The Holy Warrior (35 page)

Fire raged in the Pawnee’s eyes and he cried out, “I will have your life!”

The Pawnee warriors, watching Black Elk, saw that he was ready to fight, and they snapped their rifles up, cocking them with a deadly sound. From the corner of his eye, Chris saw the bow of Running Wolf rise, and other Sioux followed his example, ready to let fly. It was an explosive moment, and Chris knew that he could not let it happen.

“Wait—I will fight you for the woman and the boy!”

His cry stopped the Pawnee, who demanded, “What weapon, coward? Knife—gun?”

“Knife for you—hands for me.”

“No!” Sky protested, running to his father. “He is too good—that is his favorite weapon!”

“He is a woman, my son,” Chris said with a smile at Black Elk. “I will take the knife from him and cut his ears off.”

The taunt did exactly what he had hoped: It drove Black Elk almost to madness. The Indian tumbled off his horse and threw his rifle to the ground. “I will cut your heart out!” he yelled, and a circle of warriors from both tribes formed around the two men. Such a fight was intoxicating to them, and they circled like wolves with glittering eyes.

Chris threw up his hand and challenged, “I doubt you can keep your word, Black Elk; but I want your worthless promise that if I beat you, you will never again seek my life—nor my wife and son.”

“I do not have to promise anything!”

“I would like to hear if your word is good,” Many Horses requested immediately. And Running Wolf echoed, “I also want to know what you are: a man—or a liar.”

Black Elk hesitated, then laughed. “What difference does it make? The white dog will be dead in a few minutes—so I give my word. But I will say also—”

With a single catlike motion the Indian whipped a knife from his belt and threw himself across the short distance separating him from Chris. He almost succeeded in catching Chris off guard. The tip of his blade ripped through the cloth of Chris’s shirt and the flesh underneath, soaking it through with crimson blood.

If Chris had not fallen backward, the cut would have killed him. But the fight had only begun: as Chris lay there, stunned, Black Elk crowed triumphantly and threw himself forward. He would not have dared do this if Chris had been carrying a knife, but the chief had no need to protect himself as long as his victim lay helpless before him.

Chris reacted instinctively; there was no time to roll away, so he drew his feet up and caught the oncoming Pawnee full in the face with a fearsome kick. The velocity of the heavy man added to the force of the blow, and Chris’s heel struck Black Elk in the mouth, driving his head back and jarring his front teeth loose.

Chris scrambled to his feet—as did Black Elk, spitting out blood and teeth, his eyes still glazed. But the force of Elk’s hatred was not spent, and as he stood up, the weaving blade in his hand forced Chris backward. Moving relentlessly forward, the Pawnee feinted, nearly drawing Chris out of position, then lunged forward again.

Hoping to disarm his opponent, Chris’s left hand struck
out, but missed the wrist; and the angry blade raked his palm, ripping the inside of his forearm. His hand was slippery with blood, and the cut burned like fire.
Got to get him!
he thought wildly, retreating. He knew he could dodge only so many stabs of the knife, and felt sure that he’d used up his quota.

As Black Elk lunged forward, Chris turned sideways and clubbed down with his forearm, catching the Indian on the back of the neck and driving him to the ground. He kicked at the knife hand and missed, which gave Black Elk the chance to grab Chris’s foot and throw him heavily to the ground.

A cry of victory went up from the Pawnee braves, for all Black Elk had to do was reach out and take Chris. If he got a grip with his left hand, there was nothing Chris could do to save himself.

The chief’s hand shot out. In desperation Chris scooped up a handful of sandy dirt and small gritty stones, throwing it in Black Elk’s face. A cry rose from Elk’s throat as the pain made him grab involuntarily at his eyes with his free hand. In an instant Chris was on his feet, and with one hard kick to the Pawnee’s forearm, sent the knife spinning. With a frantic dive, Chris snatched it up and stepped behind Black Elk, who was still rubbing his eyes. Throwing an arm around the thick throat, Chris whipped the knife around with the point over the Indian’s stomach. “Is Black Elk beaten?” he challenged.

The Indian was in bad shape. His mouth was bleeding, and the sharp gravel that was packed into his sensitive eyes caused a terrible pain. Chris’s steely arm was cutting the man’s air off, and he sensed the knife point poised over him. He choked and cried out, “Enough!”

