Proud Wolf's Woman (4 page)

Finally, several minutes having gone by, she knew she would have to return. Sighing, she gathered up the reins of her horse and, turning the gelding around, proceeded back up the rise the same way she had gone down.

He waited for her, her husband, his mood not at all improved, and for want of anything else to do, Julia gave him a quick smile. In truth, her grin was often her only means of defense against her husband’s ill humor.

“Are you done at last? Now hurry,” he ordered her. “I have no time for this, for you. There’s trouble for my troops, and you are in my way. Now, mount up.”

Julia nodded, although she hesitated. “Kenneth, I need a hand.”

He groaned, but he came toward her all the same. “You know, this is all your fault. If we hadn’t had to come back and pick you up at the Colbys’, we would already be back at the fort. I hope you see what trouble you are.”

Julia raised her brows. It was her only reaction to his accusation. Though she knew he might believe a part of his tirade, she also realized he baited her. Their predicament had little to do with her. She had heard the men talking, heard the rumors of what had happened in the Kiowa camp; she had asked questions. And it would appear that Kenneth’s inability to control his men’s baser appetites had borne so much ill will in the Indian camp that most feared the Kiowa might follow them now…seeking revenge for what could only be termed the rape of the Indian women. It was this that most likely disturbed Kenneth’s peace of mind—not Julia.

“What?” Kenneth folded his hands over his chest, as he halted, poised, ready for a fight. He pursed his lips, and when Julia further delayed speaking, he continued, “And what does my too-sweet wife have to say? And don’t tell me it’s nothing. I know you too well.”

Julia sighed, attempting to keep her gaze cool, assessing. Truly, she wished to say nothing. At this moment, anything she uttered would only serve to further enrage him.

Still…

Keeping her hands firmly wrapped around the reins of her horse, she took a deep breath and began, “Kenneth, I think the trouble does not lie with me, but with your own men and their violation of the Kiowa women. You were supposed to be on a peaceful mission in the Indian camp. You were supposed to do nothing but create goodwill toward the military, toward the pioneers who travel through their country. How could you have allowed your men to treat the Kiowa women in so degrading a fashion?”

She saw him flinch, saw his face redden even further. “What do you know of it?” he hissed at her. “You, with your great knowledge of military intelligence?”

Julia merely lifted an eyebrow, and though it mocked him, she could not help herself. “And what sort of intelligence does it take, Kenneth, to know that with the safety of Fort Leavenworth several days’ ride away, one does not anger one’s hosts in such a way?”

“You weren’t there. How could you know how those women baited my men? The women begged for it, I tell you. Why the savages even seemed glad we had done it. Probably couldn’t…”

His voice trailed off, but Julia barely heard any more, her attention centered on one thing only. We, he’d said. We?

Julia carefully schooled her features into revealing nothing. Not her outrage at his logic, nor his justification of what his men, and possibly what he himself, had done.

We? Julia swallowed hard.

What could she say? Chastisement would accomplish nothing, would only serve to enrage him further. But deep inside, Julia died a little. We? She licked her lips. It was her only reaction. Slowly, so as not to draw attention to herself, she looked to the ground.

“Well,” he prodded, “have you nothing to say to that?”

She hesitated. She kept her eyes focused on her skirts, until at last she muttered, “I say there isn’t a woman alive who ‘begs’ for it.”

He gritted his teeth in response to her; he glared at her as though she had shouted at him and then, without so much as a further pause, he growled, “What would you know about it?”

“More than you, it would seem,” she murmured, her head down.

Silence. Utter, deadening silence, until at last, with a hiss, he snarled at her, “Stay away from me, Julia. From here on forward you are nothing to me. Nothing to anyone.” His lips twisted into a sneer, he spit out, “I know you for what you are now, Julia. And I don’t like what I see. You’re a bitch, Julia. A goddamned bitch.”

Julia didn’t utter a word. Stunned, shocked at herself with her back talk, and at Kenneth with his ill-chosen words, Julia, her dark hair blowing forward into her face, merely looked away.

It was some moments before she was able to regain her composure—enough to turn, to gather up her horse’s reins, and begin her long, solitary trek back down the “rise.”

