as clever as the white man claimed his people to be, she would heed his warning and beware.

Shadow Walker raised a hand to his throbbing cheek. The girl had acted quickly and spontaneously in her
defense at the time of her capture, taking him by surprise. Despite her slight stature, she had almost unseated him from his horse. In the time since, she had defied him at every turn, despite her fear.

Shadow Walker paused at that thought. Were the girl male, and Cheyenne, her display might show the promise of a brave warrior.

Shadow Walker thrust aside the flap of his lodge and entered, then finished that thought. But the girl was neither male nor Cheyenne. She was his captive, and he would not warn her again.

The Cheyenne camp had gone quiet and still. The sound of Rattling Blanket’s steady breathing filled the darkened lodge. Only the echoes of night broke the prevailing silence as Miranda lay awake on the sleeping bench across from the slumbering squaw.

Struggling for comfort despite the leather thong binding her wrists, which seemed to tighten with every movement, Miranda stared at the small circle of night sky visible through the smoke outlet above her. She remembered Rattling Blanket’s frown when the squaw named Walking Bird entered and bound her wrists with practiced ease. She noted that Rattling Blanket’s protests halted abruptly at Walking Bird’s mention of Shadow Walker’s name.

In the time since, Miranda’s fury at again being bound
had been tempered by the realization that Shadow Walker suspected she would attempt escape—that he believed she had not been cowed by his threat. He was right. She wouldn’t wait docilely for her father to rescue her, but she needed time to become accustomed to the daily routine of the camp. In a few days, when the routine was established clearly in her mind, she would have no trouble eluding watchful eyes. Then, with a fleet Indian pony underneath her, escape would be no problem at all.

Miranda’s temporary complacence disappeared abruptly when she heard again the echo of Shadow Walker’s humiliating words.

I pleased to give you as a gift to serve Rattling Blanket.

A
gift
… to
serve.

Miranda’s face flushed with heat. Shadow Walker had treated her as if she were less than human—chattel that could be given and returned if not found satisfactory. But she wasn’t chattel! Nor was she, or would she
ever
be, a servant! She was Miranda Thurston, daughter of Major Charles Thurston of the—

Miranda halted that thought. Yes, she was Miranda Thurston, a US Cavalry major’s daughter, but she knew instinctively that she needed to protect that secret well. Animosity against her in the camp was strong. She had seen it in the eyes and attitude of all who looked at her. To reveal that she was the daughter of a prominent cavalry
officer who had led attacks against the Cheyenne would only deepen the hatred and cause the camp to be guarded more closely.

Miranda smiled grimly. Yes, Cheyenne ignorance of her identity would work in her favor. She would remain in the camp as long as needed to plan her escape—
but
she would remain under her own terms.

Miranda closed her eyes at last. She slipped off to sleep, resolved. She would show no fear, and she would serve no one but herself.

That was her vow.

CHAPTER THREE

“I’m sorry, sir. I have nothing new to report.”

Major Charles Thurston looked up at the tall, slight officer who had just entered his office for his daily report. In truth, he had never been fond of Lieutenant Peter Hill. The man, a career soldier, had sometimes impressed him as fanatical in attitude, but he was a good officer who took his duty seriously, and he was presently grateful to have that quality in one of his officers.

Nevertheless, the major pressed, “You’ve followed the plan precisely by scouring the countryside in overlapping, widening circles so that my daughter’s trail could not be missed.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And you’ve discovered nothing, not a trace of her.”

“That’s right, sir.”

Major Thurston shook his head, at a loss for words.

“Sir … if I may …”

The major nodded his permission to speak.

“If Miss Thurston has been captured by the Cheyenne—”

Major Thurston bit back his impatience. He had slept
little since Miranda’s disappearance a week earlier because of the nightmares that haunted him day and night. Willful little witch that his daughter was, he loved her more than life. She was all he held dear—all he had left of the wife he had worshipped, and who had died before their life together had truly begun. Miranda had given him purpose when he had believed he would be unable to survive. Yet he had failed Miranda by allowing her youthful exuberance to put her life at risk. In doing so he had also broken a sacred promise made to the dying mother of his child.

Those thoughts darkening his mood, Major Thurston interrupted the lieutenant sharply, saying, “My daughter’s hat—distinctive because of its frivolous headband—was found lying on the prairie. Beside her horse’s tracks were the tracks of unshod horses, all of which disappeared mysteriously when we attempted to follow them. In the time since, my daughter can be found nowhere. It stands to reason that if by some stretch of the imagination she had merely been injured in a fall from her horse or by an animal attack, we would’ve found some signs. Her horse would’ve returned to the fort or would’ve been found dead or wandering. So, since my daughter never reached the Calhoun ranch, where I can only suppose she was heading when she left the fort, since both she and her horse have disappeared, and since Cheyenne raiding parties were seen in the area during the time of her disappearance—I think
we can safely assume that she has been taken hostage.”

Lieutenant Hill’s narrow face drew into tight lines. “We need to find the camp where she’s being held, sir.”

“An excellent plan—one which I thought we had already put into effect.”

“Our patrols are searching for some sign of Miss Thurston’s trail, but they’re not looking for a specific camp where she’s being held.”

“Meaning?”

“We need to take other steps in order to ascertain which Cheyenne camp Miss Thurston was taken to. If I may be blunt, there’s not an Indian in these hills who doesn’t know where your daughter is right now, sir. We need to make the right contact to find out which band has her.”

“I’ve taken
all
the right steps. I’ve sent a report to Washington stating that I believe my daughter has been taken hostage by the Cheyenne. I’ve reported her disappearance and my suspicions to all the forts along the frontier and asked them to increase their patrols and activate their scouts in that behalf. I’ve contacted all Indian agents and asked them to use their influence to find out where she is. I’ve sent details to every ranch in the area and asked them to report anything that looks at all suspicious to them. So far, no positive response has been received.”

“That isn’t what I meant.”

“What are you saying?”

“The Indians are savages, sir. They won’t think twice
about betraying each other if they’re offered the right incentive.”

“By the right incentive, you mean …?”

“Tell the Indian agents to pass along the word that the Great White Father in Washington wants Miss Thurston back. Tell them to stress that Washington will reward whatever tribe can guarantee her safe return by removing all settlers from the territory north of Fort Lyon to the Black Hills, and by granting their tribe sole priority over the hunting grounds there.”

“That’s crazy! That territory encompasses an important part of the western frontier.”

“I know.”

“Washington would never agree to it.”

“The Indians don’t know that, sir.”

“Do you expect me to lie to them?”

“Sir, they have no moral code. They’ve slaughtered and scalped and committed depredations that no civilized man would claim, and they’ve broken every peace treaty we’ve ever made with them.”

Stunned by the young officer’s venom and his suggestion, the major shook his head. “No, I won’t do that. I won’t put my daughter at risk with a lie.”

“Sir … the greatest risk you can take would be to allow Miss Thurston to remain in the hands of those barbarians while you wait for Washington to take action. There’s no telling what they’ve already done to
her. For all we know, they’ve already—”