Читать книгу Running Wolf - Jenna Kernan, Jenna Kernan - Страница 9

Chapter Two

Snow Raven bounced with the steady lope of the black-and-white stallion. Each landing of the horse’s front hooves jarred the warrior’s muscular thighs against her stomach and breasts. She saw at close range the blue war paint along the horse’s long elegant leg. Handprints for kills, bars for coups and hoofprints for horses stolen in raids and, the last, a square. He was the war party leader. This man was impressive by any measure. She stared at the heavily beaded moccasin. The cut and decoration were more reminders that he was Sioux.

If only she had followed her brother’s instructions, she would be safe in the woods right now.

And her grandmother would be dead.

Her grandmother would have preferred that, Raven knew, rather than see her only granddaughter taken and debased by the enemy.

Raven had enough of lying across the warrior’s lap as if she were some buffalo blanket. But when she tried to push herself up, he shoved her back down.

How long they traveled like this, she did not know. But when his horse finally slowed from lope to trot to walk, she was sweating and nauseous.

Her captor ordered a halt to check on the injured and called for his men to report to him. His accent was strange. Their languages were very similar, but his speech was faster and more lyrical than that of her people. His voice seemed almost a chant.

He captured one of her wrists. She tried and failed to keep him from securing the other. Before she could stop him, he had dragged her up before him and plopped her between his lap and the tall saddle horn made of wood covered in tanned buckskin. He used his other hand to loop a bit of rope about her joined hands and wound the rope around and through her wrists, binding her.

She had lost her skinning knife, her bow and her dignity. But she had not yet lost her pride or her virtue. That would come later, at her arrival to camp. She knew how Sioux captives were treated by her people.

Her band currently had no captives because her father killed all the Sioux he could, including women. But she had seen the female captives at the larger gatherings and winter camps when all the tribes of the Center Camp Crow came together. The women wore buckskin dresses soiled and torn, their hair a dusty tangle and their eyes hollow. She had even tossed an insult or two in their direction. Now she would be on the receiving end of such derision. The hatred between their people was old and strong. Everyone she knew had lost someone to the constant fighting and raids.

Once with the Sioux, she would get little food and might die of starvation or exposure. But that was not the worst. Dying was preferable to being soiled by a Sioux snake. Unless she had a protector or was lucky enough to be adopted, any might take her. This warrior who captured her or one of his tribe.

Raven shivered, vowing to take her life before submitting to such indignities. But what if she was not able to kill herself? There were ways to prevent her, deny her even the freedom to die. Her head hung. Should she try to stay alive and wait for her father and brother to come? Or should she try to end her life at the first opportunity?

Where was the warrior she pretended to be? She would know how to face her fate. But if she were a warrior, her destiny would be far worse. Male captives had to endure a slow death by torture designed to test their bravery. She might be roasted over a low fire or have bits of flesh cut from her body.

Some small part of her wondered if that end might be preferable to hers. She had always prided herself on her virtue. Now she realized it was already gone.

She did not wish to die. But she did not wish to live like this. She had saved her grandmother’s life and, in the process, she had lost her own.

* * *

Running Wolf halted the raiding party after a long run. The open plains hid a spring of sweet water for the horses and riders. Here they could rest and the Crow could not sneak up upon them.

Their raid would remind the Crow that they had ventured too far from their place and into the Sioux territory.

The woman before him made no sound. She did not weep or beg. Instead, she sat still as a raptor, watching his men dismount and stretch their tight muscles. If he did not know better he would swear she was counting their number and measuring their strength.

Running Wolf looked back and wondered if their enemy would follow. His party had taken only one captive. Then he thought of the look in the eyes of the warrior when this woman was taken. He would follow. Running Wolf knew this in his bones.

He called to Weasel, asking how many horses they had taken.

“All” came the answer.

Running Wolf smiled. Weasel was a very good thief. He must be to sneak past village dogs and the boys watching the horses and to do that in full light. Running Wolf’s first raid as war chief and they had not lost a single man. He complimented Weasel’s skill and then dismounted.

