The Guardian (2 page)

The dun-colored buffalo pony pricked its ears at his approach. Swinging easily onto its bare back, Black Sun took up the lead of the packhorse and chose a narrow deer trail that zigzagged downward through the pines. Below him, the trail forked. One branch wound over a rock slide and down to a rushing creek. The other, easier on the horses but more exposed to danger, circled the back of the bluff to emerge into the valley below.

He hesitated, glancing up at the sky. The sun was well past its high point and he had a long way to go before dark. The easier route would be faster, but he would need to go quietly and keep to the trees. It would not do to have the young
Siksika
abandon the wagon train and turn their mischief on him.

For a moment longer he paused, scanning the steep hillside for any sign of danger. Finding none, he nudged the horse and swung left onto the path that would take him down the bluff and into the valley.

 

C
HARITY STRUGGLED
to her knees and peered over the back of the wagon. Through the choking dust, she could make out the swaying cover of the next wagon behind. She could hear the driver shouting at the straining team as he slapped the reins down on their pumping haunches. The lead horses were so close that she could see the red linings of their flared nostrils and the whites of their eyes. She could see Rueben flashing among the wagons on his spotted Indian pony.

The one thing she could not see was Indians.

Boiling with anxiety, she righted herself and began crawling forward amid the jouncing boxes and barrels. Silas would scold her if she violated his orders to stay put. But never mind. She had to find out what was happening.

As leader of the little party, Silas drove the first wagon. The other wagons carried missionaries, a mason, a carpenter and a pale, consumptive young man with enough medical training to call himself a doctor. The two missionaries were married to sisters—plain, humorless women in their forties with little use for Silas Bennett's pretty young bride. Other women might have fussed over Charity and her condition, but these two, who'd evidently been friends with Silas's first wife, treated her with undisguised spite.

There were no children along. Charity's baby, as far as she knew, would be the only white child in hundreds of miles.

As she moved ahead, steadying herself against the big trunk, the cold weight of Rueben Potter's pistol pressed against her leg. What if she were forced to use the tiny weapon with its single shot? If she fired the lead ball into her own brain, how long would the baby live? Long enough to be torn from her body and ripped apart? Would she have the courage to shoot into her bulging belly, killing the child before it could know terror or pain? Even the thought was too awful to bear.

Gasping with effort, she reached the front of the
wagon. Silas was driving the team hard, his long musket balanced across his knees. Reaching forward, Charity laid her hand on Silas's bony shoulder.

“Get back, Charity,” he snapped without turning around. “Stay out of sight.”

“I'm not a child, Silas,” she said. “I need to know what's happening. Where are the Indians?”

His head jerked slightly to the left. “Trees,” he muttered, too busy driving the team to rebuke her impertinence. “They're staying even with us. We can see them moving, but as long as they stay back, we can't get a clear shot at them.”

Charity stretched, trying to see the Indians, but her eyes were dazzled by the afternoon sunlight. She could make out nothing. “You'd think, if they were going to attack us, they would have done it by now,” she said. “Maybe they're only curious.”

“D'you want to wager your life on that, woman?” Silas's metallic voice quivered with a nervous undertone. “According to Rueben, the Blackfoot are the devil's own spawn. I'm willing to take his word for that.”

“Look!” Charity pointed. Her vision had cleared and she could now see the Blackfoot warriors riding out of the trees. Their sharp young faces were unpainted, their bows and quivers slung over their backs. They sat their horses proudly, their bare chests gleaming like copper. The thought flashed through Charity's mind that these youthful warriors were the most beautiful people she had ever seen.

The leader raised his right hand in an unmistakable sign of peace, but Silas appeared not to notice. “Spawn of the devil!” he muttered, raising his musket.

