Black Horse Page 10

  The persistent presence of the soldier in White Buffalo’s vision caused him much distress. He hoped the vision was only influenced by yesterday’s events and not by something that was yet to happen.

  “My vision could have many meanings,” he said with a slow nod of his head. He turned toward Meadow so that he could watch her as they spoke. “You were in my vision, and Black Horse, too.”

  She chuckled nervously. “Wh-what did you see us doing?” she asked.

  “You were standing in a field, and you were wearing a white-woman’s dress. Black Horse stood across from you, and the Mountie who ended the wedding yesterday was standing at the other end of the field.”

  Meadow stared at him and shrugged. This vision could not have any importance.

  “I do not understand it, either,” he replied. “At first it made me wonder again if you might be having doubts about marrying Black Horse and staying here with the Sioux. But when I saw the way you and Black Horse looked at one another a few minutes ago—” He paused when he heard her muffled cry of despair, and he gazed into her eyes. “I will never bring up this subject again—your answer is clearly written on your face. Forgive me for ever doubting you, mi-cun-ksi.” He glanced down at the ground in shame, inwardly cursing himself for bringing up this painful issue again.

  “I forgive you always,” she answered softly. “Your vision obviously means something entirely different.”

  “Maybe it means nothing at all.” White Buffalo knew this was not true. His visions always had a meaning, even if they did only in a very trivial sense, but this one was too complex for him to understand right now. He tried to push the disturbing vision to the back of his mind for the time being. After he married Meadow and Black Horse, he could take the time to ponder the troublesome revelations he had envisioned this morning.

  “Your man is waiting for you, and we have a wedding to attend,” White Buffalo said. He reached out to take Meadow’s hand, but he suddenly grew nauseated and weak-kneed. He knew this dreaded feeling well: each time their village had been attacked by enemies, this same feeling had passed through him in the preceding moments. Sometimes, he had time to warn his people, but now the feeling was far too strong, and he knew the danger was imminent.

  Why hadn’t he sensed it sooner? Had he been too consumed with his needless worries about losing Meadow to be aware of an impending attack on their village? Panic raced through him, but there wasn’t even time to call out a warning to his daughter.

  The Blackfoot war party emerged from the cover of the dense forest without warning. There were at least a dozen braves in the group, and White Buffalo knew their brazen appearance this close to the Sioux camp could only mean serious trouble. With a cloud of dust rising up around them, the warriors stopped their horses several hundred feet away from White Buffalo and Meadow. For a moment there was no movement or conversation from the intruders as they focused their cold, raven eyes on the medicine man and the girl. Then, the two men who rode at the head of the group began to whisper back and forth. Lecherous grins curved their thick lips as they pointed at Meadow.

  White Buffalo did not need to hear their conversation to know what was in their evil minds. He knew precisely what they planned for his daughter, and his only thought was to defend her. Without a thought to his own safety, he pulled his knife from its sheath at his waist. He lunged forward, but was stopped in his tracks when an arrow sliced through the air. Darkness engulfed the great medicine man as he tumbled face-first toward the ground.

  When she saw the Blackfoot warrior grab for his bow, Meadow screamed a warning to her father, but it was too late. The warrior pulled an arrow from his quiver, aimed and sent the arrow flying through the air. She would never forget the swooshing sound as it headed for White Buffalo, and the unnatural thud when it hit its target. A burning pain ripped through her own breast when her father fell forward. She screamed again, this time in torment, as she fell on her knees at her father’s side and gently rolled him over. The arrow had broken off when he fell, so only a short, jagged stick protruded from the torn material of his beaded shirt. Her eyes blurred with the sight of the dark red blood that was spreading out across the front of his shirt.

  Before she could do anything, she was grabbed roughly around the waist and yanked up to her feet. She began to kick and swing her closed fists at the warrior who held her prisoner, but it was useless. The man easily overpowered her and then tossed her on the back of his big Appaloosa as if she were no more than a rag doll. She attempted to push herself back down from the horse, but the warrior was too quick. He swung up behind her, crushing her back against him until she was sure her ribs were breaking with the pressure of his brutal embrace.

