The Holy Warrior (14 page)

Time crawled. He heard horsemen coming and going for most of the morning, and once some boys came very close, evidently hunting for small game. They stood not ten feet from where he lay, caught up in a prolonged argument about which one of the young girls was the best, their ribald talk laced with laughter. Still joking among themselves, they moved on. Chris felt a wry smile appear on his parched lips:
Sound just like boys anywhere.

At last the sun reached its zenith, and he risked another quick glance. He spotted Four Dog moving in, and his heart began to beat faster.

Four Dog had moved out of a growth of stunted timber not much higher than his head, and he ambled along idly,
stooping from time to time to poke the stick in his hand down a hole. Chris glanced at the camp and saw that there were several squaws grinding meal, and two braves were sitting in front of a teepee, talking. There were children everywhere, playing games. Strangely enough, none of the Indians seemed to notice anything out of the ordinary, but a chill of dread swept over Chris. To him the whole plan suddenly seemed like a child’s game—and doomed to fail.

A movement caught his eye, and he watched as two more of the Sioux shuffled unhurriedly out of the timber. Four Dog had stopped and seemed to be watching a hawk that was circling, but Chris knew he was keenly aware of every move of his own men and of the Pawnee camp.

The thing was well done, Chris conceded, and he began to relax. The Sioux did not bunch up as they idly closed in. They wouldn’t be unnoticed for long, of course; there were too many men now in sight, but several of them were well within shooting distance, and Four Dog himself was less than fifty feet away from the first teepee—Chris’s heart raced!

Four Dog had been discovered! A squaw, who had looked up nonchalantly from her work, had spotted him. She straightened up with a loud cry that brought the two bucks to their feet. One of them made a grab at a rifle that was leaning against a stump, but Four Dog’s rifle materialized in his hands. With a single shot he killed the Pawnee.

From his hiding spot, the white warrior raised his rifle and shot the other brave, and seconds later he killed a short Pawnee who came running out of the adjoining lodge. Chris grabbed at one of the loaded rifles at his feet, throwing the discharged rifle on the bank of the gully. The air exploded with the war cries of the Sioux mixed with the screams of the squaws and the urgent cries of the Pawnee warriors who came bursting out of their lodges, weapons in hand.

The deadly accuracy of Chris’s rifle made the difference, as Four Dog had hoped. His rapid fire demoralized the Pawnees, preventing them from banding together to defend themselves
against the ragged line of Sioux racing out of the trees, crossing the level ground at a dead run.

Eleven times Chris fired, and eleven enemy bodies littered the ground, lying still or kicking feebly on the ground. The white warrior dropped the last empty musket and charged across the field with his knife in his hand. The village boiled with hand-to-hand fighting; the Sioux had fired their rifles and were closing in with spears, tomahawks, and knives. By this time some of the Pawnees had hit their targets and Chris saw Sixkiller go down. The brave who had killed him looked up to see Chris running toward him, and the Pawnee lifted the empty rifle to club the white man. Fearlessly Bear Killer fended off the blow with his left hand and slashed the Indian’s throat with the knife in his right. The Pawnee crumbled to the ground, clutching his throat.

The battle rage that seized Chris was tempered by a coolness that enabled him to keep his eyes roaming the area, alert for a glimpse of Dove and Sky. He saw Still Water run by, hotly pursued by a Pawnee brave. The next thing Chris knew, an arrow had buried itself up to the feathers in the brave’s chest. Grabbing her, Running Wolf shoved his woman toward the safety of the timber.

The tide was beginning to turn, for the Pawnee warriors who had been in lodges farther off were now putting up a stiff fight. Eagerly Chris scanned the mob for their leader until he spotted a tall brave who was forming up his warriors to take the charge of the Sioux. It was not Red Ghost. Chris dashed inside the lodge with the white buffalo robe over the door, finding only a squaw who drew herself up, defiance glittering in her dark eyes.