“No!”
Charity's scream was lost in the shattering explosion of powder and lead. She saw the young Blackfoot's body jerk backward with the impact of the shot. Then the plunge of the startled horses threw her back into the wagon, into the shifting chaos of boxes, bins and barrels. She heard the blood-chilling screams of the Indians and the whistle of objects flying through the air. Only when Silas moaned and fell to one side, with a feathered shaft protruding from his chest, did she realize they were arrows.

“Silas!” She fought her way toward him, but his glazing eyes and the trickle of blood from a corner of his mouth told her he was already dead.

Lunging past his body, Charity grabbed the reins. She was fighting to slow the racing team when Rueben galloped past her, his coonskin cap gone and his sparse hair blowing in the wind. “Git down!” he screamed at her. “Git down an' hide!”

He dashed to the far side of the wagon in an effort to turn her horses into the circle the other wagons were forming. An instant later, Charity heard a whistle and an abrupt thud. When Rueben's pony reappeared, its saddle was empty except for a single battered boot dangling from the stirrup.

Choking on her own terror now, she dived for the wagon bed and covered herself with the heavy patch
work quilt she and Silas had used for sleeping. From outside she could hear scattered gunfire. A woman screamed as an arrow struck its target. Charity pulled the quilt over her head to shut out the horror. People all around her were dying on this sunlit spring day, and she could do nothing except try to save herself and her baby.

The wagon had stopped moving. Dimly, through the quilt, she could hear young male voices speaking in a rapid-fire tongue that made no more sense to her than the gabble of wild mallards. She could hear the jingle of harnesses falling to the ground and the sound of the horses being led away. They would want the horses, of course. Rueben had told her that Indians prized horses the way white men valued gold. Kindly, gruff old Rueben would be lying dead now, with an arrow through his body. Charity gulped back her tears.

The sounds of gunfire had ceased. In the silence, Charity's heartbeat filled her senses like a throbbing drum. Was the massacre over? Would the young braves take the horses and go now, leaving her here alone?

Fear jolted through her as she heard the creak of a footstep and felt, through the floorboards, the pressure of quiet movement. She lay as still as death, feeling the weight of Rueben's pistol in her pocket. Beneath her body, her hand eased downward until she could touch the grip. As her fingers found the cold metal trigger, she knew that she could never be desperate enough to shoot
herself or her baby. She would only use the tiny weapon in defense of their lives.

The intruder was opening boxes and barrels, muttering in disgust and dumping their useless contents into the wagon bed. Charity bit back a groan of pain as the corner of a hardbound hymnal struck her back. Her hand tightened around the pistol grip. If he was going to find her, it would probably be in the next few seconds.

The angry brave shouted something at his companions outside, telling them, most likely, that nothing in this wagon was worth taking.

An instant later, he strode to the front of the wagon. The boards creaked again as he jumped to the ground. Charity exhaled, her body limp and dripping with perspiration. The young Blackfoot had freed the horses and probably gathered up the guns. Surely they would leave now. She would only have to keep still a little longer.

She heard their voices again, muffled by distance this time. Yes, they were going away, leaving her to face whatever lay ahead. Charity's heart leaped with a strange, desperate elation. She was alive, her baby was alive. Somehow she would survive the grim days ahead and find a way to reach safety.

The baby, too long confined to one position, kicked. “It's all right, Little One,” Charity whispered, shifting against the hard boards. “We're going to make it. We're going to be fine.”

The last reassuring word had no sooner left Charity's lips than an arrow thunked into one of the wooden hoops that supported the wagon cover. Scarcely daring to breathe, she shrank beneath the quilt once more. Her lips moved in silent prayer as she waited, hoping against hope that the Blackfoot would not return.

Seconds crawled past, then minutes. Huddled beneath the quilt, Charity strained her ears for the sound of footsteps or voices. When she could no longer stand the silence, she raised the edge of the heavy quilt.

Choking gray smoke stung her eyes and flooded her lungs.

The wagon was on fire.

