Wild Ecstasy (3 page)

He paused, then added, “You've questioned me many times this past year about why I've not gone to Fort Snelling as often for supplies, and why I've forbidden you to go at all. I've avoided your questions before, because I had not yet decided what to do about Gray Elk. But now that I've made my plans, there's no reason not to tell you. It's because Echohawk, Gray Elk's son, is at Fort Snelling so often. Even though the Injuns do most of their trading at the riverbank, instead of inside the walls of the fort, which, for the most part, is reserved only for civilized people. I did not want to chance coming face-to-face with Echohawk. I thought he just might recognize me. He saw everything the day I was wounded. I'm sure he hates me no less now.” He paused and an evil glint rose in his gray eyes. “It seems that Echohawk is in my way now as much as his chieftain father ever was. He's got to die also, Mariah. And anyone else at the village who gets in the way of the gunfire!”

He cupped her chin in his hand. “And you're going to ride with me,” he said flatly. “If nothing else, that'll make a man outta you.”

Mariah was rendered almost speechless by what her father was saying. And that he had chosen to make her a part of such a vicious plan made her heart grow cold. “You can't be serious,” she finally said, inching away from him. “Papa, what you are planning to do is wrong. It's out-and-out murder. And never would I be a part of such an act. I hold no grudges against the Indians. In fact, I admire them. They are an innocent, proud people. How can you want to just go and kill them? Nothing any one Indian has done to you can warrant you going and slaughtering a whole village of Indians.”

She slipped the hair from her arms, onto her bed, then placed her hands on her hips in defiance. “And were the truth known, I imagine you were the one who shot off that first gunfire against Gray Elk and his people all those years ago. You deserved what you got. It could have been worse, you know. Your scalp could be hanging in Chief Gray Elk's wigwam even now.”

Victor took a quick, clumsy step forward, his face red with rage. He raised his hand and brought its backside against Mariah's face, causing her head to go sideways in a jerk. “I will have no more of your insolence,” he shouted. “You are going with me. That's final.”

Her cheek stinging from the blow, her eyes filled with tears of anger, Mariah placed the coolness of her palm against her face. “Never,” she hissed.

“Then I will have no choice but to lock you in the storm cellar for several days for punishment,” Victor said, bending to speak into her face.

Paling, Mariah wavered. “You wouldn't do that to me,” she gasped. “You . . . just . . . wouldn't.”

“I have no choice,” Victor said, picking up his cane from Mariah's bed. He leaned his weight against it as he walked toward the door. “Come on, now. We may as well get the punishment on its way.”

Mariah stood her ground. “No,” she murmured, fearing the rats that frequented the cellar, which were sometimes as big as cats. “That won't be necessary. I'll do as you say.”

But she vowed to herself that this was the last time he would force anything on her. At her first opportunity she was going to escape his wrath. Tonight, after they returned from the venture she dreaded with all of her heart and soul, she would flee from her father's trading post and go to the protective custody of Colonel Snelling at the fort. From there she would chart her future.

“How will you explain your attack on Chief Gray Elk and his people to Colonel Snelling?” she blurted. “Don't you know how hard he is trying to keep peace among the Indians and settlers?”

“He ain't trying hard enough,” Victor said, smiling crookedly. “All I'll have to tell him is that some of Gray Elk's murderin' redskins came to my trading post and stole from me and came close to killing you in the process. I'll just say I was defendin' you from such an assault.”

“And you expect him to believe that?” Mariah said, her voice rising in pitch, daring another face slap. But her father had not even heard her. He was staring intensely out the window. Mariah was hearing the arrival of many horses outside, and went to look out the window also. When she saw the lead rider, she froze inside and turned quick eyes to her father.

“And so the cheating, vile Tanner McCloud is going to assist you in this raid?” she accused. “That's why he's come with so many men?”

“Dammit, no,” Victor said, kneading his brow. “We've enough men of our own workin' for me here at the post without bein' bothered by anyone else.” His face became flushed again with anger. “That sonofabitch. He's come again to speak in your behalf. He told me the last time he was here that he was goin' to bring a great bride price.” He wheeled angrily around and began working his way toward the door, his cane, as it came in contact with the wooden floor, sounding ominous. “You see? He's lived in the wilderness so long he thinks he's bargaining for an Injun squaw! Well, I'm goin' to set him straight once and for all. In fact, I'll tell him that I don't want to see his lousy yellow eyes around here again. He's pestered me one time too many.”

