The Guardian (14 page)

“Where…are we…going?” she panted, stumbling as her foot slipped.

“There's a rock slide this way. We can go down without leaving a trail. When we get to the bottom, you and Annie will need to hide while I go after the horses.”

Charity swallowed hard. As long as Black Sun was nearby, she felt protected. But he would be leaving her alone in a night filled with enemies—alone with a baby who had never learned to be silent.

 

B
LACK
S
UN'S LAST SIGHT
of Charity, huddled with her baby in the darkness, had all but torn him apart. He had concealed them in a hollow, beneath the tangled roots of a massive pine that had blown partway over in last night's storm. She had looked so frightened and yet so trusting as he'd laid branches in place to conceal the entrance to the hiding place. Both of them had known that her life and her child's life depended on his swift return with the horses. He could not bear to think about what would happen to them if he failed.

Crouching low in the trees, he peered through the darkness at the shifting forms of the ponies. He would have to move quickly, but first he needed to make sure the herd wasn't guarded. With luck, the excitement in the canyon had drawn all the braves and young men into the chase. But Black Sun had learned never to depend on luck.

Moving as fast as he dared, he made a cautious circle of the herd. The ponies were corralled in a small grove of aspens. No one was standing guard, but a waist-high circle of rope around the grove kept them together. The leather hobbles on their legs prevented them from jumping over the rope and going off on their own.

Edging closer, Black Sun picked out his own dun buffalo pony among them, as well as the sturdy, spotted packhorse. He had broken and trained them both, and he would do his best to get them back. But if things got dangerous, he would take any animals he could lay his hands on and make a fast retreat.

For a moment he hesitated, weighing his choices. He had planned to take the horses so discreetly that the
Siksika
wouldn't notice their absence until morning. But that was before they'd discovered the invasion of the canyon. Now, he calculated, the more damage he could inflict, the better.

A moist wind raked his hair as he withdrew his knife and slipped toward the rope barricade. Thunder rumbled above the canyon as he hacked through the bar
rier rope and let it drop to the ground, creating a wide gate for the escaping ponies. Separating his own horses, he freed their legs and tethered them to a sapling while he used the blade to slice through the hobbles of any remaining horses he could reach. If he let them scatter quietly, they would have time to travel farther and take longer to round up. But creating a commotion now would lure the braves out of the foothills and—he could only hope—away from Charity's hiding place.

The decision took him no more than the space of a breath. Seizing a fallen limb in one hand, he sprang onto the back of his dun buffalo horse. With his knees gripping the horse's flanks, he charged into the milling herd, shouting a war cry and brandishing the limb like a whip. The ponies shrieked and bolted as he lashed at their rumps, driving them in a wild stampede, straight toward the
Siksika
camp.

As the leaders crashed into the outermost lodges, Black Sun wheeled his cat-footed mount and raced back toward the place where he'd tethered the packhorse. He would be faster with the buffalo pony alone, but he would need both animals for the long journey east with Charity and her baby.

Snatching up the packhorse's lead rope, he pressed himself low over the dun horse's neck and headed for the wooded foothills. He knew better than to go directly back to the spot where he'd left Charity. If anyone was following him, his trail could lead them right to her. Instead he would make a circle up the slope and cut back
down along the rock slide, only approaching her hiding place when he knew it was safe.

He was just swinging the horses uphill when the arrow struck him from behind. He heard the singing sound of it and, almost at the same instant, felt it strike and enter the flesh above his shoulder blade. The deep, searing pain was so intense that he almost fainted.

Somehow he managed to stay on the horse. He could no longer guide the animal, but he tightened the grip of his knees and wrapped his arms around the surging neck. Gritting his teeth against the pain, Black Sun hung on with all his waning strength as they galloped into the night.

 

T
HE DARKNESS
was alive with small, scurrying sounds. Crickets chirped in the tangled undergrowth, their chorus a high-pitched drone that grated on Charity's nerves. From its perch on an overhanging limb, an owl called again and again, its voice like the cry of a lonely ghost. A coyote yipped mournfully from a distant hilltop.