She didn’t look back. She didn’t see her husband’s red, angry face, and, in truth, it was better that way.

The gunshot came as a surprise.

Julia’s head came up in an instant. Kenneth ran to her side. Together both man and woman stared out at the company of soldiers, the dragoons, who strove to assemble themselves while under the onslaught of attack. Dust clouded the field, making it impossible for either one to get a clear view of the action. The high-pitched war whoops, the whiz of arrows, the screams, the cursing, the orders to arms, to formation, told the tale.

More gunshots, more arrows, the squeals of the horses, the stench of raw flesh and sweat permeated the air. Still Julia and Kenneth stood transfixed, unable to move, to breathe.

The Indians clearly outnumbered the cavalry by two to one, and it was obvious that no white man would survive this attack. It was what the dragoons had feared, what they had expected, yet for all that, it came as a surprise to all of them.

It occurred to Julia that her husband, the superior officer, should be running back to his men to aid and assist them, but it was no more than a passing thought as Julia watched with horror the cloud of dust in the distance.

Their horses whinnied behind them, but Julia barely registered the sound until all at once, Kenneth pulled away from her, jumping onto his own mount. He might have helped her onto her horse. He didn’t.

He might have encouraged her to do whatever it was he was going to do. He didn’t.

He reined in his steed and Julia, reading his thoughts, knowing that he meant to flee in the opposite direction from the fight, felt her heart sink.

He means to leave me.

The knowledge hit her with the strength of an arrow. He said nothing to her, he did nothing, not even inclining his head, until, with a click of his heel to his mount, he turned and shot over the rise.

“Kenneth?” she called, her voice no louder than a whisper, then, “Kenneth, come back here!”

She spurred herself into action and, trying to run, she stumbled after him. “Kenneth, where are you…?”

War whoops interrupted her. Julia froze.

More war whoops resounded around her. Julia spun around, screaming at the same time. A single warrior descended upon her.

She thought of running. She didn’t. She couldn’t move. Besides, it would do no good, and she knew it.

So she stood, fear gripping her, although the emotion became buried as she felt as if she were moving away from her body. It was an odd sensation, she was to think later, for she found herself contemplating the warrior as though from afar, as though none of this were happening to her.

It did occur to her once that she should feel something, yet as she stared at the Indian, nothing stirred within her, and she found herself studying the man, his body paint and his horsemanship, as an artist might, noting that white paint covered the warrior’s face, neck, and chest, while black slashes jetted out under his eyes and along his cheekbones. Feathers dangled from his hair, above his crown, and also from his spear, which he held in his hand…pointed at her. He screamed as he raced toward her, his war cry carrying on the wind, and Julia, silently admiring the man’s cleverness with his mount, watched, hypnotized, waiting for the death blow.

Closer and closer he sped, the sound of his approach deafening, until she thought she could see the color of his eyes, the yellow of his teeth. Knowing she could do nothing, she watched, she waited as though her body did not belong to her.

She noted the magnificent sight the warrior made, her own horse whinnying and stomping behind her, tugging on the reins she still clutched in her hands. Dust clogged her nostrils, stinging her eyes, stopping up the pores of her skin, finding its way into her system until she thought she might taste the dirt, and the warrior, ever closer, sprinted his pony right up to her, screaming. But at the last moment, he leaped on by her without more than a momentary pause, his spear coming a few scant inches from her face.

He hollered as he burst past her, and minutes later Julia heard the scream; a scream of horror, a masculine scream.

Kenneth’s?

Lord, no!

She almost swooned, but something held her upright, some emotion that would not let her fall.

She heard the sounds of spear meeting flesh, of more crying, and then a horse blazed back toward her. She felt the jerk of motion as someone grabbed her around the waist, her hands twisting in the still-held reins of her own mount.

She felt hot, sweaty flesh next to her own.

The Indian’s.

She felt the man’s pony burst to full speed, saw the bloody scalp of brown hair he brandished in his hand: Kenneth’s.

She closed her eyes, saying a silent prayer for a man she had never truly been able to love.

She began to cry, but the wind whipped the moisture off her skin, giving her the appearance of nonchalance; a look which, had she but known it, made her appear ethereal.