Mariah didn't have time to say anything else. With the aid of the cane, her father moved quickly, and was soon gone from the room, slamming the door behind him.

Mariah stifled a sob behind a hand as she gazed with a deep longing down at her hair on the bed.

Then she went to a drawer in her nightstand and pulled out a mirror. Her fingers trembled as she lifted it. When she saw her reflection, and how her hair now lay flat and lifeless against her head, only just past her ears, she turned her eyes away and threw the mirror across the room.

As it shattered into dozens of pieces, it was not enough to silence the loud shouting going on below her in the main store of her father's trading post. Never had she heard her father so mad.

Never had Tanner McCloud cursed so loudly, so violently.

And then it was all quiet. She went to the window again and watched Tanner and his men ride away in a cloud of dust, her father standing outside with his rifle aimed at Tanner's back. She wished she could go back to bed and then get up again to find that everything was as it had been those many years ago when she had had a mother to confide in.

Never had she felt as alone as now.

Chapter 3

—La Rochefoucauld

 

 

 

A vicious storm had delayed the attack on the Chippewa, leaving the rivers and creeks rumbling with swollen, rushing water, their banks being eaten away with the churnings.

But it had not delayed the ambush indefinitely. Soon the sun had replaced the dark clouds in the sky. And as though living a nightmare, Mariah rode her mouse-gray mustang into the Indian village beside her father, her face smeared with ash, the same as the others under her father's command—a disguise against possible recognition.

She witnessed the carnage as her father and his men swarmed through the Indian village in a senseless frenzy, spraying the Chippewa with volleys of gunfire and tossing torches, which soon had the bark dwellings wrapped in sheets of flames, the smoke and fire belching out with a sound like thunder.

The crash of Indian pottery split the air like a shriek. Pistols flamed and bullets spattered, the reports from the guns deafening. Horses reared and plunged, trampling fallen Indian women who tried to flee from their outdoor cooking fires, into the protection of the forest.

A few of the aged were saved at the expense of the younger women who so very bravely interposed their slim bodies between the elderly and the firing weapons. Old men and young boys alike were running around, frantically snatching up whatever weapons they could find, but too soon falling among the bloodied figures strewn across the ground.

The village was a chaos of screaming confusion and the pall of smoke. The air was thick with the acrid stench of black powder, of burning hides, and of blood.

“Be sure not to leave anything of value!” Victor shouted to his men. “And get some of that corn yonder for roasting!”

Mariah, having not fired a shot, thanked God she had at least been spared that. She hung back and looked pityingly at the women and wailing children who huddled in the center of a circle of braves. The men fought valiantly, keeping the foe off by firing into the attackers.

Then her heart sank as several of her father's men began charging and firing point-blank into those braves. The Indians soon became a ring of bodies, those surviving reaching for the attackers to pull them from their horses. The horses reared, hooves flailing, trying to get away.

Outraged by the horror of it, Mariah had a strong urge to switch sides and fight alongside those Indians, who were dying like wolves, fighting to the last gasp without noise or complaint.

Instead she pulled at her horse's reins and swung her around, desperate to get away from the massacre. She didn't get far. Too soon she found herself face-to-face with an Indian brave standing in her horse's way, who if he had chosen to, could have killed her instantly.

But she was still dressed in the clothes of a boy, the jacket loose over her shirt, her breeches large and slouchy, hiding beneath them the curves that she could now boast at the age of eighteen.

And the ploy seemed to have worked well. The Indian must have taken her for an innocent lad forced into battle, for the handsome brave did not raise his firearm against her, nor did he grab for his knife, which was so handy in a sheath at his waist.

For what seemed an eternity, but was in truth only a few moments, Mariah and Echohawk stared at each other, long enough for Mariah to be struck by his extraordinary presence. A young man of obvious physical power, he wore no shirt, his copper body reflecting the sun like fire. His legs were sheathed in fringed leggings that were so tight she could see their muscled contours. He was tall, with raven-black hair framing his noble shoulders. His eyes were the darkest of all midnights, large and flashing. He had high cheekbones and a mouth that was hard and proud.

