SHE PULLED HER HAND BACK, HER MOUTH OPEN. “YOUR wife!”
“Yes, I—” He reached for her hands again.
“Stay away from me!” She hid her hands in the flowered folds of her skirt.
It briefly occurred to him to dig them out, but he decided against it.
“It’s not what you think.”
He closed the fingers of his outstretched hand and slowly brought them back to his lap, silently absorbing every movement of her face, the twist of her mouth, the pinched expression. He nodded briefly and refilled his tin cup, pouring the liquid with a concentrated nonchalance.
“I was eighteen, Colleen.” He sipped gingerly at the whiskey. “She was almost seventeen.”
Memories long forgotten swept through him. He could see her dark gentle eyes teasing him, could feel the tender touch of her fingers on his face. He closed his eyes, astonished by the strength and clarity of the memories.
“We spent only nine months together before her death from cholera in 1853.” The words rang with an empty resonance.
“Oh—she’s dead!” Colleen said in relief, the smile coming back to her face.
He frowned. “Your tenderness is truly touching, my dear.”
“Well, Matthew, it’s just that I thought—I mean I was afraid she was—well, you know—alive.”
“Only here,” he said, tapping his chest.
She bowed her head in sudden understanding and fiddled with her skirt. “You still love her?”
“Never stopped.”
He looked around the camp, watching people. It was dinnertime and the smell of baking bread filled the air.
“What was her name?”
“Enanoshe,” he whispered.
There was a short silence while he shifted positions, extending both legs and snuggling his back against the uncomfortable hub. He felt odd, haunted, as though Enanoshe was somewhere close, just out of his reach, her black hair blowing in the wind as she reached out for him. But he couldn’t see her, couldn’t reach back. He hardened his thoughts. Like a damned soul awaiting the final judgment of God, he stood defiant before the golden throne. Blue eyes contemptuous—unrepentant—he was certain his actions had been right even if the divine decision didn’t reflect the fact—knowing it wouldn’t.
A melancholy smile brushed his lips as he played with the tin cup in his hands, flipping it over and over.
“She was—Cheyenne?” Colleen asked.
He nodded, fixing her with hollow eyes.
“Why was it difficult to tell me?”
He sighed. “There’s more to it. Some folks blamed me for her death.”
“Were you responsible?” She looked at him from beneath her lashes, blond curls falling over her shoulders.
“No.”
“Then why are you being so hard on yourself?”
He frowned and pushed the cap back on his head. Dark, damp locks fell over his brow. “Don’t know, really.”
She shook her head. “Since when did you develop these honorable tendencies toward martyrdom?”
“Martyrdom?” he questioned indignantly, wiping his moist palms on his sky blue pants. “Me?”
“A little late in life for you to develop such nobility—don’t you think?”
He thought of a suitable answer, but never had a chance to use it. “I—”
“Are you finished unburdening your conscience?”
“Uh … yes.”
She got to her feet and extended a tiny tanned hand to him. Her face glowed yellowish in the dim light of nearby fires.
“Good, I’m so tired I could sleep a hundred years.” She yawned, stretched her arms over her head. “Let’s go back to our tent?”
Confused, he stood and put an arm around her shoulders. They walked in silence.
He jerked awake, a sharp cry slipping from his throat. His lungs heaved; cold sweat had soaked his blanket. The darkness in the canvas tent was stifling. He rubbed his face with trembling fingers. The dream of Enanoshe had come again.
Colleen rolled over sleepily and patted his broad back. “You all right?” she murmured and sat up next to him.
“Yes,” he whispered. His eyes drifted to the eastern horizon. There was a very faint brightening over the rolling hills. He sighed as he lay back down, staring blindly at the darkness. Colleen put her head on his chest and tucked the blanket around him.
“Bad dreams?” she murmured, squeezing his arm.
“Um … what?” His thoughts were far away.
“Dream?”
“Yes—just a dream,” he said, caressing the tangles of blond hair that sheathed his chest.
Wounded Bear struggled to open his eyes, but his lids were too heavy. Pain seared his chest at the meager effort. He clamped his jaw to stifle the cry bubbling up in his throat. His body felt prickly, as though some demon thrust a thousand burning arrow points into his flesh. The agony was a fire that burned in waves over his breast.
He concentrated, tugging repeatedly at his lids until they opened. He was lying in a clump of cottonwoods, the thin leaves quaking lightly in the breeze. The grass beneath his bare back was cool. He commanded his forefinger to stroke the blades. Then tried to close his palm around them, but pain jabbed wickedly, forcing a groan through his clenched teeth.
Someone stirred beside him and he saw Yellow Leaf’s beautiful face lean over. She looked tired, eyes puffy. Had she been sitting there for long? Her long black hair draped over his chest.
“Wounded Bear,” she said, gently mopping his forehead with a damp cloth, “you must not move. I have your shoulder tied tightly in rawhide straps.”
“Water?” his dry voice croaked. He bit back against the pain the utterance brought.
“Here.” She lifted his head and tipped a gourd of water to his lips. He drank greedily, most of the cool liquid splashing down to drench his neck.
“You are lucky,” she murmured as she laid his head back against the grass. “The ball caught you high on your shoulder. Nothing vital was smashed, though I fear you will never have full use of your arm again—but you will live—if you lie still and let the wound mend.”
Wounded Bear smiled faintly. He had known he would live. The vision granted him by the wolf in the dark void assured him of a few more years. He closed his eyes. The image of the wolf brought back memories of his night with the yellow-haired woman and he could see wisps of hair
dancing in the wind and could feel the softness of her skin beneath his fingers. When he was stronger, he would seek her mind again. Soon, he promised himself. He let his memories of her fill him, sweetening his mind, dimming his awareness of the staggering pain. He had held her in his arms—she carried his child. Though she would not yet realize it, he knew. The maiyun had granted him a vision during their last embrace. He had seen the union take place and knew the baby to be male.