C
HARITY'S FIRST IMPULSE
was to clamber out of the wagon and dash for safety. But there was no safety to be found. Above the hissing and crackling of the flames, she could hear the triumphant whoops of the Blackfoot braves. She could almost picture them dancing around the wagon, celebrating as they watched it burn. If she tried to escape, they would be on her like a pack of coyotes on a wounded sheep.

Forced to choose, she weighed the prospect of a brief but agonizing death against the horrors she'd heard described in whispers around nighttime campfires. The baby was her biggest concern. Surely it would be more merciful for the small life to be snuffed out now, inside her body, than to suffer the terror that waited outside the wagon.

Charity pressed her face against a knothole in the floor and gulped the precious air. No, she resolved, she wasn't ready to die. Somehow she would survive. She would live to have this baby, to see her child grow up and to cradle her grandchildren on her lap. She would live, heaven help her, or die fighting.

The crackle of burning canvas, soaked in linseed oil for waterproofing, had become a roar. Sparks were dropping like fiery hail on the surface of the quilt. Charity heard the popping sound as they struck the thick fabric and began to smolder. She thought of the water barrel, which sat just a few feet away, now hopelessly out of reach. Why hadn't she had the foresight to soak the quilt with water? She should have known that if the Indians attacked, they would set fire to the wagons.

Little cat tongues of flame were licking their way through the quilt. A red sheet of agony spread through Charity's body as they reached the back of her dress and began to consume the worn cotton fabric.

She could no longer hear the shouts of the young braves, but by now it would have made no difference if they'd been screaming in her ears. The fire had reached her. Seconds from now, if she could not get out of the wagon, she and her baby would be dead.

Choking and blinded by smoke, she groped her way to the rear of the wagon. She could feel the skin blistering on her back as she found the tailgate and the iron hook that held it in place. Only the pain kept her moving. She could feel her reason ebbing, feel her mind sinking into a smoky black void.

With the last of her conscious strength, she worked the hook free. As the darkness closed in, her frantic lunge shoved the tailgate open and her momentum carried her forward over its edge. With her gown smok
ing, Charity dropped to the ground, rolled onto her back and lay still.

 

B
LACK
S
UN
had followed the deer trail, which zigzagged down through the pines and into the ghost-pale aspens. By the time he emerged from the trees, he was east of the bluff, a safe distance from where he had seen the
Siksika
youths. He had heard the gunfire echoing in the distance but had willed himself to ignore it and to keep moving. Let his enemies destroy each other. He had no more use for the
Siksika
than he did for the
Nih'oo'oo.

He had dismounted and was watering his horses at a spring when the cry of a golden eagle called his gaze upward. High above, he could see the outline of the great bird against the blue sky. On wings that stretched as wide as his own arms, it was soaring lazily westward, toward the place where a rising column of gray smoke gave testament to what had taken place.

Black Sun studied the smoke with narrowed eyes. Burning wagons could mean only one thing—the
Siksika
youths had won their fight. Even now they would be galloping home with their trophies—horses, guns, ammunition, whiskey and anything else they could lay their hands on. The prizes might even include a few white captives, whose slow deaths would provide amusement for the entire band.

And what had they left behind, among the burning wagons? Black Sun swung back onto his horse, strug
gling to wipe the thought from his mind. Let the
Siksika
have their victory. He had never relished the sight of death, and he was no scavenger, to hunt among the bodies for plunder that the braves might have left behind. Ride away and try to forget what had happened in this valley of blood, that would be the easiest and safest course.

But even as Black Sun turned his mount eastward, duty tugged at him. Word of the battle would surely trickle back across the plains, from band to band, from tribe to tribe. With each retelling, the story would change. His people would need a true report, so that they could discuss what had happened and how it might influence their own dealings with the
Nih'oo'oo.
He owed it to them to go back and learn all he could.

His lips hardened into a thin line as he turned toward the rising smoke. In the sky, the vultures and ravens had already begun to circle. By the time he reached the burned wagons, the birds would already be flocking onto the bodies. Black Sun braced himself for what he was about to see. He could only hope that everyone he found in that evil place would be dead.