His captive threaded her hands in his horse’s mane and he had the flash of precognition. He grabbed her with both hands as she kicked his horse’s sides. His horse bolted forward as he swung his captive up and around until she landed before him.

Their eyes met.

He felt the electric tingle of awareness. She was beautiful, no question, with wild hair that streamed about her lovely face in long waves. She had tied a medicine wheel in one narrow braid at her temple. The opposite braid was wrapped in the pelt of a mink, tied with strands of tanned leather and bits of shell. The adornments framed her face.

Her nose was straight and broad, brows high and arching like the wings of a raven. She had dark eyes glittering with emotion, showing her passion even as she stood perfectly still. He dropped his gaze to her mouth. Just looking at those generous pink lips made his stomach jump and his muscles twitch.

He caught a motion to his left and turned to see Red Hawk approach, his expression stormy. Running Wolf was about to speak but Red Hawk lifted a hand to strike the captive. Running Wolf had time only to grip Red Hawk’s wrist. The men locked eyes. Running Wolf saw his mistake immediately. He had rescued Red Hawk from this woman and now he had easily stopped his blow. Both acts highlighted that he was the stronger man. A war chief did not intentionally embarrass his warriors. Running Wolf released Red Hawk and the older man fumed.

“What are you doing?” Red Hawk asked, his voice hot with anger.

“I thought you were going to strike my horse,” said Running Wolf, and cringed at the stupidity of that. He was not always quick-witted and preferred time to consider his responses. Meanwhile, his captive tugged in an effort to gain release from his grip. He gave a little yank and pulled her back beside him while keeping his focus on Red Hawk.

“Your horse is gone,” Red Hawk said. “This one kicked it. Now I will kick her.”

“I would prefer you did not. If she is injured, it will be harder to bring her to camp.” That response was a little better. But his reaction was worse because just the threat of kicking this captive made Running Wolf’s flesh prickle. What was happening here?

Weasel, still mounted, went after Running Wolf’s spotted mustang, Eclipse, and captured him easily. Running Wolf recognized that he and Red Hawk had become the focus of the eight other warriors, including Weasel, who returned now holding the reins of Eclipse.

Yellow Blanket intervened. “Water your horses first, then the Crows’ horses.”

The men moved to do as they were told.

“You should kill that one,” said Red Hawk, and then stormed after the others.

Running Wolf felt deflated. It was the order he should have given instead of staring like an owl. His raid had been a great success. The Crow did not even have horses to pursue them. Everyone lived and collected coups, and still he felt lacking as a leader. He knew the reason, the one change since he had ridden out this morning. He looked at the woman.

They made eye contact and she immediately looked away, lifting her chin as if she were above him. It made him smile. She had not lost her pride. That much was certain.

Yellow Blanket remained with Running Wolf, but he let Weasel take his horse. Yellow Blanket wore his eagle feathers today, marking him as a warrior with many coups. Iron Bear, their chief, often turned to him for advice. It had been on Yellow Blanket’s suggestion that Iron Bear had made Running Wolf the new war chief.

Yellow Blanket glanced at the captive and then to the place where Running Wolf gripped her bound wrists.

“You hold that one as if you did not wish to let her go,” said the older warrior.

Running Wolf felt the truth in the warrior’s words but he replied, “She is just a captive.”

“Is it wise to tell the men to take no captives and take one yourself?”

“Did you see the circumstances?”

“I did. You could have left her behind. Then she would not be here like an oozing wound in front of Red Hawk. Each time he looks at her, he sees his shame in flesh. She unseated him. Unmanned him.” Yellow Blanket looked at the woman. “Who are you?”

She lifted her chin still higher. “I am one of the Center Camp Apsáalooke of the Low River tribe.”

“A Crow. Just like any other,” he said, and she nodded. “Yet the son of the chief risked his life to save you.”

Pain broke across her expression but she mastered it swiftly. Running Wolf narrowed his eyes as suspicions clouded his thoughts. Who was she to this man, the one Running Wolf had fought and bested to claim her?