Hearing a noise behind him, he whirled and was almost brained by a war club that grazed his head and sent him sprawling to the ground. He hit the ground rolling, knowing that the next blow would kill him if he didn’t move fast. Hearing the club strike the ground beside his head, he sprang up—knife in hand—to face the massive form of Red Ghost.

“I have your woman and your son,” Red Ghost snarled, pulling a knife with his left hand, “and now I will have your life, Bear Killer!” Chris poised himself on the balls of his feet, weaving slightly, his knife grasped firmly in his right hand. He smiled and taunted, “Red Ghost is a weak chief. We walked into your camp and killed your braves as we kill puppies! It is easy to kill Pawnees—it was easy to kill your son...!”

Red Ghost was livid with rage; Chris was startled at how fast his opponent sprang at him. The white Sioux had no time to think, much less to swing his knife; only his catlike reflexes saved him as he fell back, dodging and falling as the club whistled through the air. The sounds of battle that raged all around him dimmed, and everything else faded from sight but the towering form of the Pawnee—and the club that descended again and again.

Got to get close,
Chris thought wildly. Red Ghost had no fear of his opponent’s knife, and Chris knew that his only chance was to leap on the other between swings. For the fraction of a second when the club was still, he must risk it all. If he misjudged the power and speed of Red Ghost again, his brains would be spilled on the hard ground, Chris knew. But there was no other choice.

He pretended to stumble, causing Red Ghost to put all his force into one last swing. The blow passed over Chris’s head, and the force of it caught the large Indian off-balance.

Chris scrambled to his feet and lunged at Red Ghost, his knife held high. That was a mistake as well. With the speed of lightning, Red Ghost dropped his club and seized Chris’s wrist with one hand, pulling his own knife from its sheath with the other. The Pawnee chief raised his knife to slash Chris, but found his wrist held in a grip of steel. Clearly, Bear Killer was much stronger than an ordinary white man.

The two men strained for advantage, every nerve in their bodies crying out, tortured muscles contorted with the effort. Now it was a matter of brute strength; the first to get a weapon free would kill the other—and both men knew
it. Chris was several inches taller than Red Ghost, but the Indian was much bulkier, and his heavy muscles were like cables of sinew.

Chris could think of nothing now except hanging on to the wrist that held the Pawnee knife and, freeing his own knife, plunging it into the body of the other. Their faces were inches apart, but neither of them dared to speak or try to escape.

Chris’s wrist was on fire as the fingers of Red Ghost bore down, and he felt the bones giving way, the nerves going dead. His own grip on Red Ghost’s knife arm was weakening, and bit by bit he felt his opponent’s power growing. In that moment, he knew that he was lost.

His eyes filled with triumph, Red Ghost taunted, “Is it so easy to kill the Pawnee, Bear Killer?” He laughed and added, “Call on your god—maybe he will help you!”

Chris stared into the cruel eyes of Red Ghost, knowing that this time his strength was not enough. It had always been enough before—a reserve that he could draw from to overcome his enemies. But now he could only watch helplessly as the Pawnee chief drew his knife slowly back, forcing his victim’s hand with it. He had no strength left in his other hand, and his knife was held loosely in his fingers. Red Ghost saw this, and directed his attention to the knife he held, intent on killing the white man in his grasp.

Chris thought of Dove and Sky. Her face flashed before him, and then the blue eyes of his son, and their memory pained him far more than any knife could; for the warrior knew that once he was dead, his family would become slaves of the Pawnee forever. Just as the other’s knife was about to be driven home, a thought leaped into his mind:
Call on me, and I will answer thee and show thee great and mighty things that thou knowest not.
The distant memory of the words he had overheard his mother read from her Bible echoed in his head. Those words had saved his brother George, who had nearly died of pneumonia years ago.

Impulsively, he cried out, “God! God, help me!”