Chris dropped his hold and moved back, and Black Elk staggered around the circle, trying to clear his eyes. The dead silence echoed until he was finally able to see enough to stumble back to his horse. He painfully pulled himself on the animal, completely drained of any pride. The other Pawnees followed him as he slowly walked his horse away, and every Indian there knew that he would not be war chief
for long. No warrior could be beaten in such a humiliating fashion and keep the respect of his band.

“My father is a great warrior!” Sky ran to him, trying to keep back the tears. Running Wolf glowed with admiration, and the rest of the camp let up a wild cheer.

“I hope I never have to fight another battle as long as I live!” Chris said vehemently. “I’m not a warrior—I’m just a simple preacher.”

When the Pawnees had ridden up, Missy and the other women had come out of the lodge and watched the whole thing. Now Missy hurried to him. “I think you’re God’s soldier, Chris,” she told him, putting her hand on his arm, pride shining in her eyes. “And I think God made you to be just what you are, Christmas Winslow—a holy warrior!”

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

“YOU HAVE BEEN TRUE TO ME...!”

Chris’s injuries were more painful than serious, but Missy had seen the symptoms of blood poisoning too often to take them lightly. For the next two days she insisted on cleaning the wounds and putting on fresh bandages.

She was carefully washing out the gash in his palm when they both heard the sound of a horse coming into camp. “Somebody’s sure pushing that horse,” he remarked. Then he heard a commotion and someone called out, “Chris! Chris!”

“It’s Tennyson!” he exclaimed, and pulled his hand back, wrapping it hastily as he ran out of the lodge. Tennyson was talking to Barney, and both Chris and Missy knew immediately what it was.

“Dove?” he asked.

Tennyson’s handsome head nodded reluctantly. “She got worse last night, Chris. Doc Spencer wants you to come quickly.”

“Is she dying, Bob?”

Tennyson bit his lip, then nodded again. “Doc Spencer said to hurry.”

“I’ll go with you, Chris,” Barney offered.

“No, you’re needed here.” Chris looked at Sky, seeing that he had heard the whole conversation. “Get your horse, son.”

“I’m going, too,” Missy announced, and ran to where Thunder was hobbled. She had the stallion saddled by the
time Barney had saddled Chris’s mount, a tough buckskin. She mounted and came to where Chris and Sky waited. Chris looked at her, warning, “This will be a tough trip.”

“Let’s go,” she nodded, and the three of them left the camp at a gallop. “God be with you!” Aaron Small called out, and then he said to Sinclair, “Spencer told me before we left this might happen.”

They rode steadily, keeping the horses at an even gallop, stopping once every hour to rest them for ten minutes. At noon they stopped at a creek, watered the horses, and let them rest for half an hour. “Should have brought you something to eat,” Chris said to Sky.

“I’m not hungry.” They mounted again, and by three o’clock the horses were too tired to do more than walk. It was after seven that night before they arrived at the mission. Schultz opened the gate and offered, “I vill take the horses, Chris.”

“How is she, Karl?”

“She ist alife—but ver’ bad.”

“Come on, Sky,” Chris said, and the two walked across the compound and entered the large building.

Missy followed, but found walking difficult after the hard ride. Her legs were trembling, so when she reached the porch, she sat down. Her mouth was parched, and she wanted to get up to get a drink, but could not find the strength to move. It was almost dark, and part of a moon was hiding behind a canopy of rippling clouds that caught the last light of the sun.

Someone came outside, and she looked up to see John Spencer. “You look beat, Missy,” he observed.

“How is she?”

“No hope.”

She stood up, licking her lips. Watching her, Spencer said, “There’s some cool water here—and after that some coffee. You eat anything on the way?”

“No.”

He led her inside, and she downed three dippers of water
before her thirst was slaked. He seated her in a chair and handed her a cup of scalding coffee.

“We thought Dove would be all right till we got back from the Flathead expedition,” she said sadly.

“I did, too—but yesterday afternoon she had a terrible coughing fit, and it brought on a hemorrhage. Lorene was with her last night. There was nothing I could do. Chris mustn’t blame himself for leaving her—he was only following orders.”

“But he will,” she insisted. “And I do, too.”

“Don’t be foolish, Missy,” Spencer protested. “We all knew it was a matter of time.”

“I’ve prayed so hard!”

