Savage Winter (15 page)

Several moments passed before the leader, Stalking Wolf, spoke again. “We will split up—Big Hand and I will take care of the old man and gather up the horses.”

He turned to the other two and spoke to the youngest,
who was his brother. This was their first raid, and he wanted to appear brave since the others seemed to look to him for guidance. He remembered that his father, who was the chief of the Cree, had charged him with the safety of his younger brother, and he didn’t want him to come to any harm.

“Long Horse, you and my brother will take the women.”

Farley awoke when someone clamped his hand over his mouth. He tried to struggle free, but was grabbed about the waist by a second Indian. There was bright moonlight, and the old man could see his two assailants clearly. He couldn’t tell which tribe they were from, but he knew they hadn’t come in friendship. His thoughts went to the three women who depended on him for protection, and he struggled all the harder, but still couldn’t break free.

“Stop struggling, crazy one,” the young brave ordered harshly. Farley had no time to answer because the Indian brought the hilt of his knife down against the back of his skull, and Farley slumped forward into unconsciousness. He never knew when one of the Indians dragged him over to a cottonwood tree, tied him up, and then stuffed a gag in his mouth.

Joanna scrambled quickly to her feet when the tipi flap was thrown aside. She stared in bewilderment at the two strange warriors who entered.

“Who are you? What do you want?” she asked through trembling lips, noticing that they were just young boys. She could tell by their dress that they were not of the Blackfoot tribe.

One of the warriors grabbed her by the wrist, while the other made a dive for Morning Song. Joanna struggled with all her might and almost got away.

“Take your hands off me!” she ordered, kicking out at her assailant.

At that moment, She Who Heals raised up and saw what was happening. Neither of the young warriors noticed when the old woman reached out a trembling hand and picked up
the torch. With what little strength she had left, she threw it at the Indian who held Joanna.

As the flaming torch hit its target, the Indian’s hair caught fire, and he released his hold on Joanna, screaming in pain and terror.

Seeing what the old woman had done to his friend, the second warrior released Morning Song, picked up a spear, and threw it at She Who Heals. Joanna screamed as the spear entered the old medicine woman’s heart. Crying tears of anger and grief, Joanna saw the old woman’s body twitch, and her head fell sideways in death.

Everything seemed to happen at once. Joanna quickly removed the spear from She Who Heals’s body and advanced on the warrior who had just killed her dear friend. The other warrior had fallen to the floor with his whole body engulfed in flames.

With no hesitation or regret, Joanna drove the spear into the warrior who now had his hands about Morning Song’s throat, trying to choke the life out of her.

Joanna knew there might be more of them, so she grabbed Morning Song by the arm and dragged her out of the tipi. There was no time to grieve for She Who Heals, since she was beyond help…the grief would come later. Right now, she must think about her own and Morning Song’s safety.

When they were outside, Joanna saw that Farley’s bedroll was empty. “Come, Morning Song, we must hurry!” she cried, pushing the young girl ahead of her.

When they reached the horses, Joanna breathed a sigh of relief. She had half-feared that their horses might have been stolen, but she was relieved to find they were still tethered where Farley had left them. The two girls quickly removed the leather ropes from their horses’ ankles, fearing, at any moment they would be set upon by other braves.

Morning Song jumped on the back of her horse, and Joanna was about to mount Fosset when she saw an Indian drag Morning Song to the ground. She raced forward to help Windhawk’s sister; then she herself was caught from behind.

Fosset reared up on his hind legs and then broke into a run. Joanna was struggling, but the Indian who held her was stronger than the other two had been. With very little trouble, he tied Joanna’s hands and feet with rawhide ropes and threw her across Farley’s horse, while the other Indian did the same to Morning Song.

As they rode off into the night, Joanna saw that She Who Heals’s tipi was engulfed in flames. She didn’t know what the Indians had done to Farley, and she dared not allow herself to think what they had in mind for her and Morning Song.

Stalking Wolf felt sadness in his heart that his young brother had died in the burning tipi. He knew his father would hold him responsible for his brother’s death, and he dreaded facing him with the news.

He stared at the white woman with the flaming hair. He had never seen beauty such as she possessed. He would give her to his father, hoping he would take the girl in place of his dead son. He would leave the girl untouched and present her to his father!

