Dances In Storms saw White Elk fall.

As she fought to get free of the enemy, a rope slid over her and snugged her tight, holding her arms to her sides. With a yank on the rope, the white man jerked her off Moon. When she fell, another rope whipped through the air. Just as it would have fallen over the mustang’s head, Moon ducked and skittered away.

“Run, Moon!” Dances In Storms yelled at the mustang.

He tossed his head and snorted, as the white man who had tried to capture the mustang eased his own animal toward Moon.

She yelled again. “Run, Moon!”

The mustang tossed his head, whirled, and kicked his hind feet toward the man.

His own mustang darted sideways, and the fast move caused the man to toss the rope too soon—Moon was long gone before the rope landed on the ground.

The man, who had tied the end of the rope that wrapped around her to his strange leather seat, pulled hard, and she fell to the ground. He hopped off his animal and stalked toward her. Before she could roll away from him, the toe of his dirty boot slammed into her side.

“Tha’s just a taste, squaw. Give me trouble ’n you’ll feel more o’ that.” Knife in hand, he grasped her long hair and yanked her to her feet. “Move ’n I’ll slit yer throat.”

He tied her hands in front of her. The rest of the rope was long enough that he could ride while forcing her to walk a few steps behind his mustang.

With the words she had learned from Pale Hunter, she shouted at her captor. “Why you do this?”

He leered down at her. “Know a bit o’ civilized language, huh? Maybe you’ll make a good squaw to keep ’round. I’ll have’ta think ’bout that.” He jerked the rope just enough to cause her to stumble. “Now, shut up, woman.”

With a tap of his heels, the mustang stretched his legs longer, forcing Dances In Storms to trot to keep up.

When Father Sun finally went to his lodge, clouds had gathered in the sky. The cold season was not yet done, and the rain came hard and fast, and just as quickly turned into balls of ice. The ice stung as it hit her face and bare arms.

By the time she stumbled into the white men’s hidden camp, her wrists bled from the roughness of the rope. When the man stopped, she stood with her head down, breath rasping in her throat, and her legs trembling as a newborn mustang’s.

The man dove off his mustang and tossed the rope to one of the other men. Not glancing her way, he tugged the rope and led her through a hide entrance and into a wooden lodge. The stale air stank of rancid meat, sweat, and poisoned water.

Dances In Storms nearly gagged.

He shoved her over into a dark corner and tied the rope high on a piece of dead tree above her head. He left only enough slack in the rope for her to slide down to the dirt floor and sit against the greasy wood wall.

Her head sank back against the wall, and she closed her eyes. She did not even know if White Elk still lived.

Great Mystery, Spirits, give me a vision. Help me see a way to free myself.

***

A boot prodded her in the side. “Wake up, lazy squaw!” The second time, the boot thumped against her thigh.

Dances In Storms’ eyes popped open, and she gazed upon a younger, crazy-eyed man. Kerosene lamps—something she had seen once when she visited her grandmother’s sister’s family—sat on the rough wood table and cast a dim light through the wooden lodge. A fire blazed in a stone pit that did not look like the fire pits of her people.

The older man that had roped her slept with his mouth open, head sideways on the table.

The crazy-eyed one kicked her again. He grabbed a fistful of hair and yanked her up. With quick motions, he untied her hands and shoved her toward the fire. “Clean them rabbits and make a stew, squaw.”

She did not understand his words but, seeing the dead rabbits by the fire, she knew what he wanted. She stared around, not knowing where to get water, or how he expected her to skin the rabbits without a knife.

A third man, younger than the other two, walked over to her and picked up the rabbits. “I will skin them.” He spoke in a mix of the whites’ language and the language of the Peoples. “There are things to put in the stew over there.” He motioned toward a bucket on the floor to one side of the fire. “I filled the pot with water, so chop everything up. I will be back soon.”

Between the two of them, the food was cooked and dished out.

The older man had awakened long enough to eat and to drink more fire water. This time, he staggered to a raised hide with pieces of dead trees at each corner, which held it off the ground. He flopped onto it and, within two breaths, fell into a deep sleep.

The crazy one burped food while he held an empty flask of fire water. He staggered toward a pile of smelly robes in a corner, and collapsed with the flask in his hand.

Soon, snores came from them both.

Dances In Storms had not left her place on the floor by the fire since she had fed the men. She finished the stew in her bowl, and glanced over at the third man. “Are you to keep watch during the time of Sister Moon?”

His eyes touched hers briefly before darting away. “Yes.”

“You speak my language. Where did you learn?”

“My mother is of the People. I lived with her until I was ten winters old.” Hurt peeked out from behind his words.

“Why did you leave the People?”

“My... my mother died... started coughing and... died. The band did not want a half-blood. One of the elders brought me close to here, and told me to go live with my white father.” He shrugged. “I have been living here since then.”

“You like being here?”

Bitterness twisted his mouth. “I have no other place to go.”

“There are half-bloods who live with my People. We see a man’s way of living, and the way of his heart, not the color of his skin.”

For a moment, hope flashed across his face, but then it died. “Yeah, well, he would never let me go. He will not let you go, either. He will use you, and then he will sell you to men at the fort.”

“I am not an animal to be sold or traded to others.” Defiantly, she straightened her back. “And I will die before I allow him to touch me as a man touches a woman.”

His shaggy, brown hair hung loose about his elbows. He licked his lips and glanced at the men snoring on the other side of the wooden lodge, then bent close to her and whispered, “I... I want to help you. I want to live with your band where half-bloods are not judged by their skin color. Once, I was called Strong Wind. It is the name my mother gave me.”

***

Frost nudged Golden Fox awake as Father Sun peeked above the horizon. Puddles of water reminded her of the rain and the cold in the darkness. She crept out of the shelter, silently following her Wolf Brother.