As quickly as he had appeared, the brave was gone, leaving Mariah shaken by how intensely he had affected her. Shivers ran up and down her spine as she realized that soon he could lie dead among the already fallen braves.

Desperately she looked around for her father, wanting to go to him and beg him to give up this senseless assault.

When she finally caught sight of him on his horse, still wreaking havoc in the village, she grew weak all over, gasping when she saw a brave take aim at her father with his rifle.

“No!” she screamed, knowing that her father was not aware of being targeted. It didn't take much thought to know what she must do. In an instant she had her rifle removed from its gun boot at the side of her horse. She aimed, pulled the trigger, and winced when she saw the bullet graze the Indian's shoulder, causing him to drop his weapon.

Feeling eyes on her as she thrust the rifle back inside its boot, she turned and found the handsome brave staring at her again, apparently having witnessed her action. She knew that he must be regretting having let her pass when he had had the perfect opportunity to kill her.

Her insides grew cold and a scream froze on her lips when her father was suddenly there behind the brave, the butt of his rifle cracking across his skull. She watched, horrified, as the handsome brave stumbled forward, dropped his rifle, fell to his knees, then crumpled to the ground, unconscious. She felt the prick of tears as she gazed at the blood seeping from his head wound, knowing that it could soon snuff the life from him.

Victor eased his horse up next to Mariah's. “It looks as though Echohawk won't be causing me any more problems,” he said, staring triumphantly at the fallen brave.

Mariah looked over at her father, then down at the handsome brave, her face ashen. “That's . . . Echohawk?” she said, her voice quaking. Then her jaw tightened and she glared at her father. “And what of his father? Did you also brutalize him?”

“More than that,” Victor bragged. “He's now entering what the Injuns call the Land of the Hereafter. And none too soon, I'd say. He lived way longer than what was civil for the likes of him.”

Mariah stared disbelievingly at her father a moment longer, hardly able to bear this cold, heartless side of him that made her not want to admit that he was any kin to her at all, much less her father.

She gazed with contempt around her, seeing the men under her father's command heavy-laden with plunder. She wheeled her horse around and rode away, wanting to distance herself from it all. As soon as she could, she would slip away from her father and go to Fort Snelling, and not only for her own welfare. She would plead with Colonel Snelling to come to the aid of the Chippewa. If there were survivors when this was over, they were going to need someone with compassion to help them through the winter.

That man with compassion had to be Colonel Snelling! He was there to help everyone, both red- and white-skinned. And no matter what harm befell her father when she revealed his role in the massacre, she knew that she must.

As she saw it, it was time that her father was stopped. His ruthlessness must not be allowed to go on.

For now, she had no choice but to return to her father's trading post, along with the others. But when night came, she would flee the life that she had grown to abhor.

She flinched when her father rode up beside her, his men following on their sweating steeds. Even though some of them were wounded, and some were tied across their horses, dead, loud laughter and shouts of victory filled the air, the Indian village having been left in a heap of smoking ruins.

She would never forget the sight of the fallen braves being wept over by women and children. And how could she forget that among those fallen Chippewa was the tall and handsome brave with the sparkling dark eyes? In that brief moment of eye contact, there had been something about him that had stirred strange longings within Mariah—longings that she did not even recognize or understand.

Thinking of the valiant brave lying there, even now possibly dying, sent her heart into a tailspin of regret. Should he die, she would never forgive herself for this damnable raid—a raid that she had participated in, for she
had
shot one of the braves herself. She gave silent thanks to the heavens that she had inflicted only a flesh wound.

Still, guilt soared through her, making the journey back to her father's trading post even more unbearable. And once there, she was forced to sit with the men, outside by a roaring fire, part of a victory celebration. As she sat stiffly on a blanket, watching the sky darkening overhead, she bided her time while wine and whiskey flowed like fountains on into the night.

When she saw that her father was perhaps too drunk to notice, she slipped away from the celebration and went to the barn, readying her horse for travel. Watching over her shoulder, she led her mouse-gray mustang away from the barn by foot and onto the open prairie.

