Savage Heat (16 page)

Reminding him that civilized people got hungry at mealtime, she was handed the last of the roast beef and bread from his saddlebags, but he never slowed the big black’s steady pace. Famished, she choked down the food, spitefully devouring every last bite, hoping he would starve! If he minded, he didn’t let on. He continued to guide the big steed over a treacherous path, seemingly uncaring that there was no food left for him.

That had been hours ago. How many, she didn’t know, but by the weariness in her bones she would have judged that at least six hours had passed. Still they rode on. And with each passing hour, she hated the cool savage more. If Martay had ever doubted that Indians were totally different from the white man, she no longer did. Not only did Night Sun possess superhuman strength and could endure endless discomfort without complaint, he was completely immune to her insults.

And to her charms as well?

Martay was far too exhausted to flirt with the stone-faced Indian tonight, but perhaps soon, maybe tomorrow, she’d give it a try. If she could turn him into a fawning admirer, he would let down his guard and make it easy for her to slip away from him. Just steal the big black and ride alone back to Denver! Why hadn’t she tried it earlier? She was yet to meet the man who could resist her when she played the coquette. Surely even Indian males shared certain susceptibilities with their white counterparts.

“Will we ever stop?” she asked angrily, shifting as much as she could within the restraints of binding silk skirts and hard, ungiving arms.

“In a while,” he said, not looking at her.

“Hmmmp! ‘In a while’ with you means sunrise. I can’t go any farther without sleep.”

“I know.” He glanced at her at last, then away. “Go to sleep.”

“Here? Like this?” She glared at him. “I’m not one of your damned—” She caught herself before she said “squaws.” “Indians may be able to sleep atop a moving horse, I am not.”

“Then you’ll have to wait,” he said, unmoved.

“Damn you, damn you. I hate you, hate you, hate you!” she shouted, crossed her arms and reluctantly laid her head against his chest, knowing she would not get one wink of sleep until this heartless man stopped for the night. Looking up at his hard-planed handsome face, silvered by the moonlight, her anger evaporated and she involuntarily trembled. He must have noticed, because his arm tightened around her. She felt the hard muscles pressing against her shoulders, a silent reminder of all that dormant power and of her vulnerability.

The suggestion of latent force silenced her as words could not. It was dangerous for her to bait him; she would do it no more. She would stop complaining no matter how long they rode on. She would lie here quietly in his arms and rest as best she could. Certainly sleep was out of the question.

That was the last thought to run through Martay’s mind. Giving a tiny little shudder of exhaustion, her eyes closed and her head dropped forward. Sound asleep.

Night Sun knew the moment slumber overtook her. Her tensed body went limp and her breathing changed. Only then did his black eyes lower, and gently he shifted, so that her head fell back to be more comfortably cushioned against his arm and shoulder.

He stared at her.

Asleep, she looked the complete innocent with those snapping green eyes closed and the silky dark lashes shadowing pale cheeks. The contemptuous mouth, relaxed now, was soft and dewy, lips slightly parted over small white teeth. A gleaming lock of golden hair—silvered by the moonlight—had fallen across her right cheek, the feathery ends resting atop the swell of her bosom.

Night Sun slipped his little finger beneath the silky strand and gently pushed it back from her beautiful, sleeping face. But the curling ends still lay upon the luminous flesh exposed by her low-cut bodice. A vein pulsed on his forehead. With thumb and forefinger, he plucked the silky hair, held it for a moment, rubbing it tenderly, then placed it over her bare shoulder.

He felt a tightness in his chest, an unwanted emotion stirring in him. She was so sweet-looking, so helpless. Like a trusting child, safe in a loving parent’s care.

He forced his eyes from her and purposely hardened his heart. Teeth clenching, he made himself remember the reason she was here. Made himself recall another trusting child, safe in a loving parent’s care.

Black eyes glazing, Night Sun felt it all come flooding back. The sounds, the sights, the smells, of that fateful morning so long ago.

He was sleeping soundly in his warm tipi beside his grandfather, Walking Bear, on that frosty November morning in 1864. The rest of Black Kettle’s camp slept as well. The Cheyenne chieftain, believing the white chief, Scott Anthony, when he’d promised that the Cheyenne would be under the protection of Fort Lyon as long as they remained in their Sand Creek, Colorado, camp, was so confident of his people’s safety that there was no night watch.

