Wind Warrior Read online

  Dull Knife’s eyes widened and he jerked against his brother’s grip, but he could not pull loose. “Do you dare speak to me in such a way?”

  Wind Warrior’s gaze dropped to the girl, who looked more dead than alive. Her yellow hair was plastered to her head, and her face was covered with a mixture of mud and blood. It was easy to see by the angle at which she held her left arm that it was either broken or dislocated. Either way, she must be in excruciating pain.

  “Have you not already damaged her enough?”

  Dull Knife met his brother’s gaze. “It seems you have grown bold since last I saw you.”

  “And you have grown more ruthless.”

  Dull Knife sneered. “It is not your place to question me.”

  Pity welled inside Wind Warrior as he looked into green eyes that were dulled with pain. “You will not raise a hand to her again.”

  Dull Knife finally managed to jerk his arm free. “Command those you capture, little brother. This captive is mine to do with as I will.”

  Others were beginning to gather, watching with interest the confrontation between the brothers. White Owl had always known the day would come when his sons would have a serious conflict. He had not expected the fight to be over a white girl.

  “The young cub challenges the older wolf,” Lean Bear said, smiling. “The cub seems to be winning.”

  White Owl met the elder’s gaze. “It is dangerous for my younger to humiliate his brother in public. I fear reprisal.”

  At that moment, Wind Warrior stepped in front of the girl, his gaze hardening. “What do you intend to do with her?”

  “It is no concern of yours,” Dull Knife said, his anger flaring. He would not forget that his brother had shamed him in front of others, when this should have been his time of triumph. Wind Warrior would regret what he’d said and done here today.

  Wind Warrior gave no sign of relenting.

  “This girl is meant for Broken Lance,” Dull Knife ground out savagely.

  “No,” Charging Bull put in, pushing Lillian forward. “I mean this girl for the chief and his woman.”

  Dull Knife’s anger shifted from his brother to Charging Bull. “As I told you before, that one is too old, and she complains too much. The chief will not want her in his tipi.”

  Frowning, Wind Warrior watched the yellow-haired child raise her chin to a stubborn tilt. He felt a rush of respect for her—although she must be in agony, she seemed proud, trying not to show her pain. There was a sudden stirring within his chest; this white girl seemed familiar to him, although he could not have said why. The only white people Wind Warrior had ever met were the occasional French trappers who came to the village to trade for furs. And they were nothing like her.

  He studied the yellow hair that was snarled about her face.

  Why did he feel they were tied together in some way?

  The girl must have felt his gaze because her head turned in his direction and she stared back at him as if challenging him in some way. Wind Warrior’s eyes widened in amazement, and he was struck to the heart. Never had he seen such eyes—they were as green as the spring grasses. There was defiance sparkling in those green eyes, and his admiration for her grew.

  Wind Warrior’s gaze shifted to the older, redheaded girl whose head hung down in defeat as if she dared not look any of them in the eye. He found himself hoping Broken Lance would choose the younger girl. She would be safe then and free from his brother’s cruelty.

  Then it occurred to Wind Warrior that the chief’s wife, Tall Woman, would be the one to choose. The pitiful little one might strike a chord of sympathy in her kind heart, or she might choose the older, stronger girl, who would be more help to her.

  Wind Warrior watched tensely with the others when Tall Woman came out of her tipi. She first scrutinized the redheaded girl, lifting her chin and looking into her eyes. Shortly she turned her full attention on the yellow-haired one. For some reason it was agony waiting for the chief’s wife to make her choice. Of course she might choose neither girl. She had long mourned her dead daughter, and might not want to replace her with a white girl.

  Tall Woman motioned for her husband to come near. “This child is in pain. Her arm is broken and she is in need of nourishment. We will take her into our tipi and give her care.”

  Broken Lance nodded. “If that is your wish,” he said reluctantly, staring into sparkling green eyes that were too defiant for his taste. “But if you want one of the girls, should you not choose the older one? She seems strong enough to work hard, while the other is sickly and weak.”

  Tall Woman raised Marianna’s chin and looked her over carefully. “This one needs care, but she has spirit. It is doubtful that I will ever think of her as my daughter, but I would like to see her health restored.”

  Frowning, Broken Lance turned to Dull Knife. “What do you want for the girl?”

  Dull Knife could hardly keep from smiling. “She is a gift.”

  “Is it agreed that if this white girl does not suit my wife, I will return her to you?”

  Dull Knife looked at his brother with a smirk on his face, though his words were for the chief. “Yes. If she does not suit, I will take her back.”

