Running Wolf Page 2

  Running Wolf lifted his lance to strike. Today they did not carry the coup stick used to mark bravery, but weapons to kill, for the Crow had invaded their territory. His opponent lifted his shield. Running Wolf saw the symbol of a red arrow emblazoned on the hard rawhide. It was good medicine, he thought as his opponent deflected his thrusting lance and he made his own thrust. Running Wolf twisted in his saddle to avoid the iron spear tip and lost some of his momentum. His spear did not pierce the shield or his enemy, but slid harmlessly away.

  His men engaged the other three warriors with cries and blows. Running Wolf wheeled to have another chance at the leader, but as he turned he saw the warrior on the roan horse leap forward. The Crow gave a high thready cry.

  Running Wolf engaged the first man again. This was the obvious leader. It was not difficult for one war chief to recognize another. His opponent shouted directions to the men on the ground, who quickly fell back behind the horses.

  Running Wolf lifted his lance and thrust again, and his enemy deflected, but not quite enough, for the spear tip sliced deep into his opponent’s shoulder muscle, cutting a gash in the Crow’s shield arm as the horses moved past each other again. The warrior threw his lance to the ground. It stuck upright and quivering as he yanked his tomahawk from his breechclout and swung at Running Wolf’s head.

  Running Wolf flattened to his horse’s back as the metal ax head flew past him. He straightened and swung the pole of his lance like a club, striking his foe across the back with enough force to unseat him.

  The Crow warrior did not stay down long but kept hold of his horse’s mane as he fell, then used the ground to vault back onto his moving horse. He and his men dropped back to stand between their women still fleeing for cover and Running Wolf’s men. They took a defensive stance. Retreating, delaying, giving the women time to escape. Nearly all had disappeared into the woods. Even those carrying small children now darted like shadows beneath the mighty pines.

  Only one old woman remained, limping along like a wounded elk before a pack of hungry wolves. Red Hawk pursued the old Crow, but for what possible reason Running Wolf could not imagine.

  Running Wolf had made his orders clear. Destroy this camp. Steal the horses and go. He recalled now Red Hawk asking about captives and his reply—only if the taking would not slow their escape. But despite his orders, Red Hawk had left the fight to pursue captives and now lifted an old woman by the throat, dragging her beside his spotted horse.

  A blur of movement drew Running Wolf’s eye. The small warrior on the gray mare leaped from the galloping horse right at Red Hawk. The force of the collision carried Red Hawk sideways to the ground. Running Wolf wheeled toward the downed warrior and saw the flash of a small iron skinning knife. He frowned at the strange choice of weapon as the pieces fell into place.

  The small figure pinning Red Hawk was not an undersized warrior, but a woman.

  A strangely dressed woman warrior.

  She straddled her opponent as masterfully as she had straddled her mount just moments before, only now she lifted her blade. Beneath her, Red Hawk had lost his wind and writhed ineffectively, still clutching the old woman’s white beaded necklaces.

  Running Wolf let out a war cry. The woman hesitated, giving him time to reach them. He raised his lance as the warrior he had challenged gave a second war cry. Running Wolf was not distracted as he used the flat side of his lance to knock the knife from the woman’s hands. He reached down and hoisted her up onto his horse’s withers, capturing his first prisoner. He whooped and pulled his horse up until it balanced on its hind legs.

  Red Hawk rolled onto his hands and knees and vomited. The others reached them as the Crow warriors followed the women into the woods where the fighting would be difficult. All except the one who had fought Running Wolf.

  He remained, blood running from his arm down his mount’s shoulder. Still he charged again, but this time he met eight of Running Wolf’s men and was forced back. Was this the woman’s husband? Was that why he made such a suicidal charge?

  Yellow Blanket struck the man with his club and the warrior toppled from his horse, sprawling on the ground, as limp as a tanned buckskin. Yellow Blanket captured the warrior’s horse, giving a yell as he turned to go. It was a wonderful prize.

  Running Wolf held the struggling woman down across his horse’s withers as he glanced about the ruined camp. They had toppled the tepees, trampled the racks of drying fish and stolen their horses. Their work was done.

  Pursuing the fleeing tribe would only increase the chances of fatalities as his men no longer had the element of surprise and there were many places in the forest for the sneaking Crow to ambush them. He called a retreat.

  Red Hawk stood and pointed to Running Wolf’s prisoner.

  “That one is mine. I took her.”

  “You took a handful of beads. This one is mine.”

  So he pointed at the blue roan.

  “The horse is mine, then.”

  Yellow Blanket looked at the reins of his captured horse that now rested in his hand. Older and more experienced, he had only to lift a brow at Red Hawk before the man fell silent.

  Yellow Blanket looked at the beads in Red Hawk’s hand.

  “Those are yours.”

  Red Hawk’s face went scarlet but he held his tongue. Yellow Blanket had been war chief and his bravery was without question.

  “Were you unclear on your war chief’s instructions?” asked Yellow Blanket. Running Wolf appreciated the man’s assistance. It was difficult to lead a man older than you, especially when he felt he should have been Yellow Blanket’s successor. But he was not. The council had chosen Running Wolf.