Joanna felt stark, raving terror as her captors raced on through the night. The leather rope was cutting into her skin, and the Indian kept such a tight grip about her waist that she felt she was going to be sick.

Dear Lord! she thought, was her whole life going to be one upheaval after another? The Indian who carried Morning Song was riding just ahead of her, and all she could see was his back. Her heart went out to Windhawk’s young sister, knowing how terrified she must be.

She Who Heals was dead, and she feared Farley might be, too. Joanna had no notion what tribe her captors belonged to, or where they were taking her and Morning Song.

Farley opened his eyes slowly, feeling disoriented. He was groggy, and the inside of his mouth felt as though he had swallowed a roll of cotton.

“What the hell!” His words came out in a muffled sound through the gag that had been stuffed in his mouth. He soon discovered he was tied to a tree and couldn’t get loose. Farley didn’t have the vaguest idea from what tribe the Indians had come who had attacked him, but he would never forget their faces!

Suddenly he thought of Joanna and began to struggle with all his strength. He was rewarded by the gag slipping out of his mouth. “Joanna!” he hollered out. “Joanna!” There was no reply.

He couldn’t see the tipi from his vantage point, but he saw flames shooting up into the air. The tipi was on fire! Once more, he strained against the ropes, cussing and yanking as hard as he could, but the bonds would not yield. Seeing it was hopeless to struggle, he slumped back against the tree, wondering what had happened.

It was some time later that Farley heard a rider approaching, and he braced himself, not knowing if it was friend or foe. Watching the tree line, he waited for whomever it was to emerge, knowing he was in no position to defend himself.

“Hell’s bells,” he muttered when he saw the riderless Fosset. The horse came up to Farley, prancing about and shaking his silky mane. The old man knew there was something very wrong. The Indians who had attacked him must have gone to the tipi where Joanna and Morning Song were. He swore loudly, knowing there wasn’t anything he could do to help them. The ropes that bound him to the tree were strong, and no matter how hard he struggled, he couldn’t work his hands free.

Windhawk’s face was a mask of fury as he rode toward the abandoned village beside the Missouri River. As time had passed, he had begun to reflect on what had happened to
him and Joanna. Before, he had been unwilling to talk to her, but now he had a burning need to know what had happened between her and the long knife. He had ridden to join his people on their way to the winter camp, hoping to see Joanna. His anger that she had decided to stay behind with She Who Heals, had still not cooled. Even if the medicine woman was ill, he couldn’t see why she hadn’t been moved on a travois. In his heart, Windhawk felt Joanna had stayed behind only because she wanted to delay the time when she would have to face him.

His body had a burning need to be near her. He had been too long without a woman, and Joanna was the only one who could quench the flaming desire that gnawed painfully at his insides day and night. He knew now he would take her back as his wife even if she had betrayed him with the long knife. His love and desire for her were so deep, they were stronger than his need for revenge.

Crossing the river, he pulled up his horse—he could see smoke rising into the sky. It was barely dawn, and at first he thought the smoke was from She Who Heals’s cook-fire but as he drew nearer, he saw the tipi was a mass of smoldering ashes.

Puzzled, he stared at the remains of what had once been She Who Heals’s tipi. He wondered why the old woman had burned her home. Perhaps the old woman had died, and Joanna and Morning Song had burned the tipi. He made a sweeping glance of the camp, looking for a scaffold where the old woman’s body would have been placed to be received by the spirits.

Hearing a horse whinny, Windhawk turned toward the nearby woods where the sound came from. He unsheathed his knife and walked cautiously in that direction, realizing something wasn’t right.

Farley heard the sound of a horse and knew it wasn’t Fosset, since he could see Joanna’s horse grazing nearby. Again, not knowing if the intruder was a friend or an enemy, he didn’t call out. His keen hearing picked up the sound of a snapping twig, and Farley knew it was a human.
Whoever it was would soon be upon him. Straining his eyes, he watched the bushes being pushed aside, and Windhawk appeared!

Windhawk stood motionless for a moment with a bewildered look on his face.

“What is this, old man?” he asked in an uneven voice. “What has happened?”