Red Ghost’s lips opened and he laughed—but his laughter was cut short as he realized that he could not lift the knife. The white man’s grip had tightened. At the same time, the Indian felt a surge of strength leap through the right arm of Bear Killer. This time, the Pawnee chief could not hold off his attacker, who gave a loud cry and drove the knife deep into the thick body of Red Ghost, sending him writhing to the ground.

Chris knew he had not been responsible for the sudden power that had flowed through him. He stood there silently for a moment, trying to comprehend it all.
Guess there really is something to what Mother used to tell me.
When he looked up, the old woman was gone. Chris turned to join the battle.

“Wait!” Red Ghost was pulling feebly at something around his neck. “You kill me and my son,” he gasped, holding up a rawhide thong—something was dangling from the end of it. “We are even, Bear Killer! I will sleep well—see?”

A pearl ring—Dove’s wedding ring! He knelt and snatched it from the trembling fingers of the dying man. “You stole it from her!” he cried out.

“Yes! I cut off her finger after she was dead,” Red Ghost said in triumph. His voice was feeble, and his eyes were dimming, but he roused himself to gesture toward the lodgepole, “You see?... what’s left of her... her scalp... is on that lodgepole! I killed her—and the boy... too!” Coughing up blood, he gasped, “She would... not have me... so I killed... both. Fed them... to the wolves—”

A rattle sounded in his throat before he fell back, dead.

The conflict raging inside Chris drowned out the sounds of the skirmish outside. When he could stand it no longer, he turned and directed his gaze to the place Red Ghost had indicated. There—he saw it—a fresh scalp hanging on the pole. He forced himself to move closer and, trembling, he took it down.

It was the scalp of his wife; there was no Indian hair with such rich auburn lights. His eyes filled with an agony that
would not wash away with his tears. The battle was forgotten, along with everything else.

When Running Wolf found him hours later, he saw the scalplock in his friend’s hands. “My heart is hurt for my brother,” he said quietly. After a moment, he asked, “What will you do now?”

Chris’s eyes were fixed on the long strand of hair. Stroking it gently, he looked up to meet Wolf’s gaze. “I must go to my people. They must know of my brother.”

“Will Bear Killer come back to The People?”

Chris shook his head. “There is nothing for me to come back to.” He turned and walked out of the Pawnee dwelling into the bright sunlight, across the bloody ground with his head down and his shoulders bent.

CHAPTER TEN

THE REUNION

Leaning over, Adam held his breath and listened. His brother’s hoarse breathing broke off, and the awful silence in the sick man’s room jangled his nerves. He glanced at Paul, who left his place by the bay window to stand by his father’s bedside. Charles coughed and drew a deep ragged breath, and his eyes slit open.

“Father?” Paul asked quietly. “Are you awake?”

“Paul? Is that you?” The faded blue eyes searched his son’s face; then he shifted his eyes. He smiled faintly and whispered, “Adam... I’m glad you’re here.”

“I’ve been waiting for you to wake up, Charles. How do you feel?”

“Well, for a dying man, not too bad.” The wry streak of humor caused Adam and Paul to exchange bemused looks. “Actually, I feel like the ghost of Banquo at the feast, Adam. Why didn’t you wait till I’d died to have the reunion?” He shook his head slightly. “Never mind. Who all is here?”

“Almost everyone, Father,” Paul said. “Even William’s son came all the way from England.”

No one could remember who had suggested that the Winslow family needed a reunion, but now—after two unsuccessful attempts—it had come to pass. In 1801 and again in 1804 when Jefferson was reelected, Adam had toyed with the idea; but nothing came of it until January of 1806. At that time Paul plowed ahead with his customary cool efficiency
and pulled the family together at the old mansion in Boston where he lived with his family.

Charles closed his eyes for a moment, then opened them again. “Help me sit up, Paul.” Braced against the pillows, the bedridden man looked at his brother. “You’re looking very well, Adam.” Charles’s rough lifestyle had taken its toll. At seventy-eight, Charles was a skeleton, while Adam was still hale and healthy. “If I’d known I was going to live so long,” he observed dryly, “I’d have taken better care of myself.”