Feeling safe enough, she quickly mounted her steed and rode away into the shadows of night, in search of the beaten paths that would lead her through the forest to Fort Snelling.

* * *

Echohawk awakened to wails of mourning on all sides of him, the women of the dead braves clawing at their own faces and arms with their fingernails, producing deep, bleeding gashes. Dazed by the blow to his head, he slowly pushed himself up from the ground. When he was standing, he swayed from a light-headedness that nearly felled him again.

But he had to go to the aid of his people, their cries reaching into his heart with a tearing sadness. He staggered ahead, events blurring in his mind.

He blinked, trying to focus on things around him. But no matter how hard he tried to see, all that was there was a strange sort of dark haze.

The throbbing pain of his head led his hand to the lump, and he soon felt the break in the skin and the blood that had caked dry.

“A head injury,” he whispered to himself, fear cutting through his confusion. Now he recalled the very instant that the white man had cracked the butt of his rifle over his head—recalled, even, that had he not been engrossed in looking at the young lad who had wounded one of his braves, the older white man would never have been able to sneak up on him.

Now both the lad and the white man were the target of his hate, as both were responsible for so much.

He blinked and rubbed his eyes again, his heart sinking when realization came that the white man had not succeeded in killing him, but instead had taken his vision from him! All that he could make out was shadow and light!

Knowing what was expected of him at this time of sorrow for his band of Chippewa, no matter his condition, he collected himself.

His father.

His people.

They needed him!

As hands began clutching at him, and voices reached him with utter despair, begging him to help, Echohawk felt his way through the ravaged village, soon discovering the true depths of the massacre. Everywhere there were bodies to be stepped over and around.

For a moment his brain burned, the world seeming to have been annihilated. So many innocent women, children, and braves were dead and now entering the Land of the Hereafter.

But he was relieved that many of his people's most valued braves had not been at the village to be slain or maimed. These braves were far away, on a hunting expedition. Upon their return, they would find much sorrow, and then they would aid Echohawk in his thirst for vengeance.

“Father,” he whispered to himself, having not yet found his way to his father's large dwelling that sat back from the others on a slight rise. He welcomed strong hands on his arms as two braves came and steadied him between them after seeing his legs begin buckling beneath him, his weakness worsening with each step.

The braves identified themselves when they realized that Echohawk could not actually see them.

“It is I, Yellow Wolf,” one of them said. “Of the St. Croix band of Chippewa.”

“And it is I, Helping Bear, also of the St. Croix band,” the other said. “We were passing by in a canoe, on our way to Fort Snelling, when we saw smoke. We followed it to the scene of this massacre. We have come to offer assistance. We will continue on our own journey later.”

“I know you both well. It is good of you to come to my people's aid,” Echohawk said thickly. “My eyesight. It has been robbed from me.”

“If you wish, we will be your eyes,” Yellow Wolf said solemnly.

“For now,
ay-uh
, yes,” Echohawk said, nodding. “But only for the moment. It is important that I learn to fend for myself.”

He paused, then said, “
Gee-bah-bah
. Take me to my father.” His heart was anxious to see his chieftain father, yet wary that he might not have survived the attack. The white man who had led the attack had seemed determined to wipe out this band of Chippewa, and surely that included their chief.

Helping Bear and Yellow Wolf exchanged troubled glances, then looked solemnly at Echohawk. “Chief Gray Elk . . .” Helping Bear said, his voice drawn. “He is dead, Echohawk.”

Knowing that his worst fear had proved true, a sudden, stabbing despair filled Echohawk. It fully engulfed him when Helping Bear and Yellow Wolf helped him down beside his father and he was able to touch the coldness of his flesh.

Drawing on the restraint that his father had taught him from the moment he could understand right from wrong, Echohawk stilled the cries of remorse that so badly wanted to escape from deep within him.

Kneeling beside his father, he embraced him. Ah, how blessed he had felt when his father's health had returned after having established their new village along the Rum River, only a half-day's ride from his father's longtime friend Silver Wing.

But, Echohawk despaired to himself, he had not been blessed a second time. Gray Elk had not been given another chance.