Читать книгу Walks Alone - Sandi MDiv Rog - Страница 3

November 29, 1864

Sand Creek, Colorado Territory

A drop of blood warmed his finger, and crimson stained the white snow as Jean-Marc bound three dead rabbits together. “Sorry to kill you, my friends, but Mother and Grandmother need to eat.”

He tied the knot fast and rubbed his hand along the soft fur. The skins would make a good muff for Grandmother this winter. He’d seen many white women wear them; they looked warm, and his heveškemo deserved the best.

He picked up the rabbits and added them to the other two he’d already tied together.

Running Cloud trudged around a thick cottonwood with his latest kill, a prairie dog, hanging at his side. “The chief has trained you well.” He nudged with his chin toward the game Jean-Marc caught. “He’ll smile on your success.”

“You didn’t do so badly yourself.” Jean-Marc gave an exaggerated wave toward the fowl and two rabbits dangling over his friend’s back. They hadn’t found any deer or antelope, but what they did find was better than nothing. Jean-Marc’s father would soon arrive from Denver City with supplies. Until then, he had to find other means to survive.

Running Cloud stomped through the snow toward him.“Do you think Gray Feather will be impressed?”

Jean-Marc chuckled and slapped his shoulder. “Take them to her father’s lodge and see.” Of course, they both knew Running Cloud’s current offering was meager compared to the young buffalo he’d delivered to their lodge just four moons ago.

“And which woman do you plan to impress?”

Jean-Marc smiled. “My mother.”

Black Bear stepped high through a powdery snow bank, carrying game over his shoulder. Twenty winters out of his mother’s womb and a seasoned warrior, he wore the clothes of a brave with his tanned leggings, knee-high moccasins and silver armbands over his fringed buckskin shirt.

If only Jean-Marc could wear the silver armbands of a warrior. That’d make him a hero, a man. But to reach such a lofty position of honor among his tribesmen was not to happen. Torn between the white man’s world and that of his tribe, he could never bring himself to fight against his own, let alone kill another man. Still, pangs of jealousy twisted in his gut. How would he ever become a man among the tribe if he refused to fight?

Bow and quiver strapped to his back, Black Bear glanced up through the cottonwoods. “We should get back before the sun stands straight up in the sky.” His eyes flickered toward Running Cloud. “And before our mother starts to worry.” He strode past them.

“We’ve only been gone one sun.” Running Cloud fell in step behind him. “She knows we’re hunting.”

Jean-Marc glanced at Running Cloud and suppressed a smile. He knew Black Bear was merely attempting to annoy his younger brother, and by the scowl on Running Cloud’s face, it had worked.

“We’re only three winters younger than you. Besides, we’re bringing food.” Running Cloud stomped through the snow. “She’ll be pleased.”

Jean-Marc jogged ahead and untied the large dog that pulled a small travois piled with game and thick buffalo robes. They dropped their latest kills on the stretcher. He tugged on the dog’s ropes and urged the animal forward.

Bending down, Jean-Marc grabbed a fistful of snow. As he patted it firmly into a ball, he contemplated his target. Black Bear was quite the brave, but would he be able to avoid a hit from Jean-Marc? He whisked around, took aim, and tossed the snowball at Black Bear.

Black Bear stopped. He looked at his chest, and then his eyes narrowed at Jean-Marc. He gathered his own snowball and threw it.

Jean-Marc ducked, and the white mass sailed over his head, missing him. A smirk of satisfaction tugged his lips into a grin, and he laughed.

All three tossed snowballs at each other. Eventually, they tested their strength to see who could throw the farthest. Snowballs sailed over the travois as the dog plodded ahead of them, until their fingers went numb from the cold. Drying his hands on his leggings, Jean-Marc walked backwards. His moccasins stamped a trail on endless acres of untouched snow.

Heavy breathing broke the stillness as they trudged through the wooded valley. When they left the cottonwoods behind, a cold wind stung Jean-Marc’s cheeks, carrying an unfamiliar scent on the air.

He stopped, taking in his surroundings. Patches of snow dotted the stark landscape, and white flakes drifted over the ground like a wave foaming at his feet. He held out his hand to catch the falling snow.

Not snow. Ashes.

Dread crawled up Jean-Marc’s spine. He lifted his face to the sky. A dark cloud swelled over the horizon, casting a shadow across the land. The black mass reached into the blue sky like a hand choking out the sun. He stared at the strange horizon. The village wasn’t in sight, but the smoke came from that direction.

Fire.

He sprinted toward his home.

Mother. Grandmother.

“What caused it?” Running Cloud shouted. “It’s too cold!”

“It’s soldiers!” Black Bear raced ahead of them.

The answer made Jean-Marc’s feet move faster. He charged over thick patches of snow and dead bushes. Cold slithered into his lungs, stretching icy fingers across his chest. But he kept running.

Gunshots sounded in the distance. He tripped. The frozen dirt bit into his fingers and knees.

Running Cloud yanked him to his feet.

Again, he sprinted toward home. His chest heaved painfully from the cold, heaved with every intake of breath.

Heaved.

Gunshots exploded louder over the plains, forcing his legs to pick up their pace. Several tribesmen ran toward them.

“Turn back!” someone shouted, and screams carried through the air.

Others took cover with their children in half-dug trenches.

Jean-Marc scanned the desperate people, searching for his mother. He looked for the colorful leather that dangled from her dark braids. The silver ring shining against her hand. Her buckskin dress with the blue and green pattern along its fringed hem. He didn’t see her among the people escaping.

Voices shouted and screamed.

Jean-Marc jogged ahead. Song Bird stumbled toward him, her clothes torn, her arms sagging in anguish.

“Where’s my mother?” He grabbed Song Bird by the shoulders and shook her. “Where is she?”

“I don’t know!” Song Bird wailed. “They killed Gray Feather.” She crumpled in his arms. “My girl, my little girl!”

Running Cloud appeared next to them, his almond eyes round with shock. “Gray Feather? Gray Feather is dead?”

Jean Marc watched as Running Cloud’s shock turned to rage, a rage that matched his own. How could the soldiers attack? They knew this was a peaceful camp.

Shots sounded through the air, and sand exploded nearby.

“Take cover!” Jean-Marc pushed Song Bird toward safety and raced for the village.

He had to help the innocent. He had to find his mother. This village was filled with women and children and very few braves.

He stumbled toward the bank. A black cloud cloaked hundreds of distant lodges. Their burning scent invaded his nostrils. He dropped behind a snowdrift and rolled between thick underbrush, trying to find a safe place to hide and catch his breath. Running Cloud joined him. The acrid smoke hung in the air, and shots cracked above their heads.

The cry of a young child rushed to Jean-Marc’s ears. He crawled on his belly and peered over the snowdrift between the dead brush. A small child stumbled along the other side of the bank, crying for his mother.

Another shot fired. Sand and snow near the toddler’s feet spattered up from the ground.

The baby screamed.

“Let me try,” a white soldier said, coming up on his horse. He dismounted, knelt down and aimed his revolver at the toddler, then shot.

Shrubbery against the bank split apart behind the baby. His black hair clung to the tears on his cheeks as he continued to wail for his mother.

Jean-Marc watched the soldier. Nothing was real. He was in a dream, like when he’d try to run after the buffalo but his legs wouldn’t go fast enough. He forced himself to move and pulled an arrow from his quiver. His numb hands set the arrow against his bow.

He pulled the bowstring so tight it cut into his fingers. The muscles in his arms hurt as he aimed at the soldier’s blue coat.

He’d never killed a man before.

He released the string.

The arrow sliced through the air.