Blazing Fire was roasting ground birds over a smokeless fire when Golden Fox rode back into camp.

White Elk half-smiled up at her, then returned to cleaning another ground bird, with Sun Snow sitting at his side.

Golden Fox wondered for a moment how Sun Snow had come to be here, but then thought, ‘Of course.’

When she walked over, Blazing Fire handed her a stick with a cooked bird. “Eat, and tell us what Father Wolf showed you.”

“How did you know?” She took a big bite of the meat and chewed.

“You were gone, Splash was gone, Father Wolf was gone.... You would not have left to hunt without telling me. I have taught you that it is not the way of a warrior. I knew you left because Father Wolf wanted to show something to you.”

“I found her.”

White Elk bolted to his feet. “You found her? Come, show us where!”

Before he could get many steps away, Blazing Fire cleared her throat. When he swung around to look, she motioned for him to return to the fire. “Golden Fox, tell us more of what you saw.”

After she finished describing the box canyon and the wooden lodge, the warrior woman stared at her for a long moment. “Did you feel danger around Dances In Storms?”

Golden Fox opened her mouth to speak, then closed it and considered her words. “The fat white man.... I felt a... a hole where his Spirit should be. The one with hair the color of dead grass... there is something wrong in his mind, and there is darkness in his Spirit. The other one, the one with the brown hair... I felt no darkness in him.”

“Did it feel like they would do her harm while Father Sun is in the sky?”

Lips pursed, she slowly shook her head. “No.”

“Good. We will wait until Father Sun goes to his place of rest.”

***

Dances In Storms watched as Strong Wind kept passing the fire water to the other two men.

Finally, they slumped over.

As soon as the men began to snore, Strong Wind motioned for her to follow. They ducked through the hide flap. Only part of Sister Moon’s face shone, but she offered enough light to walk the unfamiliar ground.

Strong Wind whispered close to her ear, “I will take my mustang and lead him out. You take the red one. He has power in his legs. The other mustang will follow.” He handed her a nose rope, and pulled the dead trees away so an opening was clear.

She slipped into the small enclosure made of dead trees, and held out her hand to the red mustang. She eased toward him, crooning in a low voice.

When she threw the nose rope over the animal’s neck, the mustang panicked and pulled away. The red one snorted loudly and raced out through the opening, feet loud on the ground as she ran past the wooden lodge.

One of the men slapped the hide flap open. The older man’s gruff voice yelled, “Hey, stop!”

Strong Wind leapt on his mustang and held a hand down to her. She flew on the already moving animal behind Strong Wind, And with a thump of his heels, he urged the mustang into a flat-out run.

The roar of a fire stick split the darkness. Strong Wind leaned lower on the mustang as the animal raced down the narrow valley that led to the box canyon.

Dances In Storms’ hair flew behind as the animal’s powerful muscles bunched and released beneath her.

As they burst from the valley and out onto grasslands, Strong Wind pulled back on the nose rope, and the mustang slowed to a trot.

“Strong Wind, he breathes too hard. He cannot carry both of us. We need to find a place to hide.”

He glanced around, and then urged the mustang toward the back of a small hill. “We need to get down. This hill is too short, and we might be seen. Besides, I worry that my mustang will call if my father rides past. This way, I can put my hand over his nose and maybe stop his sounds. I left my bow at the cabin—I mean the wooden lodge—so all I have is my knife.”

“I have a knife in my footwear on both legs. Your father did not find them in their sheaths strapped under my leggings.” Determination flooded her body as her feet touched the ground. “I will not return to be your father’s captive. Keep your mustang’s nose against you. It will help keep him quiet.”

***

A mustang trotted out the narrow valley, with the fat man weaving and bouncing on the animal’s back. “Where my trusted son go with woman not his?”

Strong Wind’s animal tried to whinny to his companion, but he pulled the mustang’s muzzle close to his body. Body tense, he listened as the animal rode past the small hill and then burst into a run.

Within a few breaths, his father had disappeared into the darkness.

“He will run that poor mustang till she drops. She is a good animal.” As Strong Wind began to get back on his mustang, a cold voice called from the darkness.

“Squaw, step on out here where I kin see ya. You too, brother. Make it quick or y’all gonna have some extra holes in ya.”

He led Dances In Storms, and they walked out into the weak moonlight.

His brother waved with his gun. “I ain’ as stupid as dear ol’ daddy. The two of ya kin just walk along real nice ’n slow like. Jus’ go on ahead o’ me, ’n on back to the cabin with ya.”

Dances In Storms edged closer to Strong Wind and whispered, “Move away from me. In five breaths, you must jump on your mustang and run. It will give me time to stop this brother of yours.” Not waiting for his reply, she eased away from him.

His brother grunted. “Hey, squaw, don’ be gettin’ no idears. Jus’ get on back over there with my baby brother.” He gave a nasty laugh. “I got me some words to say to ’im when we get to the cabin.”

All of a sudden, Dances In Storms whirled. Her hand dipped to the top of her footwear covered by her leggings. She scrambled with frantic fingers and snatched a knife from its sheath. As the knife came free, she hauled her arm back and threw it. Before it struck its target, she had hit the ground and rolled.

Strong Wind was impressed with her speed and skill, as the roar of his brother’s gun blasted against his ears.

Dirt sprayed up around Dances In Storms’ head, but she kept rolling for a short ways, then sprang to her feet, her second knife in hand.

His older brother lay on his back on the hard ground. The hilt of the woman’s knife stuck up from his chest.

Strong Wind walked over and stared down at his brother, whose open eyes saw nothing—the blank stare of death.

He nodded and turned to Dances In Storms. “The other mustang got away. Guess we will both have to ride Daisy.”