 

C
HARITY DRIFTED
in and out of nightmares. Now she was in the wagon with her mother and father. They were trying to cross the ice, which had cracked beneath them, causing them to tumble into the freezing water. As she sank into its black depths, the water became a
whirlpool of fire that seared her skin, her hair and her lungs. She fought her way upward, gasping for breath.

As she rose through a red fog, Charity felt something prick her cheek. She flinched, moaned and opened her eyes.

A huge raven was perched on her chest, its bright, beady eyes a handbreadth from her face. As she stared, still dazed, its massive black beak jabbed straight toward her.

“No!” Her head jerked to one side. Her arms thrashed upward, knocking the bird off its feet. Startled, the hellish creature squawked, fluttered upright and flapped away.

Only then did Charity become aware of the searing pain that shot through her body with every shift in the position of her arms. And only then did she remember what had happened.

The baby—her pulse jumped in sudden dread. Her hands darted reflexively to the bulge below her ribs. The movement triggered another jolt of agony, like the red-hot points of a hundred needles jabbing into her back. But even the pain was forgotten in the rush of relief that swept over her as she felt the familiar kick of a tiny foot against her palm. Her baby was all right. For that one joyful instant, nothing else mattered.

Cautiously she shifted her head and inspected her surroundings. The sun was low in the sky, its amber light slanting through the blackened skeleton of the wagon. By some miracle, she had tumbled clear of the
fire. The iron-rimmed wheels and axle that supported the frame had prevented the blazing wood from collapsing on top of her. Otherwise, Charity realized, she and the baby would not have survived.

Silas might have claimed that God had been watching over her. But God hadn't been watching over Silas. She had seen her husband die with an arrow in his chest. And she had every reason to believe that Rueben Potter had died the same way.

But what about the others?

For the space of a long breath she lay perfectly still, trying to catch any human sound—a word, even a moan of pain. Nothing reached her ears but the squabbling cries of birds and the rustle of wind through blades of grass still damp from snowmelt.

Again she raised her head, bracing against the skin-splitting pain as she twisted to look beyond her ruined wagon. Nausea seized her stomach as she saw the sprawl of death around her. Rueben Potter lay a stone's throw away, his body impaled on a feathered lance. Charity recognized the two sisters from their fluttering skirts and narrow black boots. They had perished in a hail of arrows, clutching each other to the end. Their missionary husbands, the young medic and the two bachelor tradesmen were likewise dead, and all of the wagons were in smoking ruin. Charity could see no sign of Silas. But then she remembered that he had died on the wagon seat. The flames would have consumed his body like the hellfire and brimstone that peppered his sermons.

Charity lay back in the grass, shaking uncontrollably as the reality of what had happened swept over her. She was alone and injured in hostile Indian territory, the only survivor of a horrible massacre. She had no food or water, no shelter, no resources of any kind except her own two hands.

For a brief time she closed her eyes and rested, willing herself not to hear the raucous cries of the death birds that flocked around her companions. The thought struck her that she should get up, find a shovel and bury them. But she did not have the strength to dig one grave, let alone nine. With her seared back lancing agony through her body, it would be all she could do to stand up and walk.

The day was cool. Even so, the slanting sunlight felt hot on her face. When she tried to swallow, she discovered that her mouth was cotton-dry, her throat parched and burning. If she lay here much longer, she would die of thirst.

A low, breathy sound reached her ears, gentle and familiar, almost lost amid the squawks of the scavengers. For a long moment Charity let it seep into her senses, her pain-fogged mind recalling the warmth of her grandfather's barn and the stalls where the massive draft horses had stood munching hay and oats.

She heard the sound again, closer now. As its meaning slammed home, Charity froze in terror.

It was the uneasy snort of an approaching horse.