  Red Hawk shook his head.

  “Then, why were you chasing old women instead of driving away their horses as you were told?”

  Red Hawk looked at the strings of broken beads in his hand. He stuffed them into a pouch at his waist. The warrior woman’s gray horse pawed the earth beside Red Hawk and then lifted its head to sniff its mistress.

  Weasel brought Red Hawk his horse.

  “Let’s go,” said Running Wolf. His prisoner wriggled and tried to lift her head, but he pushed her back down with one hand planted on her neck.

  What kind of woman was this who fought like a man?

  The raiding party rode toward home, with great commotion. The woman spread across his thighs tried to throw herself headfirst off his lap, but he held her easily. She was small, even for a woman, making her act of unseating Red Hawk even more impressive.

  He had never taken a captive but now wondered if he could keep this one. He liked the feel of her warm, firm body against his thighs, and her clothing and behavior had him both troubled and intrigued. He did not understand why she acted as she had, but he did know that she had the heart of a warrior.

  Still, keeping her was not entirely his decision. True, their chief, Iron Bear, was generous, often leaving the spoils of their efforts to each warrior to keep or distribute as they saw fit. Running Wolf found himself holding the wiggling woman more tightly and recognized with some shock that the thought of giving her up filled him with a selfish, grasping need. It was perhaps the best reason of all to give her away.

  He straightened in his saddle, lifting to a stand in his stirrups. He heard her gasp as she slid from his lap to wedge into the gap between his legs and the saddle’s high horn. She pressed her hands against his horse’s side to keep from tumbling headlong to the ground. Still fighting, he realized. Fighting for the old woman. Battling Red Hawk. Resisting capture and now struggling to survive. She was brave, this enemy warrior woman.

  Did that mean she had earned her life or a swift death?

  He pulled her upright and settled back in his seat. She curled against him for just a moment and sagged as if in relief. He stared down at the curve of her bottom and the short dress that
had hiked up.

  Was she wearing a loincloth?

  He had seen a woman wear leggings in winter, but never a loincloth.

  He rested a hand across her lower back and felt her muscles stiffen in protest. But she did not struggle. Perhaps she waited for her chance to plunge his knife into his heart. He added patient to her list of attributes.

  Running Wolf stifled his rising need, fighting that deep empty place in his heart. He struggled to resist the whisper of desire for this woman. No. His father had died at the hand of a Crow. They were his enemy, and that included this small temptation. His duty was to his ancestors, his chief and his tribe.

  He told himself that he would not covet this woman even as his hand tightened possessively about her.

  Chapter Two

  Snow Raven bounced with the steady lope of the black-and-white stallion. Each landing of the horse’s front hooves jarred the warrior’s muscular thighs against her stomach and breasts. She saw at close range the blue war paint along the horse’s long elegant leg. Handprints for kills, bars for coups and hoofprints for horses stolen in raids and, the last, a square. He was the war party leader. This man was impressive by any measure. She stared at the heavily beaded moccasin. The cut and decoration were more reminders that he was Sioux.

  If only she had followed her brother’s instructions, she would be safe in the woods right now.

  And her grandmother would be dead.

  Her grandmother would have preferred that, Raven knew, rather than see her only granddaughter taken and debased by the enemy.

  Raven had enough of lying across the warrior’s lap as if she were some buffalo blanket. But when she tried to push herself up, he shoved her back down.

  How long they traveled like this, she did not know. But when his horse finally slowed from lope to trot to walk, she was sweating and nauseous.

  Her captor ordered a halt to check on the injured and called for his men to report to him. His accent was strange. Their languages were very similar, but his speech was faster and more lyrical than that of her people. His voice seemed almost a chant.

  He captured one of her wrists. She tried and failed to keep him from securing the other. Before she could stop him, he had dragged her up before him and plopped her between his lap and the tall saddle horn made of wood covered in tanned buckskin. He used his other hand to loop a bit of rope about her joined hands and wound the rope around and through her wrists, binding her.

  She had lost her skinning knife, her bow and her dignity. But she had not yet lost her pride or her virtue. That would come later, at her arrival to camp. She knew how Sioux captives were treated by her people.

  Her band currently had no captives because her father killed all the Sioux he could, including women. But she had seen the female captives at the larger gatherings and winter camps when all the tribes of the Center Camp Crow came together. The women wore buckskin dresses soiled and torn, their hair a dusty tangle and their eyes hollow. She had even tossed an insult or two in their direction. Now she would be on the receiving end of such derision. The hatred between their people was old and strong. Everyone she knew had lost someone to the constant fighting and raids.

  Once with the Sioux, she would get little food and might die of starvation or exposure. But that was not the worst. Dying was preferable to being soiled by a Sioux snake. Unless she had a protector or was lucky enough to be adopted, any might take her. This warrior who captured her or one of his tribe.

  Raven shivered, vowing to take her life before submitting to such indignities. But what if she was not able to kill herself? There were ways to prevent her, deny her even the freedom to die. Her head hung. Should she try to stay alive and wait for her father and brother to come? Or should she try to end her life at the first opportunity?