“Hurry up and cut me loose, Windhawk! I know no more about what is going on than you do. I was attacked by two Indians and woke up to find myself tied to this tree. Did you see Joanna? Is she all right?”

Windhawk tried to push down the feeling of panic that rose in his throat like bile. Dropping to his knees, he sliced through the leather ropes.

“Joanna and my sister better be unharmed, old man, or I will run this knife through you,” Windhawk said, getting quickly to his feet. He ran back in the direction of the smoldering tipi.

When Farley reached the burned-out ruins, Windhawk was staring at the ashes. “I see the bones of a human, old man!” Windhawk cried out in agony.

Windhawk seemed dazed as he stared into the ashes. It was as if he were paralyzed.

Farley picked up a long stick and plunged it into the ashes, uncovering other burned bodies.

“There’s three of them,” he said softly. Dropping to his knees, Farley raised his head to look up at Windhawk. Tears blinded him and ran unchecked down his wrinkled face. “Joanna’s dead, Windhawk! She’s gone!”

Windhawk dropped to his knees, feeling as if he had just died inside. Staring at the blackened bones, he felt tears in his own eyes, knowing one of the bodies was his beloved, and the other two would be his lovely little sister and the old medicine woman.

Raising his head to the heavens, an agonizing cry issued from his lips. “Napi, why have you punished me thus? Why did you take Joanna, and leave me to walk alone?”

Farley stood up as his anger replaced his grief. He would find who had done this thing, and they would pay with their life! He was guilt-ridden, knowing he should have prevented this from happening.

Windhawk saw a bright object in the ashes and realized it was an armband. He lifted it up and held it to the sun, reading the engraved markings.

“Cree!” he spat out. “I will make them all pay for this deed!”

Windhawk stood up slowly and crushed the armband in his hand. “The Cree nation will know the power of my wrath for what they have done here tonight,” Windhawk said in a ragged whisper. “I will avenge you, my beloved, and my sister!” he vowed softly.

As the day passed, Windhawk and Farley wrapped the bones in a blanket and placed them on the scaffold that they had erected a short distance from the village site.

Windhawk dropped to his knees and raised his face to the heavens. “Napi, take this woman who has brought joy to my heart. Take my sister and the old medicine woman, and I will soon send their murderers for you to judge. When the deed is done, take me to be with my woman, for I do not want to walk this earth without her beside me.”

Farley bowed his head in silent prayer, asking God to bless Joanna’s spirit.

The old man watched with tears in his eyes as Windhawk took a knife and cut a long gash across his stomach. The blood ran freely from the wound. He knew it was the Blackfoot way of showing grief.

It was almost sundown when Windhawk tied Fosset’s reins to the wooden scaffold. A shadow passed across the sun as Windhawk raised his head once more to Napi. “I leave the Flaming Hair’s horse so her spirit may ride to the spirit world…she has a kind heart and will allow Morning Song and She Who Heals to ride with her.”

Since the Cree had taken Farley’s horse, Windhawk allowed him to ride on Puh Pom behind him. As they rode off
into the night, each was silently lost in his own grief. They had spoken not a word to each other all afternoon. Farley knew that Windhawk had decided to spare his life.

Windhawk felt the tears on his cheek. His life had no meaning, except for the driving force that cried out for revenge. The Cree would feel his wrath! He would send a hundred Cree warriors to the spirit world in payment for Joanna’s and Morning Song’s lives!

He thought of the child Joanna had been carrying. What if it
had
been his child? He swallowed a lump in his throat, knowing he would lose his reasoning power if he allowed himself to think in that vein. The uppermost thought in his mind, for now, was revenge. When he had sent the spirits of the men who had killed Joanna and Morning Song to the sand hills, he hoped Napi, in his compassion, would take his spirit to join Joanna’s.

When Windhawk and Farley were out of sight, Fosset reared on his hind legs trying to get loose. The giant horse spun around and pulled hard until the rope snapped. Tossing his silky mane, the horse pawed at the ground, then walked slowly away from the death scaffold.

Joanna and Morning Song had been captives of the Cree warriors for over two weeks. They had been traveling at a fast pace, and always in a northerly direction.