Charity shivered beneath the buffalo robe she'd unfolded to keep herself and Annie warm. Her hand felt for the small knife she had bound to her leg, within easy reach. How much time had passed? An hour? Two? The minutes had crawled by so slowly that it could have been days. She had nursed her daughter twice while she'd waited, and still Black Sun had not returned. Now Annie was growing fussy again.

Charity opened the buckskin shirt and put the baby to her breast. What was happening out there in the night? Had Black Sun been hurt or captured, even killed? Could he be leading the enemy away from her, or was he still waiting for the right time to free the horses?

And where were the Blackfoot? Had the moving torches swarmed to the ridge where they'd climbed out of the canyon? Had the trackers found their trail in the darkness?

Charity shuddered beneath the buffalo robe as she remembered the stories Rueben Potter had told around the campfire. The Blackfoot, he'd declared, could track a beetle over sheer rock by moonlight. And once they picked up a trail, they never lost it, not even in a storm.

Surely Rueben had been exaggerating. But that didn't mean she and Annie were safe. Even now, the warriors could be out there in the darkness, picking up the signs—a broken twig, an overturned rock, any small thing that would lead them to the hiding place beneath the tree.

Rueben had told other stories about the Blackfoot, as well—tales so gruesome that Silas had ordered the women into the wagons where they couldn't listen. But even then, Charity had pressed her ear to the canvas, unable to tear herself away. The mountain man's descriptions of unspeakable torture had given her terrifying dreams. Now, if she and Annie were taken, those nightmares would become real.

Thunder boomed overhead like the laughter of some malicious spirit, teasing her with the promise of rain that never came. Oh, where was Black Sun? Why hadn't he come back for her?

He had told her to stay in her hiding place and not to come out for any reason. But what if he never came back? What if he was lying somewhere out there, injured or dead? Or worse, what if the Blackfoot had taken him alive?

Stop it!
she ordered herself. Black Sun would come back. And if he didn't, she would find a way to get herself and Annie to safety. She was strong and resourceful, and she knew enough about the sun, moon and stars to find her way east. If she had to, by heaven, she would walk all the way to the Missouri River with her baby on her back.

But her heart would ache for Black Sun every step of the way.

Annie had stopped nursing and was lying awake, sucking her thumb. Charity laid her back in her cradleboard and tightened the lacings. Everything would be all right, she told herself. She had to keep believing that or she would die of fear.

She settled back against a massive tree root. Only then did she realize that she could no longer hear the crickets. She could no longer hear the owl or the coyote, or the faint rustlings among the leaves. Except for the sound of Annie's contented sucking, the night had fallen into absolute silence.

Charity felt gooseflesh prickle along her arms and raise the hair on the back of her neck. Wild creatures, even the smallest, had senses that told them when danger was near. Their silence was a warning.

Straining her ears, she listened. At first she heard nothing. Then the sound of voices drifted down the slope toward her.

They were young men, she guessed from the pitch of their voices, maybe the same ones who'd attacked the wagon train. They were talking and laughing, making no effort to be still. Judging from what Charity could hear, there were no more than two or three of them. But there might as well be a hundred. If they found her hiding place, their numbers would make no difference.

Closer and closer they came, their careless talk punctuated with hoots and giggles. Clearly they hadn't picked up her trail. But they seemed to be headed straight for her hiding place.

Stretching upward, she could make out the glow of a guttering torch as it bobbed closer through the trees. Scarcely daring to breathe, she covered her own head and Annie's with the buffalo robe so their pale faces and hair would not catch the light. The sound of Annie chomping on her thumb seemed to fill the darkness around them. Charity weighed, then rejected, the idea of trying to quiet her. The small sucking noise blended with the night. Heaven willing, the rowdy young men would not even notice it. But if Annie were to cry…

Charity could not even bear to finish the thought.

The braves were near the uprooted pine tree. She could hear them teasing each other as they stumbled over one another's feet. One of them paused to relieve himself. Charity could hear the steady stream splashing into the dead leaves that covered the ground. Her hand slid the small knife out of its wrappings. She gripped its hide-wrapped haft, ready to fight to the death for her baby if they discovered her. She did not dare uncover her eyes to look, but her ears told her they were close enough to reach down among the tree roots and seize her hair.