Yellow Blanket glanced to Running Wolf. “Did you not recognized their war chief?”

Running Wolf gave a shake of his head. He had only seen their new war chief at a distance. But Yellow Blanket had scouted their village prior to this raid.

Yellow Blanket posed the woman another question. “How did you learn to fight like a warrior?”

This she did not answer. “I am an Apsáalooke woman, like any other.”

“You do not dress like any other. You do not ride like any other. You do not speak like any other. I have taken many captives. They wail. They cut their hair. They rub ash upon their face and then they live or die in our tribe. They never meet a warrior’s eye and would not think to speak to one as an equal. Yet this you do. I do not know what you are, but you are not a woman like any other.”

This took the stiffness from her spine. She glanced across the waving grasses, toward her camp, now in ruin. Was she thinking of the warrior sprawled facedown in the dirt?

Yellow Blanket turned to Running Wolf. “She can ride as well as any man here. She carried a bow, so assume she knows how to use one. How will you keep her from stealing a horse and riding home?”

“She will not know the way to go.”

Yellow Blanket’s look said he thought differently, but he said nothing.

“What would you do with her?” asked Running Wolf, already regretting his question. If one did not wish an answer it was better not to ask.

“I would let her go. And I would bet my first coup feather that she makes it to her camp before we reach ours.”

Running Wolf felt his fingers tighten on the woman’s wrists. A wellspring of defiance gurgled inside him. Yellow Blanket’s words were wise, but he knew he would not take his advice.

“It is a war chief’s duty to earn the respect of his men. You have lost one warrior today. I do not know how you will fix what has passed between you and Red Hawk. But I do know that keeping this woman will make that harder. Red Hawk’s wife is the sister of our chief. He has influence.”

“I will think of something.”

“You know that her life will be worse at our camp. If you care for her, do not bring her there.”

Running Wolf pulled the woman closer to his side.

Yellow Blanket sighed, recognizing, Running Wolf suspected, that his words were wasted. “You have taken her. But our chief will decide her place. Will he choose to give her to the one who took her, a young single warrior? He is ill but still wise. He has spoken of you in high regard and believes you will be a great leader one day. All leaders must choose what is best for their people over what is best for them.” Yellow Blanket pointed at the woman beside him. “She is beautiful, but she is the enemy. Remember who you are and what she is.”

“She is just one woman.”

“White Buffalo Woman was just one woman, too,” said Yellow Blanket, referring to the supernatural prophet who gave them their most sacred rituals and had turned the first man who approached her into a pile of bones.

“Perhaps I will give her to my mother.”

“Throw a wildcat in with a dove and you will have a dead dove.”

With that, he turned and joined the others at the spring.

Running Wolf watched him go, feeling a cold uncertainty in his belly. He stared down at this woman, wanting to know her secrets, wanting to see her body. The need to possess her was strong, and that was proof that Yellow Blanket’s words were true.

It was unmanly to want to possess anything.

A warrior had a generous heart. He shared what he had with his family and his people. And up until this moment, Running Wolf had never wanted anything badly enough to do other than what was wise and what was expected.

“Will you let me have a horse?” she asked.

He scowled at her now.

“You could just cut my bonds.”

“No.”

Her shoulders sank. Then she gathered up her courage from a well that he feared had no bottom.

“I will be trouble.” It was a promise, an echo of Yellow Blanket’s words. But he would not be threatened by a captive.

Weasel returned, leading two horses, his and Running Wolf’s warhorse, Eclipse. On his face was that sly grin he wore when he was up to no good. He led Running Wolf’s horse behind him and extended the reins between him and his captive.

“Who is riding?” he asked, and his grin widened.

Running Wolf did not rise to the bait but accepted the reins. “I thank you for watering Eclipse.”

“Do you think she is as good at wrestling as she is at flying from a galloping horse? Because I am a very good wrestler.” Weasel lifted his eyebrows suggestively.

