Forbidden Fires (2 page)

Chapter Two

Black Wind carried him effortlessly across the miles as he rode westward, always westward, looking for a place to call home. He had never really had a home of his own. As a child, he had lived with his father. As a young man in New Orleans, he had lived in hotels or rented rooms. During the last six years, he had shared a Lakota lodge with his father and Tall Grass Woman. He had never realized until now, when he was alone with nowhere to go, just how deeply he had yearned for a place to call his own.

Day after day he rode toward the setting sun, the hours passing in serene sameness as he sought graze and water for his mount, and food and shelter for himself. He explored the country, lingering now and then in some verdant valley to rest himself and the mare, pausing to study the lay of the land, to contemplate the granite spires that rose in the distance.

He passed sharp ridges and blood-red buttes that looked like mythical castles as he crossed a corner of the
Mako Sica,
the Badlands. The Indians called it the place of the crying wind. It was a vast stretch of ground made up of steep ridges and high-walled canyons, gullies and pyramids, colorful sandstone spires, pinnacles, and deep gorges. He heard the wind whining through the canyons, wailing like a bereaved child, and felt the short hair prickle along the back of his neck as the sound crept into his soul. High overhead, he saw a pair of turkey vultures riding the updrafts in a constant search for prey, and he urged Black Wind into a lope, eager to leave the Badlands behind. He breathed a sheepish sigh of relief when the prairie spread before him once again.

He had been traveling for almost a month when he came to the huge upthrust rock the Kiowas called
Mateo Tepee,
Grizzly Bear Lodge. Though he had never seen it before, he recognized it instantly, for there could be no other rock so solitary or so large. He sat the mare a long time, studying the gigantic rock tower, remembering the Kiowa legend he had heard back in the Dakotas.

According to Kiowa mythology, seven sisters had been playing a distance from their village when they were chased by bears. The girls ran toward home and when the bears were about to catch them, they jumped onto a low rock. One of the girls began to pray to the rock, “Rock, take pity on us. Rock, save us.” The rock heard them and began to rise upward, pushing the children higher and higher until they were out of the bears’ reach. The bears scratched the rock, breaking their claws, and fell to the ground, while the seven little girls were born into the sky and became the stars of the Big Dipper.

Stalking Wolf pondered the legend as he rode onward, fascinated by the rich folklore of the Indians. Each tribe had its own mythical heroes, its own version of how the earth came into being, of the creation of man.

His father had told him some of the Cherokee legends and history so that he would have a feel for his mother’s people, and an appreciation for his heritage.

He recalled his pride when he’d heard the story of Sequoya, who was the son of a Cherokee mother and an Englishman. Believing that literacy was the source of the white man’s power, and having no formal education, Sequoya had singlehandedly created a written language for his tribe.

For days, Stalking Wolf continued to ride westward, looking for a home.

Nights were the worst time. It was then he missed the companionship of his friends and family, the community dances, the tribal feasts, and celebrations. It was then that Summer Wind haunted his dreams. He could keep her memory at bay during the day, but he could not keep her image out of his dreams. Once again, he courted her, his arms around her shoulders as they stood close under a large red courting blanket, his heart hammering in his chest as she whispered secret words of love and fidelity.

He lay on his back beneath a star-studded April night, his hands clasped behind his head, his eyes staring at a bright yellow moon. Sweet words, he mused bitterly. Sweet lying words…

A muffled sound disturbed the quiet of the night, and he rolled nimbly to his feet, his hand reaching for the knife at his belt.

Silent as the stalking wolf for which he had been named, he made his way toward the sound. He paused in mid-stride as he neared the shallow stream where he had hobbled his horse. Black Wind stood silhouetted against the darkness, her dainty ears pricked forward, her nostrils flared as a big blood bay stallion pranced toward her.

Stalking Wolf let out a sigh of admiration as the bay paused to sniff the air. The stallion was a magnificent animal, big-boned, sleek, with a heavy black mane and a long flowing tail.