Her pulse thundered in her ears, filling the dark space beneath the buffalo robe. Annie's little chomping noises sounded as loud as the snort of a horse. She was sucking harder now, frustrated, perhaps, that the thumb gave her no nourishment.

The braves, however, did not appear to notice. Their voices were fading. Yes, thank heaven, they were walking away. Charity felt the cold sweat of relief break out on her skin. The danger had passed! She and Annie were safe! Now if only Black Sun would get here with the horses…

Annie chose that moment to spit out her thumb and break into a full-bodied wail.

C
HARITY'S HAND
clapped instinctively over her daughter's mouth. Rueben Potter's stories flashed through her mind—the Indian mothers who'd suffocated their crying babies to keep their people from being found and massacred. Now, as never before, she understood the fear—and the love—that would trigger such a desperate act.

But she had no intention of smothering her own child. There was no one else here to save but herself, and she would fight to the death before she would let the Blackfoot touch one hair on Annie's golden head.

“Hush…hush…” she whispered, clutching the squirming, fussing baby to her shoulder. “It's all right, Little One. Don't cry.”

But Annie had sensed her mother's fear. She began to squall in earnest, butting her head against Charity's shoulder. Charity pressed the tiny face against her breast, hard enough to muffle the sound but not to block Annie's breathing. Straining her ears, she could hear the two braves coming back toward her, speaking now in short, jerky exclamations. They had heard, of course. How could they fail to hear such a racket?

A cold breeze swept down from the ridge, filling her nostrils with the smell of moisture. Thunder echoed along the peaks, but Charity knew better than to hope for rain. Tonight, the clouds and thunder had offered nothing but unfulfilled promises. Once she had almost believed Black Sun's story about the great Thunderbird. She had viewed the storms in the canyon as a sign that some mysterious spirit was watching over them. But no longer. Her miracles had deserted her in this dark forest, leaving her with nothing to depend on but her own pitiful resources.

Peering from under the edge of the buffalo robe, she could see the reddish glow of the torch. It was no more than twenty paces away. Seconds from now, they would find her hiding place.

With her free hand, she clutched the knife Black Sun had left with her. It wasn't much of a weapon, and she wasn't very strong, but she had the ferocity and determination of a mother protecting her baby. They would have to kill her to get to Annie.

Annie's crying had subsided to a mewling whimper—too late to make any difference. Charity laid her gently in the cradleboard, covered her with the smaller buffalo robe and eased her back among the roots, where the shadows would hide her. Then, knife ready, she shifted to a crouch that would allow her to leap at her attackers. She could only hope that, if they took her, Black Sun would return in time to find Annie and get her to safety.

The glowing torch moved closer and stopped. Like a malevolent red eye, it probed the darkness, moving along the trunk of the tree, toward the roots. Charity's muscles tensed as the light moved closer. Her hand locked around the knife, ready to strike.

From somewhere in the trees, an owl hooted. The torch swung abruptly in the direction of the sound. Charity heard a nervous laugh from one of the young men, followed by the distant rumble of thunder. Raindrops began pattering down, softly at first, then in a sudden torrent. Rain poured from the sky, dousing the torch and plunging the forest into darkness.

Charity could no longer see the two young braves, but she could hear them. They were shouting at each other in an effort to be heard above the storm. Although Charity didn't understand a word of their language, it was clear enough that they'd decided to abandon their search. She slumped against a tree root as their voices faded into the rainy night. The knife tumbled from her limp fingers.

Annie was whimpering. Charity picked her up and hugged her fiercely. Another miracle had occurred, or so it seemed. She and Annie were alive because of the rain. But Black Sun was still out there somewhere in the storm—hurt, maybe, or even dead. She needed one more miracle to bring him back to her.

But what if that miracle failed to happen? She would wait here until the storm ended, Charity resolved. After that, her hiding place would no longer be safe. She
would have to take Annie and leave before the Blackfoot returned with torches to search for them.

How would Black Sun find her then?

Pressing herself into the deep shadows, she held her daughter close. Silently she prayed to Black Sun's gods and to her own—to all who would listen.
Please, please bring him back in time….