  Where was the warrior she pretended to be? She would know how to face her fate. But if she were a warrior, her destiny would be far worse. Male captives had to endure a slow death by torture designed to test their bravery. She might be roasted over a low fire or have bits of flesh cut from her body.

  Some small part of her wondered if that end might be preferable to hers. She had always prided herself on her virtue. Now she realized it was already gone.

  She did not wish to die. But she did not wish to live like this. She had saved her grandmother’s life and, in the process, she had lost her own.

  * * *

  Running Wolf halted the raiding party after a long run. The open plains hid a spring of sweet water for the horses and riders. Here they could rest and the Crow could not sneak up upon them.

  Their raid would remind the Crow that they had ventured too far from their place and into the Sioux territory.

  The woman before him made no sound. She did not weep or beg. Instead, she sat still as a raptor, watching his men dismount and stretch their tight muscles. If he did not know better he would swear she was counting their number and measuring their strength.

  Running Wolf looked back and wondered if their enemy would follow. His party had taken only one captive. Then he thought of the look in the eyes of the warrior when this woman was taken. He would follow. Running Wolf knew this in his bones.

  He called to Weasel, asking how many horses they had taken.

  “All” came the answer.

  Running Wolf smiled. Weasel was a very good thief. He must be to sneak past village dogs and the boys watching the horses and to do that in full light. Running Wolf’s first raid as war chief and they had not lost a single man. He complimented Weasel’s skill and then dismounted.

  His captive threaded her hands in his horse’s mane and he had the flash of precognition. He grabbed her with both hands as she kicked his horse’s sides. His horse bolted forward as he swung his captive up and around until she landed before him.

  Their eyes met.

  He felt the electric tingle of awareness. She was beautiful, no question, with wild hair that streamed about her lovely face in long waves. She had tied a medicine wheel in one narrow braid at her temple. The opposite braid was wrapped in the pelt of a mink, tied with strands of tanned leather and bits of shell. The adornments framed her face.

  Her nose was straight and broad, brows high and arching like the wings of a raven. She had dark eyes glittering with emotion, showing her passion even as she stood perfectly still. He dropped his gaze to her mouth. Just looking at those generous pink lips made his stomach jump and his muscles twitch.

  He caught a motion to his left and turned to see Red Hawk approach, his expression stormy. Running Wolf was about to speak but Red Hawk lifted a hand to strike the captive. Running Wolf had time only to grip Red Hawk’s wrist. The men locked eyes. Running Wolf saw his mistake immediately. He had rescued Red Hawk from this woman and now he had easily stopped his blow. Both acts highlighted that he was the stronger man. A war chief did not intentionally embarrass his warriors. Running Wolf released Red Hawk and the older man fumed.

  “What are you doing?” Red Hawk asked, his voice hot with anger.

  “I thought you were going to strike my horse,” said Running Wolf, and cringed at the stupidity of that. He was not always quick-witted and preferred time to consider his responses. Meanwhile, his captive tugged in an effort to gain release from his grip. He gave a little yank and pulled her back beside him while keeping his focus on Red Hawk.

  “Your horse is gone,” Red Hawk said. “This one kicked it. Now I will kick her.”

  “I would prefer you did not. If she is injured, it will be harder to bring her to camp.” That response was a little better. But his reaction was worse because just the threat of kicking this captive made Running Wolf’s flesh prickle. What was happening here?

  Weasel, still mounted, went after Running Wolf’s spotted mustang, Eclipse, and captured him easily. Running Wolf recognized that he and Red Hawk had become the focus of the eight o
ther warriors, including Weasel, who returned now holding the reins of Eclipse.

  Yellow Blanket intervened. “Water your horses first, then the Crows’ horses.”

  The men moved to do as they were told.

  “You should kill that one,” said Red Hawk, and then stormed after the others.

  Running Wolf felt deflated. It was the order he should have given instead of staring like an owl. His raid had been a great success. The Crow did not even have horses to pursue them. Everyone lived and collected coups, and still he felt lacking as a leader. He knew the reason, the one change since he had ridden out this morning. He looked at the woman.

  They made eye contact and she immediately looked away, lifting her chin as if she were above him. It made him smile. She had not lost her pride. That much was certain.

  Yellow Blanket remained with Running Wolf, but he let Weasel take his horse. Yellow Blanket wore his eagle feathers today, marking him as a warrior with many coups. Iron Bear, their chief, often turned to him for advice. It had been on Yellow Blanket’s suggestion that Iron Bear had made Running Wolf the new war chief.

  Yellow Blanket glanced at the captive and then to the place where Running Wolf gripped her bound wrists.

  “You hold that one as if you did not wish to let her go,” said the older warrior.

  Running Wolf felt the truth in the warrior’s words but he replied, “She is just a captive.”

  “Is it wise to tell the men to take no captives and take one yourself?”

  “Did you see the circumstances?”

  “I did. You could have left her behind. Then she would not be here like an oozing wound in front of Red Hawk. Each time he looks at her, he sees his shame in flesh. She unseated him. Unmanned him.” Yellow Blanket looked at the woman. “Who are you?”