It was now night, and Joanna felt the hardness of the ground beneath her. She had been tied to one side of a tree, while Morning Song was lashed to the other side. They couldn’t see each other, but they both watched the two Indians who slept a few yards away. The moon had risen, and Joanna could clearly make out their faces.

“Joanna, are you still awake?” Morning Song asked in a soft whisper. It was the first time they had been close enough to speak.

“Yes. Are you all right, Morning Song?”

“I…am frightened. Are you? I still do not know what they want with us.”

Joanna was wondering the same thing herself, but she wanted to reassure Morning Song. “Do not worry, little sister. When it is discovered what has happened to us, someone will come to our rescue,” she said, in a voice that sounded much more confident than she actually felt.

“What if our people do not find out what has happened until it’s too late?” Joanna could hear the panic rising in Morning Song’s voice.

“You must be brave and not allow yourself to give up hope, little sister. From what tribe do these men come…do you know?”

“They are of the Cree tribe, from the Canadas,” Morning Song answered in a contemptuous voice. “They are like the dung of the earth!”

“Morning Song, you must talk to me only in English; perhaps the Cree will be unable to understand us.”

“I will do so, Joanna,” Morning Song answered in the white man’s language.

Joanna began struggling against her ropes, and finally managed to slip her hand down far enough to touch Morning Song’s hands, which were tied just below hers. “Do not worry, little sister; so far, we haven’t been harmed.”

“This is true,” she agreed.

“Listen to me, Morning Song. I can feel the ropes on your wrist…I will try to work them free. It may hurt you, but don’t cry out.”

Joanna could hear a sob break from the young girl’s lips, and her heart went out to her, knowing how frightened she must be. Being a captive wasn’t a new experience for Joanna. It seemed that most of her recent years she had been someone’s prisoner.

Suddenly, Joanna heard one of the Indians stirring. Holding her breath, she watched him stand up and walk toward her.

The Indian was silent as he knelt in front of her and ran his hand down Joanna’s leg. She kicked at him and he cried out when her aim made contact with a vulnerable spot.

When he had recovered, he leaped forward and grabbed a handful of red-gold hair, jerked her head back, and slammed it against the tree! Joanna felt pain explode in her head, and a whimper escaped her throat.

“You will not have long to live, white woman,” the man said in the language of the Blackfoot.

“You are the one who is dead,” she answered him. “My husband, Windhawk, will not rest until he sees you dead!”

She couldn’t see his face very clearly, but she felt him tense. “You are the woman of Windhawk?” he asked in a disbelieving voice.

“Yes, and Morning Song is his sister. If you harm either one of us, Windhawk will not rest until you are dead. I am sure you have heard of Windhawk’s vengeance!”

Joanna didn’t realize what an impact her words would have on the Indian until she heard him waking his friend. She understood enough of their conversation to know both Indians deeply feared the name Windhawk.

Her announcement didn’t have the effect she had hoped for. Instead of letting her and Morning Song go, the Indians decided to travel at an even faster pace until they had reached their own lands, and Morning Song and Joanna found themselves once more on horseback, racing into the night.

By morning, their pace slowed as the horses tired from carrying double weight. The Indians stopped only long enough to rest their horses before starting out again.

Midmorning brought a sudden drop in the temperature. A strong, chilling wind was blowing down from Canada, bringing rain in its wake. Joanna felt wet and miserable—she tried to hold herself stiff and rigid so she wouldn’t come up against the body of the Indian.

Late that afternoon the Indians stopped to make camp. Joanna watched fearfully as the one who seemed to be the leader approached her. She cringed, not knowing what to expect from him.

“I am known as Stalking Wolf,” the Cree said. “Tell me about Windhawk.”

Joanna tossed her head back and met the Indian’s eyes without flinching. “All you need to know about my husband, Windhawk, is that his will be the hand that will end your life!” She was rewarded by the look of fear that came into the young warrior’s eyes.

“I am not afraid of Windhawk.” His words denied the message of fright she read on his face.

The two Indians didn’t seem very old, Joanna thought. Most probably they were young bucks on their first raid. She decided she would play on their inexperience and fear.

“I fear no man! My father, the chief of the Cree, will be well pleased when I bring Windhawk’s woman and sister before him.”