The stud let out a trumpeting call as he closed in on Black Wind. Nose to nose, they sniffed each other, exchanging breath for breath, then the stallion sidled up to her, nuzzling her neck, nipping her shoulder, obviously excited by her musky scent and the inviting lift of her tail.

Stalking Wolf watched as the stallion circled the black mare, snuffling softly. Then, rearing up on his hind legs, the huge bay mounted Black Wind, his powerful forelegs gripping her flanks.

Quietly, Stalking Wolf moved downwind of the horses, determined to capture the bay. As he drew closer, he noticed the stallion was wearing a halter and a slow grin moved across his face. The horse had obviously been caught before, which would make it so much easier this time.

At that moment, the wind changed and the stallion caught the scent of a man. Startled, the bay withdrew from Black Wind and backed up, its nostrils flaring as it sniffed the night air.

Stalking Wolf remained still as the bay stud drank in his scent.

“Hohahe,”
Stalking Wolf murmured. “Welcome.”

The horse snorted and shook its head at the sound of the man’s voice.

“Easy, boy,” Stalking Wolf said in the same quiet voice, “easy, now.”

The stallion blew softly as Stalking Wolf walked slowly toward it, one hand outstretched, palm up.

The bay’s ears were forward, its head lifted, as it focused on the man moving toward it.

“Easy, boy,” Stalking Wolf murmured. “Easy, now. There’s nothing to be afraid of.”

The stallion was no stranger to men, and its curiosity and the presence of the black mare kept it from bolting as Stalking Wolf reached for the halter.

The bay snorted and tossed its head when it realized it had been caught, but Stalking Wolf stroked its neck, murmuring to the horse, and the stallion soon calmed down.

He tethered the stallion to a sturdy oak, checked the mare’s hobbles, and went back to bed to dream of the fine long-legged fillies and colts that would be sired by the big blood bay with Black Wind.

Just before dawn rough hands jerked Stalking Wolf to his feet. Instantly coming awake, he instinctively lashed out at his attackers, but grunted with pain as knotted fists and booted feet drove into his back, ribcage, and groin. A sharp uppercut bloodied his nose and mouth, and a second blow connected with his left eye.

The three men worked him over expertly, relentlessly. When they finally tired of their sport and released him, Stalking Wolf fell to the ground, curling into a tight ball to protect himself from further harm. He felt a sharp pain explode in his right side as one of the men kicked him again, cracking a rib. Through a red haze of pain he heard a voice call, “Wylie, that’s enough!”

“Luther’s right.” Paulie Norton was quick to agree. He did not like violence of any kind and ganging up on a man, even an Indian, did not sit well with him. He had been ready to call it quits before they got started.

“Let’s string him up and be done with it then,” Abner Wylie muttered, running his left hand over the bruised knuckles on his right hand. A small smile played over his thin lips as he looked down at the Indian, pleased with the damage he had done. With Luther Hicks’s help, Abner hauled the Indian to his feet and dragged him toward the horse Paulie had positioned beneath a low-hanging branch.

They were going to hang him. The realization hit Stalking Wolf like a physical blow and he began to struggle violently as the three men bound his hands behind his back, then wrestled him onto the back of the horse. Abner Wylie was grinning with anticipation as he dropped a noose over the Indian’s head and snugged the noose tight.

Stalking Wolf sat rock still, the rough hemp cutting into his throat, his heart pounding like a Lakota war drum. The horse stirred restlessly beneath him and he felt his muscles tense in awful anticipation of what was to come.

The quick tattoo of approaching hoofbeats halted the men. Glancing over their heads, Stalking Wolf saw two mounted figures reining in their horses a short distance away. The rider nearest Stalking Wolf was a burly man dressed in denim work clothes and a broad-brimmed black Stetson. The second rider was similarly dressed, but even with his left eye swollen shut, Stalking Wolf could see it was a girl.

“Go on home, Caitlyn,” the man said gruffly. “There’s no need for you to see this.”