  As the Appaloosa twirled around and began a rapid retreat, Meadow got one last glimpse of her father’s crumpled body lying on the ground. In her shocked state she saw only the growing circle of red on the front of his shirt. She began to claw and punch at the arms that imprisoned her, but the Blackfoot warrior merely tightened his strong arms around her until she heard a cracking sound and then felt excruciating pain in her ribs.

  She ceased fighting, knowing that she was wasting her energy. But unlike all the times in the past when her village had been attacked, or even the time when her family’s wagon train had been ambushed, this time Meadow knew that she would have to fight alone.

  Chapter Eleven

  From experience and training, Meadow knew that being passive might be the only way her life would be spared, at least for a while longer. The Blackfoot warrior kept her restrained in a relentless grip that made her broken ribs throb unmercifully with each racing step of the horse’s hooves.

  Her mind was clouded with pain, and her clearest memory was still that of White Buffalo lying on the ground, and of the growing puddle of blood on the front of his shirt.

  The war party rode at breakneck speed for what seemed to Meadow to be an eternity. As her physical pain grew, she tried to focus on her injured father.

  Please, please, she prayed to Wakan Tanka, don’t let him be dead. Meadow could not imagine life without White Buffalo. She tried to focus on only positive thoughts. He was going to recover, and she would escape and be reunited with him—and with Black Horse. How long would it be before Black Horse would come to look for them when they didn’t return to camp? And how long before he came after her and saved her from what she knew would be a fate worse than death?

  Why had the small band of Blackfoot warriors been so close to the Sioux campsite? If they had been planning to ambush the village, they would have needed to bring ten times more warriors. But it seemed as if this group had come there just to take her captive.

  The war had raged between the Sioux and the Blackfoot throughout history, and she knew her fate if she failed to escape. A Sioux woman taken captive by a Blackfoot warrior was usually treated no better than a dog. And she was also a white woman, which made her their enemy two times over.

  The sun was high in the sky before the Blackfoot stopped to water their horses. Meadow was dropped to the ground with a rough shove. She tried to brace herself in an attempt to protect her broken ribs, but her legs were weak and unable to support her weight, and she crashed down on the hard riverbank. The new injuries to her knees, however, did not even begin to compare with the agony the fall had caused her crushed ribs. She bit the inside of her lower lip and forced herself not to cry out, though it took every ounce of her will not to show her captors how much she was suffering.

  Drawing in a deep breath, gritting her teeth against the pains shooting through her body, Meadow pushed herself up from the ground. Standing, she could feel the throbbing and burning in her cut knees, but that was minor compared to the rest of her injuries. Still, she refused to show any weakness in front of these animals.

  For the first time since this nightmare had started, she turned to face her captor and met his dark, penetrating gaze. His face was decorated with streaks of red and black paint in jagged lines shaped like lightning bolts. He
wore his hair in two braids that hung over his bare shoulders. Framed by the thick braids was a broad face, with sharp, high cheekbones and very small close-set eyes. Even with the paint on his face, it was apparent that he was not a handsome man. He wore only a tanned-hide breechcloth, leggings and moccasins; his bare chest was painted in warlike symbols of red, black and yellow. His shoulders and upper torso were taut and ridged with bulging muscles, and although he was not a tall man, his arrogant stance made him appear much bigger. As he stared back at Meadow, a smirk curled his thick lips, almost as if he enjoyed watching her suffer.

  In spite of her misery, Meadow narrowed her eyes and held her head up high. She returned the warrior’s brazen stare until he mumbled under his breath and motioned for her to get a drink from the river. Grateful for his small show of kindness, Meadow exhaled the breath she had been holding, but the gesture made the pain in her ribs flare like wildfire. It took all her strength to keep from doubling over and falling back on the ground. Instead, she took several short breaths, and then made her shaky legs move toward the water. Her progress was slow, and she wrapped her arms around herself to keep the movement of her broken ribs to a minimum. When she reached the river, she found it nearly impossible to bend down so that she could take a drink of the cool water. Even the slightest movement made sharp spears of pain rip through her upper body.