Running Wolf felt the sharp squeezing grip of ownership across his middle. This was bad. He managed a half smile and again made a sloppy comeback.

“You might end up on your back like Red Hawk.” Running Wolf cringed at his words. First, they had insulted a fellow warrior. Second, they had reminded Weasel of Red Hawk’s embarrassment.

“I would not mind being on my back beneath that one.” Weasel grinned.

Running Wolf reached out to cuff him and Weasel dodged the blow easily.

Running Wolf leaned down and yanked a hank of grass from the prairie and offered it to his captive.

“Rub down my horse,” he ordered.

She held the grass in her joined hands for a moment. Then she lifted her bound hands and let the grass fall from her fingers like rain.

“You may take my freedom. But you will not take my spirit.”

Weasel’s twinkling eyes widened as he stifled a laugh and looked to Running Wolf for his response. They faced off for a long moment. She lifted her chin and angled her jaw as if offering that long vulnerable column to him. He could kill her; her eyes told him that she knew this. Was that what she wanted?

“You know, that one is crazier than I am,” said Weasel.

“Would you die rather than obey?” Running Wolf asked her.

“Yes.”

“Do you wish to die?” Now he found himself holding his breath.

“I do not. But neither do I wish to be your captive.”

“Things are getting more interesting,” said Weasel.

Running Wolf scowled and Weasel laughed and returned to the warriors, likely to tell what he had witnessed. Having a captive who would not obey was bad. Dangerous, even. He should punish her right now, but he found the prospect distasteful and thought on Yellow Blanket’s words again. If he did not punish her, she would not work. If she did not work, the others in the tribe would see she suffered. But they would see she suffered in any case. The best thing for her was for him to follow the advice of Yellow Blanket.

But he did not. Instead, he pushed her to the ground and bound her feet. Then he left her in the tall grass, leading his horse away so he could join the others.

As he chewed on hunks of dried buffalo and drank his fill, he watched the waving grass around his captive. When the grasses fell still he went to check on her and found that she seemed to be asleep. He returned to the group to find Weasel asking to see the trophy that Red Hawk had captured. Red Hawk’s face colored. Running Wolf sensed an impending fight. Weasel loved to wrestle nearly as much as he loved to steal from the Crow. It seemed he had directed his energy from the captive to Red Hawk.

Yellow Blanket told Weasel to watch the horses, diffusing the impending quarrel. Red Hawk showed the strands of long tubular beads that came from the French traders. The multiple strands were separated with circular shells that had come from the clay river people far to the south. The necklace was beautiful, but why Red Hawk had wanted it was beyond him. It was a woman’s adornment and of no use to a warrior. Perhaps it was for Buffalo Calf, his wife. He didn’t know and didn’t ask.

Instead, the men counted the horses and argued over which was the best. Running Wolf was the only one to like the mare that his captive rode. She was sound and strong and seemed to have good confirmation. Of course, no warrior would ride a mare into battle. But for hunting and traveling, the dapple gray would be useful, especially in the snow, when she would all but disappear. Of course, it was up to the chief to divide the horses among those who won them and those that needed them. He wondered who would get the big blue roan ridden by the son of the chief of the Crow. Yellow Blanket, he decided.

The men now set about haltering the horses and tying them in strings for the longer trip home. They broke into teams and he paired with Big Thunder, his best friend. Big Thunder had an overlarge mouth and intent eyes. Big Thunder wore a series of four bear teeth about his neck in a necklace nearly identical to the one Running Wolf wore, for they had come from the same hunt and the same bear.

Big Thunder threw a rope over a large buckskin and Running Wolf quickly fashioned a halter from another rope woven of buffalo sinew.

“Do you remember how we trapped that bear?”

Running Wolf nodded, focusing on tying the halter to the string of ponies already assembled. “It was hungry.”

“There is more than one kind of hunger, my friend.”

Running Wolf’s finger’s stilled and he glanced up at his friend.

“Be careful with that one or she may end up wearing your claws about her neck.”