 

B
LACK
S
UN AWAKENED
in a haze of pain. Ice-cold rain hammered against his back, streaming down his arms where he gripped the horse's neck. His wounded shoulder burned like fire.

What had happened? The last thing he remembered was the arrow striking him and his horse racing away into the darkness. He must have blacked out, for he remembered nothing else, not even the rain, until now.

Biting back the agony, he forced himself to sit up and to look around him. It was deep night, so dark that even the rain was invisible. But the ground appeared flat and open. And he recognized the sound that the rain made when it trickled into long, dry grass. The dun buffalo pony had carried him out onto the plain.

Something moved off to his left. His heart lurched before he heard the snort and recognized the spotted packhorse standing a few paces away. Even when he'd dropped its lead, it had stayed with its companion.

What to do now? Black Sun struggled to clear his pain-fogged mind. The arrow had gone most of the way through his shoulder. He could feel the hard point
of it in front, just beneath his skin—a good thing, which would make it easier to remove when the time came. But for now, the bleeding would be far less with the arrow in place. While he could still ride, he needed to get back to Charity and the baby.

The sky was a mass of roiling black clouds that veiled the moon, the stars and even the mountains from sight. Somewhere in the wooded foothills was the uprooted tree where the two people who had, strangely, become the center of his world were hiding. But with no way to get his bearings, he could lose his sense of direction and wander all night. Morning could find him even farther away from them than he was now.

The wind. As it struck his face, he remembered how it swept down the canyon during storms. If he headed the horse into the wind, that would at least take him toward the hills. With luck, the storm would pass soon and he would be able to find his way back to Charity and her child.

If they were still alive.

He kept the horse to a walk, unable to stand the jarring pain of a trot or gallop. The sturdy little pack pony, its spotted coat barely visible through the rain, followed behind as if tethered to its trail mate. Time crawled as they plodded through the streaming rain. Every moment's delay, he knew, increased the danger to Charity and Annie. He could only hope that the rain had washed out their trail and kept the searchers under cover. But for all he knew, the rain had come too late.

He peered ahead, trying to see the hills and the can yon, but his vision was beginning to swim. Maybe he was losing more blood than he'd thought. With the rain streaming down his back, there was no way to know. But he sensed that he was getting weaker, to the point of drifting in and out of consciousness.

In desperation he nudged the horse to a trot, then a canter. The pain that flashed outward from his shoulder almost made him scream, but Black Sun clenched his jaw and bore it. The agony was keeping him awake, he told himself. He had to stay awake until he found Charity. His love. His heart. Somehow, if she lived, he would find her. And if she was dead, his spirit would find hers in the rushing wind above the canyon, in the spring, when the great Thunderbird called them home.

He was growing dizzy, losing the strength to grip the horse with his knees. Through the thinning curtain of rain he sensed the black horizon looming ahead of him, a jagged shape against the sky. The hills—he was al most there. Soon he would be in the trees, where he could rest and look for Charity…

His senses were clouding over, his limbs growing so feeble that he could no longer cling to the racing horse. As the black mist closed in, he sagged to the left, slid down the horse's flank and tumbled to the ground. Jut ting from the back of his shoulder, the arrow caught his weight with a force that drove the barbed head upward and outward through the flesh below his collarbone.

From the edge of unconsciousness he heard himself scream. And then there was only wind, rain and long, dark silence.

 

T
HE SKY
was still dark when the rain began to ebb. Gazing up through the dripping tree roots, Charity could see a sprinkling of stars. Daylight, she reckoned, was two or three hours off. By then, she and Annie would need to be safely away from here.

Hoisting the cradleboard onto her back, she gathered up the bundled provisions and climbed out of her hiding place. Before leaving, she found a fallen branch and rubbed out all signs of her tracks. Then she tossed handfuls of dead leaves over the earth beneath the tree to look as if the wind had blown them there. If Black Sun returned to this spot later, he would know from its condition that she had gone of her own free will. It was the only sign she dared leave behind to let him know that she and Annie were alive.