  Someone walked up beside her, and Meadow stiffened. She remained unmoving as the man stopped next to her. Glancing out of the side of her eye, she noticed it was the same man who had caused all of her agony. To her surprise, he bent down, scooped up a handful of water and then pressed it to her lips. Her parched lips welcomed the cool drink, and in spite of her reluctance to accept his unexpected gesture of kindness, Meadow gulped down the few drops of moisture his cupped hands contained. She looked up at him again, but his expression was emotionless. She quickly looked away.

  The woman’s bravery impressed Strong Tree. He knew she was in terrible pain; her actions were proof, and he could see the pain in her green eyes. Still, she did not give into her misery, nor did she beg for mercy. It was no wonder Black Horse had chosen to make her his woman in spite of the fact that she was white. Not only was she beautiful to look at, but she was also strong and brave, unlike any other white woman Strong Tree had ever encountered.

  Black Horse would want her back, and when he came for her, Strong Tree would be waiting for him. Then, Strong Tree told himself, he would finally have his revenge for the things Black Horse had done to his woman, Shy Deer.

  His captive’s ribs were broken, but he hesitated over whether or not he should help her. He recalled how Shy Deer had told him that Black Horse had not mistreated her, but had only used her for his pleasure. Strong Tree’s hand drew into two tight fists at his sides.

  He called out a gruff command and motioned for the woman to go back to his horse. Without looking at her again, he stomped back to the Appaloosa and waited for her to make her way slowly back to where the horse stood. Her brow was coated in sweat and her face was unnaturally pale. Briefly, he regretted his decision to let her suffer. But if he showed her too much compassion, his comrades might think him weak.

  Strong Tree was as gentle as possible when he lifted her onto the back of his horse. He heard her moan softly, but she sat up straight in the saddle and made no further sounds as she waited for him to mount. He swung up and scooted close behind her. Using his bare legs to hold her securely against him, he was able to avoid squeezing her too tightly around her injured midriff again.

  When they started riding once more, Strong Tree noticed that she seemed to relax slightly and did not seem to be getting any worse. This was good, he told himself, because if she died all of this would have been for nothing, and his revenge would never be complete. He let his horse fall behind the others with the hope that the slower pace would make her ride a bit easier. He had many plans for her when they reached the Blackfoot village, and he wanted to be sure she was completely aware of everything he did to her.

  As they continued to ride, however, Strong Tree noticed that his captive’s body had grown limp, and she seemed to be completely unconscious when he shook her arm to rouse her. He yanked on the reins, halting his mount’s steps. She fell forward against the long blond mane. Strong Tree pulled her back up and slapped her face lightly with his hand. A soft moan escaped from her. He exhaled the breath he had been holding, once he realized that she had only fainted. His sense of relief increased when he glanced up and noticed that none of the other men had stopped to see what was going on.

  She was unconscious, and so Strong Tree did not see any reason to go so slow. He kicked the Appaloosa in the sides and attempted to catch up with the other riders. Riding was still difficult, though, because now his passenger was unable to hold herself up in the saddle. Strong Tree did not want to alert his companions to her deteriorating condition, especially since they had all tried in vain to discourage him from carrying out this raid and had been reluctant to take part in his scheme.

  It was common knowledge that Black Horse was a fierce enemy, and the Blackfoot warriors had no doubt that he would retaliate. But they had finally agreed to come along because Strong Tree was their comrade, and he had been greatly shamed by Black Horse.

  Two days ago, Strong Tree had learned from a Canadian trapper that Black Horse was in Sitting Bull’s village on the banks of the river. The trapper had also relayed news about Black Horse’s impending marriage to a white woman who was also the adopted daughter of the medicine man White Buffalo. This was the day he had been waiting for, and Strong Tree wasted no time in planning his trip to the Sioux encampment to seek revenge.

  Now, the deed was done, and Strong Tree had no doubts that he must prepare for the inevitable battle with Black Horse. Although he had wanted this for a long time, Strong Tree still could not push away the feeling of fear that gripped him when he realized that there was no turning back now and he would finally confront the man that had ruined his life.