Spencer put his hand on her shoulder. “So have we all, but our God is sovereign. And this is Dove’s homecall.”

He got up. “Stay close by, Missy. She’s asked to see you several times—and try to eat something.”

“Will—will she die tonight?”

He paused and bit his lip, then answered gently, “I think so. She’s very weak. I think she kept herself alive till Chris and Sky got back.”

He went back inside, and Bessie Moore came out. The large woman had a sharp tongue, but trouble brought out the best in her. She comforted Missy and urged her to wash and have something to eat. Then she suggested, “Why don’t you lie down, child? I’ll be right here when Dove wants to see you.”

Missy obeyed meekly, and for what seemed like a long time she lay there, praying. Her exhaustion allowed her to drop off into a fitful sleep, but she awoke instantly at Bessie’s touch. “Missy! Dove’s calling for you.”

She rose and hurried to the small room, passing Spencer as he left. Dove’s eyes were on Sky, who crouched beside his mother, his head resting near her hand.
He’s only eleven,
Missy thought, watching the painful scene from the shadow of the doorway. Chris turned and saw her. “Dove? Missy is here.”

His face, Missy noted as she went to kneel beside Dove, was drawn and pale, and his firm lips were clenched tightly.

“Missy?” Dove shifted her eyes from Sky and smiled faintly. “My Missy... I’m glad you are here.”

Tears scalded Missy’s eyes, and she groped blindly for the hand that Dove extended. Her throat was constricted so that she could not say a word, but held the thin hand tightly to her face.

“You must not cry,” Dove murmured. She felt the girl’s tears and slowly lifted her other hand and let it fall on Missy’s hair. At her touch, Missy could not help but sob, though she tried to control herself.

“No—no. Don’t cry,” Dove whispered. “I am happy.”

Missy lifted her tear-stained face and saw the look of peace on Dove’s countenance. The lines of suffering that had been etched into her brow were gone, and her eyes were gentle and calm.

“I can’t bear to lose you!” Missy cried.

“Sky?” Dove said, turning her head.

“I am here.” Sky rose and Dove reached inside her gown, pulling the pearl ring free. “This is what your father gave me, my son. Take it. When you get a fine young bride—it is for her.”

With trembling hands, Sky took the pearl from around his mother’s neck, but could not say a word.

“My husband?”

“Here, Dove—here!”

“You came for me—no other man would have had the courage—but you came! And you loved me... in spite of what I was... no matter what they did to me...”

Chris blinked back the tears, took the hand that she held out to him. He tried to speak, but his throat was so tight he could not.

The minutes passed as Dove continued to hold Chris’s hand in one of hers and Missy’s with the other. Dove’s strength was ebbing, and they saw the light in her eyes dim. At the
end she did not speak, but for one moment summoned all her strength and drew their hands together. She put both of hers over theirs, and smiled at them.

“You have been faithful to me. Now... you must be... faithful to...” She faltered, her eyes closing. They leaned forward and once more Dove opened her eyes, smiling.

“... be faithful... to one another.”

Then she sighed and relaxed. A tremor shook her body—and her hands went limp.

Gently Chris arranged Dove’s thin hands to lay comfortably across her chest, then bowed his head and began to pray. His voice was thick as he struggled to keep from breaking down. “I thank you, Lord Jesus, for coming to take Dove to be with you...” He looked once more at her face and finally motioned to Sky and Missy. “Come outside.”

When they opened the door, Spencer met them and knew what had happened without their telling him. “I’ll take care of her, Chris.”

“Thank you, John.”

The doctor touched Chris’s shoulder and moved inside. Sky asked timidly, “Can we—walk a little?”

“Of course, son.”

Without talking, the three of them moved away from the house to the gate. Chris pulled the bar, and they went outside the fortified area and walked along the trail to a path that led to the river. The moonlight filtered through the lacy branches overhead, making fantastic patterns on the ground.

When they came to the creek where the women did their washing, Chris stopped. “She always liked this place.” He sat down on the big stump, pulling them down, Missy on his left and Sky on his right.

The bright sliver of a moon was out, gliding toward a tattered cloud. “Let’s see if the moon hits that cloud,” he said quietly.

The sliver vanished, and for a few minutes the world grew darker, but then the moon peered around the cloud as if she
were smiling. Chris turned to look down at Sky, his face filled with pain, but with peace in his eyes. “No boy ever had a better mother.”