Picking up the bundles again, she set off through the misting rain. Leaving without Black Sun tore at her, but saving Annie had to be her first concern. She could not risk having the braves return and find them.

Every few steps she turned and brushed out her tracks, as she'd seen Black Sun do. She'd learned many things from him in their brief time together—things she must use now to get her daughter to safety. If Black Sun was dead—and her hopes had bled away with each ex
cruciating hour of the night—she would always remember that he had given his life for her and for Annie. She would make sure that Annie remembered it, too.

Grief and fear stalked her like gloomy monsters that would leap on her and tear her to pieces if she turned around to face them. Later, she would try to sort out all that had happened. For now, she had no choice but to keep moving.

The sky had begun to pale by the time she reached the open plain. She would head east, keeping to the edge of the trees, Charity resolved. And she would make herself believe that Black Sun was alive and that somehow they would find each other. Otherwise, she would never have the courage to go on.

An hour into her journey, as the sky was fading to silvered rose and the birds were stirring from sleep, Charity saw the horses. The sleek dun and the stocky little pinto were standing side by side in the grass, about a dozen paces beyond the trees. They raised their heads, their sharp ears pricking forward as they saw her.

Where was Black Sun?

Heart pounding, she crept toward them, fearful that they would bolt before she could catch them. “Easy,” she murmured. “Easy now.”

The dun horse snorted, showing the whites of its eyes, but neither of the animals moved. They stood as if rooted to the spot, almost as if they were guarding something. Scarcely daring to breathe, Charity edged forward.

The first thing she saw was the point of the arrow thrusting above the seed heads of the tall grass. Then, as she came closer, she saw Black Sun, his eyes closed, his dark hair spilling like blood on the rain-soaked ground.

Was he alive? Setting the cradleboard and provisions close by, she crumpled to her knees beside him. Pressing her ear to his chest, she heard the steady throb of his heart, beating in counterpoint to her own skittering pulse. He groaned softly, as if aware of her touch, but his eyes did not open.

His shoulder was bleeding where the arrow emerged from his flesh, but only a little. The arrow itself was likely stopping the blood. She could remove it by cutting off the arrowhead and pulling the shaft the rest of the way out. But that could trigger serious bleeding, something she dared not risk until she could move him to a safe hiding place.

But she could at least cut off the arrowhead and remove the chance of his falling or rolling on it. Taking out her small knife, she braced the barbed bone arrowhead with her fingers and hacked through the shaft below the sinew that bound it in place. There was no way to do it without putting painful pressure on the wound. A shudder went through Black Sun's body as the tough, smoke-cured reed snapped and parted. He groaned again and opened his eyes.

Charity bent forward and brushed his chilled lips with her own. “Listen to me,” she murmured. “I've cut
off the arrowhead, but we need to get you someplace safe before I can take the shaft out. I can't carry you, and I can't drag you without hurting your shoulder. Can you get up?”

His lips moved, straining to form each syllable. “Horse…little one…here.”

The horses had backed off, but neither of them had gone far. Charity caught the packhorse's tether and led the sturdy animal close to his side. The little pinto snorted and twitched its ears but didn't try to pull away.

“Help me up…” Black Sun mouthed the words. He struggled to rise, rolling onto his uninjured side and pushing his elbow beneath him. As he wrenched himself upward, Charity worked her shoulder beneath his good right arm and helped him. Gasping, he staggered to his feet and sagged against the side of the packhorse.

Charity moved behind him, freeing his arm to circle the horse's solid neck. Only then did she see the blood that had streamed and clotted down his back. The arrow had done far more damage than she'd realized. There was no way of knowing how much blood Black Sun had lost.

The blazing rim of the sun edged above the horizon, casting long fingers of light across the rain-glimmered grassland. There was no time to lose. Even now the Blackfoot could be moving along the foothills, their sharp eyes scanning the plain. Getting into the trees and out of sight was an even more urgent task than tending his wound.

Shouldering the cradleboard and provisions, Charity moved close to Black Sun. By leaning heavily on the packhorse, he was able to stay on his feet and walk. But his face was deathly pale and his jaw clenched against each jarring movement. Nickering anxiously, the dun horse ambled behind them.