Ten-year-old Night Sun was startled by the first crack of rifles and the neighing of horses. Still, he was not frightened. Not at first. In the heaviness of sleep, he thought it was only the beginning of the day-long wedding celebration he’d been looking forward to for weeks.

Night Sun, riding his favorite paint pony, had traveled far from his Paha Sapa home to Black Kettle’s Sand Creek winter camp in the Colorado Territory. There was to be a great celebration: the marriage of his Lakota aunt, Red Shawl, to the noble Cheyenne warrior, Kills His Enemies. They had all come down with Red Shawl—his beautiful mother, Pure Heart; his grandfather, Walking Bear; and his grandmother, Gentle Deer.

The Cheyennes were loyal friends of the Lakota, and Black Kettle was pleased that his fiercest warrior was to marry the daughter of the respected Lakota chief, Walking Bear. Black Kettle, welcoming them with much fanfare and hospitality, had every reason to be content that winter.

For the first time in years his people felt safe; the white man was treating them humanely. Black Kettle was pleased. The soldiers at Fort Lyon had invited him there, had listened to his concerns, had promised him his people would be under their protection; he need fear no soldiers.

Not an hour after the arrival of his welcomed Lakota guests, Black Kettle proudly brought out his treasures to show his old friend Walking Bear. A big smile slashing across his sun-wrinkled face, the Cheyenne chief thrust out his chest, pointing to medals the Great Father, Abraham Lincoln, had given him when he had visited Washington City. Impressed, Night Sun, eagerly reaching up to touch the gleaming silver medals, felt his grandfather’s firm hand on his shoulder. He turned, looked up at his grandfather’s stern face, and saw the slightest touch of envy in the old man’s eyes.

Night Sun backed away but couldn’t keep from whistling appreciatively when Black Kettle lovingly unfolded the United States flag that Colonel A. B. Greenwood, Commissioner of Indian Affairs, had presented to him. And Night Sun was awed when the Cheyenne chief solemnly declared that Colonel Greenwood had told him that “as long as that flag flies above you, no soldiers will ever fire upon you.”

Walking Bear shook his graying head. And in the Lakota tongue, which his friend, Black Kettle, understood, he said, “It is good. May your people, and mine, enjoy lasting peace and no longer fear the white soldiers.”

Black Kettle beamed.

Placing a square hand atop Walking Bear’s broad shoulder, he replied, “I take pride in assuring my Lakota friend that his beloved grandson”—he glanced down at Night Sun— “and all his people enjoy complete safety here in my winter camp.”

The two proud chiefs shook hands, and it was Walking Bear, smiling now, jealousy forgotten, who said, “Let the celebrating begin.”

And it had.

For ten days and nights there had been much laughter and gaiety. Night Sun had been catered to and spoiled by old friends, none caring, any more than the Lakota cared, that he had been fathered by a white man. They cherished him as they did all their children, and he was never called half-breed.

Here at the Cheyenne camp he was just the sturdy-bodied, rapidly-growing grandson of the fierce old Lakota warrior Walking Bear. And because he was the chieftain’s only grandson, adored by the old man, he was allowed to stay up late nights. And on more than one night there had been much merriment; some drinking and passing of the pipe and occasional gunfire as spirited braves rode their ponies among the tipis and fired at the twinkling stars in the black winter sky.

Night Sun snuggled more deeply down into the warmth of his buffalo robes. He had nothing to fear here in Black Kettle’s peaceful camp. The gunfire he heard was that of a handful of Cheyenne braves. Most of Black Kettle’s warriors were away hunting buffalo as they’d been told to do by the trusted white soldier, Anthony. Black Kettle would never have left the women and children unprotected if there was any danger.

“Grandson, wake up,” shouted Walking Bear, and Night Sun felt his arm would be jerked from its socket, so forcefully did his grandfather grab him.

“What is it, Grandfather?” The child blinked at the old man.

“An attack!” hollered Walking Bear as the blue-coated murderers swept through the village, the snow muffling their hoofbeats. “Go to the women. Hurry!” He shoved Night Sun from the back of the tipi, then snatched up his rifle and went out to meet the enemy.