Caitlyn Carmichael shook her head. She had no desire to see a hanging, but she’d never run from a disagreeable task before and she wasn’t about to start now. “I’ve come this far, Pa,” she said, a slight quiver in her voice. “I’ll stay and see it to the end.”

“Suit yourself,” Brenden Carmichael muttered. “Wylie, are you sure he’s the one?” When Abner Wylie nodded curtly at his boss, Carmichael replied, “Then let’s get on with it.”

Stalking Wolf felt his blood go cold as Abner Wylie moved behind the horse. Hanging was a bad way to die. The Lakota believed that a man’s spirit left his body with his dying breath, but when a man was hanged, his spirit was forever trapped in his corpse. Though he knew his father did not believe in such nonsense, the Lakota beliefs were strongly embedded in Stalking Wolf, especially now, when death was near.

But his pride made him lift his head, and he stared at the eastern horizon where a brilliant sunrise was paying homage to a new day. The sky grew brighter, changing from pale gray to bright gold, then exploding in a spectacular display of fiery reds and oranges as the sun crested the skyline.

Wakan Tonka, give me strength and courage.
The silent prayer rose in Stalking Wolf’s heart as Wylie took a firm grip on the loose end of the rope while the man known as Luther reached for the horse’s reins. The brassy taste of fear was strong in Stalking Wolf’s mouth as he imagined the horse moving out from under him, and the quick sensation of falling. If he was lucky, death would come quickly. If not, he would slowly strangle.

Caitlyn’s mouth went dry as she tried to imagine what the Indian was feeling. What would it be like to know death was only a heartbeat away? To know you had no hope of a reprieve? She gazed at the Indian’s face, set in impassive lines, and the sympathy she’d been feeling vanished. Her brothers had been killed by marauding savages, perhaps this very man had been responsible for their deaths.

Brenden Carmichael, owner of the Circle C ranch, felt a grudging admiration for the Indian who, though facing certain death, glared at him with bold defiance. Although he harbored no love for Indians, it suddenly seemed unfair to hang a man without giving him a last chance to speak and to confess his guilt before he went to meet his Maker.

“Wait.” Carmichael’s voice cut across the heavy stillness as he rode toward the Indian. He drew his horse to a halt, facing the condemned man. “You speak English?”

Stalking Wolf nodded. The girl had followed the man and though he knew these two held the power of life and death over him, he focused his gaze on the fading streaks of vermillion that still stained the sky. The color reminded him of blood and death.

His blood. His death.

“Why did you steal my daughter’s horse?” the man demanded.

Stalking Wolf licked the blood from his lips. Drawing his gaze from the horizon, he focused on the girl and found himself staring into a pair of deep green eyes fringed with long, golden lashes. The fact that she was quite beautiful despite her rough garb registered somewhere in the back of his mind.

“I did not steal the horse.” He spoke through swollen lips, grimacing from the effort, and knowing that they would not believe him.

“He’s lying, Mr. Carmichael,” Abner said with a sneer. “Let’s hang him and be done with it.”

Surprised that he had directed his answer to her and not to her father, Caitlyn studied the Indian. His eyes were dark, the left one was badly swollen and discolored. His nose and mouth were bloody, and a shallow line cut across his left cheek. His clothing, a loose-fitting buckskin shirt, fringed leggings, clout, and moccasins, were covered with trail dust and splattered with blood. He looked wild, untamed, and completely savage, but she had to admire the way he faced her, with his head high and his shoulders back. She knew he was afraid. He
had
to be afraid, but it didn’t show on his face. “What if he’s telling the truth, Pa?”

Abner snorted disdainfully. “They’re all liars, Mr. Carmichael. Everybody knows you can’t trust a redskin any farther than you can throw one. Especially one that’s got a noose around his neck.”

Caitlyn gazed steadily at the Indian as Abner accused him of being a thief and a liar. She felt a cold shiver in the pit of her stomach as she saw a flash of anger flicker in the Indian’s eyes, and then his expression became impassive once again.

“I believe him,” she decided, surprising everyone, including herself. She glanced at Luther Hicks, hoping he would agree with her, but even Luther looked skeptical.