  The Blackfoot war party planned to ride all the way back to their own village before daybreak, but with the unconscious woman it was almost impossible for them to travel at night. Strong Tree decided that if he was going to keep Black Horse’s woman alive long enough to fulfill his plan, they would have to let her rest for the night.

  “What is wrong with this woman?” Long Feather asked as he took her limp form down from Strong Tree’s horse. He held her in his arms as he studied her face in the disappearing daylight. Even for a white woman, her skin was ghostly pale.

  Strong Tree slid down to the ground and shrugged his broad shoulders. “I think she broke her ribs when she was trying to get away from me.”

  Long Feather’s disapproving expression told Strong Tree what his friend thought of his rough actions. Like the other warriors, Long Feather had not kept his feelings about this revenge raid a secret, but because he was Strong Tree’s closest friend, he had helped to convince the others to come along. If the woman died before they even got back to their own village, though, Long Feather would not be proud of his part in this scheme.

  “Broken ribs will be the least of her complaints by the time I finish with her,” Strong Tree said in a harsh tone. He grabbed the woman’s limp body away from his friend and dropped her on the ground. A barely audible whimper was her only reaction.

  Ignoring Long Feather’s disgusted grumble, Strong Tree grabbed his horse’s reins and led the animal to the nearby narrow stream. He studied the area as his horse drank. At daybreak they would continue to travel upstream, and by midmorning they would be back in the Blackfoot village.

  When his brown-and-cream-colored Appaloosa was through drinking from the stream, Strong Tree joined the rest of his comrades as they cared for their own mounts. The horses’ needs almost always came first, for in this harsh country a man’s survival sometimes depended on a strong and capable horse.

  Once he finished tending to his horse, Strong Tree had no choice but to make another important decision regardi
ng his captive. He could let her suffer, and as a result she could get worse. He could, however, bind her ribs so that they could begin to heal. He hadn’t meant to hurt her so badly, and the condition she was in now made her useless for the type of vengeance he wanted.

  Standing beside the small, clear stream, Strong Tree tried to sort through his tormented memories. He had loved only one woman in his twenty-seven summers. When he had taken Shy Deer as his wife several years earlier, their lives had seen many happy days.

  Black Horse had changed everything. Strong Tree drew in a deep breath and tried to quell his rage as he recalled the day Black Horse’s band of renegades had swooped down on a group of Blackfoot women while they were washing clothes in the Missouri River, down in northeastern Montana. Being the youngest—and the prettiest—Shy Deer had been claimed by the chief who was leading the warriors. When Strong Tree learned of Shy Deer’s capture, he had been filled with heart-wrenching pain, and even more with rage. He just hoped that Black Horse was suffering the same type of tormented feelings at this very moment over the loss of his woman.

  For over four months Strong Tree had searched throughout northern Montana and into the Dakota Territory for some sign of Shy Deer. Black Horse kept outsmarting him. For Strong Tree, the chase became more than just a quest to reclaim his woman; he was obsessed with the idea of winning an even-greater victory over the feared Sioux war chief. Strong Tree wanted the fame that would be bestowed on the Blackfoot warrior who killed Black Horse.

  Much to Strong Tree’s disappointment, Black Horse was on a hunting expedition the night that he had finally located the renegade band’s campsite. Shy Deer, along with two other Blackfoot women, had been reclaimed that night. But Strong Tree’s thirst for a settling of scores was not quenched.

  After they returned to their own village, Strong Tree realized he had lost more than just his chance to be the one who killed the dreaded war chief of their enemy tribe. He had also lost Shy Deer’s devotion and love. Her time with the handsome Sioux chief had changed her drastically, and although she told Strong Tree that she hated Black Horse, her actions had proved this was not the case. She lay beneath her husband like a wooden doll in their tepee at night. On more than one occasion, Strong Tree had caught her staring dreamily off in the distance as if she was waiting—or hoping—to see someone riding in her direction. It enraged him to think that she was probably wishing that Black Horse would be the one to ride over the distant horizon.