His thoughts wavered, sleep forcing dreams, dreams of his son.
The train had barely yoked up when the attack came, Indians screaming down the hills, bullets and arrows smashing into the wagons.
Williford’s horse spooked, bucking stiff-legged. He clung tight, waving the wagons by him. They rushed to find safety, but by eleven o’clock in the morning the attack had forced them to circle the wagons on a low, sage-covered hill.
So the attack had come, just as Douglas had said. Williford was outraged; his ragged blue shirt was drenched in sweat as he strode across the circle to Sawyers. The colonel was already shouting to the assembled crowd.
“Volunteers, men! Who will volunteer to ride out and find General Connor’s troops?” He held up both hands, palms open, his long face pinched.
“What for?” Williford yelled from the back of the crowd. People turned to stare at him.
One of Sawyers’ brows raised, his expression going hard at the sight of the captain. “With more military support we can travel farther into Indian country and complete our mission.”
Turmoil rose, voices chattering wildly.
Williford looked around at the faces of his men. The soldiers looked back with questions in their eyes, some kicking dirt to avoid his gaze. No one wanted to volunteer for a suicide ride.
“Fifteen men,” the colonel continued, shouting over the clamor. “Just fifteen!”
Williford walked forward, anger and indignation winding through him as he shouldered between whispering road-builders and wide-eyed worried emigrants to stand ten feet from Sawyers.
“Fifteen men, Colonel?” he asked, aghast, and waved a hand to the hills where the Indians had momentarily retreated. “Against a thousand Indian warriors?”
“Captain, the bravery of our men is beyond question. They—”
“Hell, man! Bravery isn’t worth a damn against bullets! Fifteen men wouldn’t make it more than a hundred yards before they were cut down!” He was tired, dead tired. His fuse seemed to be getting shorter by the minute, violence welling hotly in his veins.
Sawyers glared and ignored his observation, looking over Williford and back to the crowd. “Who will volunteer for this mission?”
An uneasy quiet settled and Williford let his eyes drift back to his men. They’d go if he ordered it, he knew that. These “White-Washed Rebels” were a dedicated and courageous group of men, but he couldn’t order anyone to undertake a mission with such odds. The soldiers waited, their eyes fixed on him.
“You’re not getting any volunteers, Colonel,” Williford announced, frowning and crossing his arms.
“Captain.” Sawyers stepped forward and lowered his voice. “I order you to select fifteen men for this mission.”
“You have no authority over me, Colonel,” he replied flatly. “My men are going nowhere.”
A loud cheer rose from the men in blue, hats flying into the air like tumbling balloons. When the ruckus died down, Sawyers was trembling with rage.
He glared out over the soldiers. “I didn’t realize,” he charged at the top of his lungs, “that your men were as fainthearted as you, Captain!”
Insane anger gripped Williford, he lunged, fists frantically
seeking Sawyers. Someone grabbed him from behind before his blows could land. He struggled against the iron arms around his chest.
“Damn it, George!” Douglas said in his ear. “Stop it! It’s not worth your career!”
He relaxed and shrugged off the muscular arms. If only he weren’t so exhausted. He’d gotten no more than eight hours’ sleep in four days and his ability to think was nil. His mind worked constantly on half power—his emotions racing full-time. He turned around to nod his gratitude to Douglas. The lieutenant looked worried.
“Colonel,” he exhaled the word in one disgusted breath. “The only place my men are going is Fort Connor at the earliest possible moment.” He turned and started walking away through the crowd.
“You’re a stinking coward, Williford!” Sawyers shouted. “A filthy stinking coward!”
He stopped dead in his tracks and slowly turned around, wanting a fight—needing one. But Sawyers had vanished, fled immediately on seeing him turn.
“Indians!” someone screamed.
Williford whirled, drawing his pistol. The hills came alive with piercing wolflike cries as warriors rode down upon the train, trying to stampede the stock. People crisscrossed through the wagons, rushing for safety and rifles, as bullets whistled around them, splintering wood and furrowing twisted patterns in the soil.
The attempt failed, the warriors retreating over the hills to await their next opportunity.
Before dawn the following morning, Sawyers ordered four members of his road crew to locate Connor’s column. Two days later they returned, sneaking in under cover of darkness.
“Colonel?” Charlie Sears wheezed as he pulled back the flap of Sawyers’ tent, then fell into a coughing fit, his lungs clogged with dust from his hurried fifty-mile ride.
“Come in, Sears,” Sawyers said, laying his pen and paper aside.
He complied, ducking through the flap and standing awkwardly before the colonel. The expedition’s leader was seated at a plank table writing, a lamp burning next to him.
“Found Connor’s trail, sir,” he informed, choking back another coughing attack.
“But no soldiers?”
“No, sir.”
Sawyers exhaled heavily and leaned back, his face tense, brow furrowed. “Where did the trail lead?”
“Didn’t follow it out all the way, sir, but I reckon it goes straight to Fort Connor.” He took off his dusty hat and slapped it on his hip. Puffs of dirt hung on the still air. “My advice, for what it’s worth, Colonel, is to follow that trail, no matter where it leads.”
Sawyers sat rigid, defeat plain on his long face. His salt and pepper beard wriggled as he spoke. “Not much choice, is there?” His voice had gone hollow.
“Reckon not.”
“All right,” Sawyers breathed, lightly pounding a fist on the plank tabletop. “Tell the crew—and … let Captain Williford know.”
Sears bowed. “On my way, Colonel.”
The news spread like wildfire.