Her Indian captor gazed at her, his look expressing a sort of awe, but she turned away from him, feeling nausea building within her.

It didn’t take long; within seconds, Julia convulsed over and over, losing her meager breakfast onto the ground until, at last, her stomach would heave no more.

She would never see Kenneth again. Not in this world.

She began to cry again, but the tears, she found, wouldn’t come. Instead a sort of numbness filled her.

Perhaps it was that which gave her the appearance of strength; perhaps it was something else. Whatever the cause, Julia, raising her chin and, feeling her hair blowing back with the wind, little knew that her attitude lit a spark of admiration within her captor—an esteem that could win her guardianship or perhaps bring her terror.

Thankfully she was saved from this knowledge. For the moment, her insouciance became her saving grace, and she held on to it. It was, notwithstanding, all that she had.

Chapter Two

“Saaaa,
my brother from the north has decided to join his southern Cheyenne relatives at last.”

“It is good to see you.” Neeheeoeewotis, or Neeheeowee for short, Wolf on the Hill, greeted his brother-in-law with these words and a brief shake of his head. He didn’t smile, but then he never did.

“I see you have many ponies there.” Mahoohe, Red Fox, maneuvered his steed around his friend in order to examine each of the eight mustangs which Neeheeowee led on a lariat. “I have never seen such fine-looking animals. It must have taken you much to accumulate such wealth. Where did you get them?”

“In our favorite spot,” Neeheeowee responded, while he shifted his position on his mount. “I met with no trouble there.”

“That is good,” Mahoohe said. “Runners reported that you were approaching. I decided to come out and greet you before you came into camp.”

Neeheeowee nodded, and, turning his head, he settled his gaze over each pony that he led before he gave his attention back to Mahoohe.

Mahoohe said, “It has been a long time.”

Again Neeheeowee nodded.

“You will stay in my lodge?”

“I would be honored.”

“Good, then,” Mahoohe said, “that is settled. You intend to trade all of these at the Kiowa fair for…?” Mahoohe raised an eyebrow.

Neeheeowee sat forward stiffly, hesitating to put his purpose into words. But Mahoohe was a friend as well as his brother-in-law and so, at last, Neeheeowee said, “I will trade all this wealth for the new fire-sticks of the white man. I have long been on the path of revenge. I would see the matter settled soon. This new weapon will enable me to do this.”

Mahoohe nodded. “So. You are still on the same path. It is good, this revenge that you feel, and I understand that you must do this, but—”

Neeheeowee glanced up swiftly at his friend.

“But,” Mahoohe continued, “do you not think it is time to settle down again?”

Neeheeowee shifted in his seating, unwilling to share his thoughts with his friend. What could he say?

“I came out here to welcome you because I wanted you to know that all here feel that you have done your duty toward my sister,” Mahoohe continued. “All in our family have a glad heart to see what you have done. But it is time now to give it up. Do you not think so?”

Neeheeowee hesitated. His glance skimmed briefly over his brother-in-law, then over the land around them. “I will never rest,” Neeheeowee said at last, speaking the words quietly, though firmly. “Never. Not until each and every one of my wife’s murderers is brought to justice. I do not expect you to understand. I do not think anyone could understand. This is something I must do. It is something I will do.”

Mahoohe shook his head. “It is over, my brother. It has been over for five years. You have done your duty toward my sister. There is none who would question your loyalty toward her.”

“What others think has no meaning to me.” Neeheeowee stared ahead of him. “This is something I have to do. I do not care if anyone agrees with me. What I do is what I must do.”

Mahoohe sighed, and, looking back toward Neeheeowee, he said, “The Kiowa and Cheyenne trade fair goes well this year. I believe you will find what you want.”

“This is good,” Neeheeowee said, letting out his breath. “I am glad the Kiowa and Cheyenne have reached a peace at last. I have been waiting for this trading fair a long time, ever since I realized it is the Kiowa who live close enough to the Mexicans to bargain for the best weapons. But I have been unable to trade with the Kiowa because we have been at war with them. Now, however, I am ready. The Kiowa do not have what the Cheyenne can obtain so easily: these fine horses. And I am counting on the Kiowa being willing to trade away those weapons of the white man in exchange for…” He raised his chin, “…my ponies.”