Scarcely daring to breathe, she lay rigid on the
ground, her eyes closed in what she hoped would be taken for death. Where there was a horse, there would likely be a rider. And no rider would come to this killing ground for any good reason.

By now, the horse was close enough that Charity could feel the vibrations of the animal's skittish gait. She could sense the agitation in its low, rough nickering. But it was what she could
not
hear that frightened her most. The metal parts of a white man's bridle would jingle when the horse shook its head. Indian bridles, those she had seen, consisted of little more than a leather thong looped over the animal's lower jaw. The horse coming toward her was clearly nervous. But there was no metallic sound to reassure her that its rider was white.

Hidden by her fluttering skirt, her hand eased downward to the pocket that held Rueben's pistol. The small weapon was still there, cold and solid to the touch. Her fingers closed around the grip and found the trigger. One shot. She would have to make it count.

The horse halted beside her and lowered its head. Charity willed herself not to breathe. The animal was so close now that she could feel the hot, damp air emerging from its nostrils. Its velvety muzzle nudged her cheek, long whiskers pricking her skin.

She clenched her teeth, willing herself not to react, but when the creature sneezed, spraying her face with drops of moisture, her reflexes betrayed her. She jerked sharply. Her eyes flew open.

A towering figure blocked the light of the sun, casting a long shadow across her face.

Charity gasped as her gaze traveled upward. The horse, a rangy, dun-colored Indian pony, was unremarkable. But the man on its back took her breath away.

He was tall for an Indian, with fierce aquiline features and skin the color of polished mahogany. His glossy black hair was parted in the center and hung over his chest in two long braids. His moccasins and fringed buckskin leggings were not so different from the ones Rueben Potter had worn, but the long buckskin shirt, belted at the waist and edged with fringe that brushed his lower thighs, was decorated with exquisite quill-work around the open neck.

He was a wild, magnificent, utterly terrifying creature. But it was his eyes that impaled Charity where she lay, making her feel as helpless as a wounded bird in a snare. Dark, hooded eyes with glints of fire in their depths, they gazed down at her with undisguised hatred. Fierce and dignified, he bore little resemblance to the young Blackfoot who had attacked the wagons, but she had no doubt that he was every bit as dangerous.

Charity's fingers tightened around the grip of Rueben's pistol. She had no way of knowing what this Indian planned to do with her, but there was a single bullet in the little gun. If he made one wrong move, it would go straight through his heart.

 

B
LACK
S
UN STUDIED
the woman, concealing his emotions behind the stony mask of his face. He had never seen a white female before. This one was young, and might even be judged pretty in the eyes of the
Nih'oo'oo.
But to him she looked as pale and strange as a ghost. Dirty, tangled hair, its color like dried cattail stems, lay in dank strings around her soot-smeared face. The cloud-gray eyes that stared up at him were bloodshot and wide with terror. One hand splayed protectively over her bulging belly. The other lay concealed beneath her skirt as if hiding something, a knife, perhaps. He would be wise to watch that treacherous little hand.

The Arapaho life path was built upon giving to others. As a follower of that path, he was duty-bound to take pity on all those in need, even nonhuman beings like this
Nih'oo'oo
woman. To turn away and leave her to die, along with her unborn child, would bring disgrace upon himself and his people.

Still, as he shifted in the saddle and made ready to dismount, Black Sun found himself paralyzed by warring emotions. The nine years he had spent in a filthy cabin, with the white trapper who had bought his widowed mother for a few strings of beads, had separated him from the true way of the Arapaho. Those same nine years had spawned a hatred of whites that ran as deep as the marrow of his bones.

Following the counsel of his grandfather, Four Winds, he had returned to his mother's burial place
seeking reconciliation and asking for a vision that would bind him to his people once more and enable him to serve them. Weak from fasting, he had pleaded with Heisonoonin, the great creator and father of all, to cleanse his spirit and bring him peace. But because his heart was hardened by old angers, the vision would not come. Heisonoonin had sent him away empty.