Obeying his grandfather, Night Sun dashed around the bend in Sand Creek, stopping for nothing, while from down the creek mounted troopers were advancing at a rapid trot, guns raised. The camp was mass confusion. Sleepy, bewildered people were rushing out of their lodges, partially dressed. Warriors shouted and ran back inside for their weapons while women and children screamed and dogs barked and frightened horses neighed loudly.

His heart pounding in his bare chest, Night Sun waded across the bend of the icy creek, trying desperately to reach his mother. He saw, fluttering in the cold winds, Black Kettle’s American flag rising high above his lodge in the winter dawn and heard the chief calling to his people not to be afraid, that the soldiers would not hurt them.

Night Sun nodded, bobbing his head as he ran. It was all right. Everything was okay. All he had to do was get his mother and aunt and grandmother back to where the other women were gathering beneath Black Kettle’s flag. There was no danger. Black Kettle had been promised that as long as the United States flag flew above him, no soldier would fire on him.

Splashing up out of the frigid water near his mother’s tipi on the snow-covered banks, Night Sun saw White Antelope, an old Cheyenne chief who had seen seventy-five winters, walk confidently toward the approaching command. Speaking in perfect English, he said, “Stop! Stop!” and held up his hands. Then he stopped and folded his arms to show that he was not afraid.

The soldiers shot him down.

Arapahoe Chief Left Hand came rushing from his camp, hurrying his people toward Black Kettle’s flag. But he, like White Antelope, was unafraid, and seeing the troops, folded his arms, saying he would not fight the white man because he knew they were his friends.

They shot him where he stood.

Night Sun bit back a scream of horror and hurried on to find his mother. Calling her name loudly, he dashed into the tipi where she’d slept. But he was too late. His beautiful loving mother, a woman who had never spoken an unkind word against the white man who had fathered her son and left her, lay dead with a bullet through the heart that had been broken so many years before.

Falling to his knees beside her, Night Sun threw his arms around her and begged her to speak, though he knew she would not. Tears streaming down his cold cheeks, he murmured against her still-warm throat, “They’ll pay for this, Mother. I promise.”

He lifted his head, brought a trembling hand up to close her staring, sightless eyes, then leapt to his feet, shouting, “Grandmother, Grandmother.”

The camp was total mayhem.

Tipis were burning and terrified people were running and gunfire filled the air. Warriors were herding the women and children together to protect them, and Night Sun ran barefooted across the snowy ground toward them, hoping to find his grandmother and aunt.

The horrors he saw before he reached the gathering would stay with him forever.

A pretty girl, no older than fifteen years, came running out of a burning tipi, begging for mercy, her arms upraised toward the mounted troopers. A blue-coated devil pulled her up onto his horse and thundered away. Shouting for the soldier to halt, Night Sun ran after them, trying to save the frightened girl, but another mounted cavalryman overtook him, drew up even, and kicked him in the back with a spurred boot.

When Night Sun rose from the snow, the soldier and the terrified girl had disappeared.

Oblivious of the blood streaming down his naked back, Night Sun continued the search for his loved ones, dodging thundering horses and whizzing bullets and slashing sabers. In his flight, he saw a four-year-old boy, sent by the women, walk out into the melee carrying a white flag of surrender. Immediately the child was riddled with bullets. He saw women chased down and brutally raped. He saw bodies lying in the snow, all of them scalped. Others decapitated by striking sabers. There was the body of old White Antelope with his genitals cut off. And fleeing women and children painfully slashed with sabers, then left alive to suffer.

Night Sun stumbled over the body of a fallen warrior. Struggling to rise, he saw that it was his grandfather, Walking Bear. The old chief would walk no more. He was dead; his flowing gray hair gone, his broad, proud chest still, his lifeblood flowing down to stain the white snow crimson.

Night Sun wasted no time grieving for his dead grandfather. Walking Bear wouldn’t have wanted that. He was the man now. He would take the fallen chief’s place. He would be responsible for Gentle Deer and Red Shawl, if they were still alive. He shot to his feet and went to find them.

He found his aunt, Red Shawl, first. He heard her terrified screams; picked them out above all the other women’s screams, and flew toward the horrible sound. A soldier had dragged her behind one of the smoldering tipis and had cruelly raped her.