  “Rest from your journey. Come to the elder’s lodge at dusk tonight. I will hear of your raid,” Broken Lance remarked. “It would seem you have done well.”

  Turning to Wind Warrior, Dull Knife said, “Follow me, brother. I would have a word with you.”

  Reluctantly Wind Warrior fell into step with Dull Knife, still thinking about the young captive. “The girl is sickly. She might die.”

  “That is possible. But her fate is not in your hands. Do not waste my time with your concern for the white girl. It is about you I wish to speak.”

  Wind Warrior met his brother’s dark gaze. “There was a time when I admired you more than any other warrior. Now I see your cruelty and disregard for others, and I no longer respect you.”

  Dull Knife snorted in disgust. “Do you believe I care what you think of me? I will give you this warning only once. Do not again attempt to get in my way as you did today. If you value your life, stay out of my reach.”

  Wind Warrior stepped away from his brother, his gaze never wavering. “The time will come when we will face each other as enemies. It is not my wish, but it will happen.”

  Dull Knife shook his head, loathing gleaming in his eyes. “Do not pretend to me that you can see the future.”

  “I do not claim to be able to see the future,” Wind Warrior responded. “I only know you and I are walking different paths, and our roads will one day bring us to a collision.”

  If that is so, then beware,” Dull Knife warned. “Think on this—Broken Lance has no sons. Therefore, when the white girl is of an age and I take her for my woman, Broken Lance will look to me as his son.”

  The thought of Dull Knife taking the young captive to wife was disturbing to Wind Warrior. “I will be watching you,” he warned.

  Dull Knife swung onto his horse. “One day I will have to kill you.” He dug his heels into the horse’s flanks and shot forward, forcing Wind Warrior to step out of the way or be trampled.

  Wind Warrior watched his brother until he disappeared across the river. In some way a girl he had not even known existed before today had sparked something dangerous between him and Dull Knife. How had he gone so quickly from admiring to loathing his brother? It pained him that he had searched his brother’s heart and found only cruelty and greed.

  Marianna didn’t understand what was happening. She watched helplessly as Lillian was led away. “No!” Marianna cried, reaching out to the other girl, who was sobbing. “Do not separate us.”

  But her plea went unheeded. As the Indian woman led her toward the tipi, Marianna called out, “Be brave, Lillian. Remember what I told you. Remember who you are.”

  Despite the encouragement she had called out to Lillian, Marianna didn’t feel very brave herself. If she were to look for a rainbow, it could only be th
at both she and Lillian had survived another day.

  Fear fluttered in Marianna’s stomach—what was to become of them?

  The inside of the tipi was larger than Marianna had expected from looking at it outside. War clubs, bows, and lances hung on the leather walls. There was a stack of cooking pots and clay bowls near the cook fire. But what really caught Marianna’s attention was the wonderful smell of something cooking among the hot stones, and although she didn’t know what it was, her mouth watered.

  Raising her gaze to the Indian woman, Marianna saw that she was striking in appearance. Her black hair was pulled away from her face in one long braid that hung down her back. Marianna felt hope when she read compassion in the large brown eyes that rested on her injured arm.

  Although Marianna could not understand the woman’s words, she was able to interpret her hand motions—she wanted her to sit on the reed mat, so Marianna sank to her knees.

  Marianna’s head jerked toward the opening when she heard someone entering. The old woman who stepped inside was stooped with age; her mouth was crabbed with wrinkles and she looked frightful. Marianna cringed against the tipi wall as the two Indian women conversed, nodding at her.

  Finally the two of them came toward her. The whiteheaded woman bent to examine Marianna’s arm. She was surprisingly gentle. Then the two women talked some more.

  At last the dark-headed woman knelt beside Marianna and spoke softly, gesturing at Marianna’s arm. She didn’t want them to touch her because of the pain. The elder woman held on to Marianna while the younger grasped Marianna’s arm and yanked it hard.

  Stabbing pain ripped through Marianna, and she could not keep from screaming; then blackness swallowed her.

  When Marianna’s eyes opened, she had no idea how much time had passed. When she tried to sit up, she was hindered because her arm had been bound to her body with wide leather strips—it ached and throbbed, but she didn’t feel the sharp pain she had known before.

  Her gaze swept the tipi and she found she was alone with the younger Indian woman. When she saw Marianna was awake, she knelt beside her and forced her to drink a nasty-tasting herbal concoction. There must have been something in the drink that dulled her pain, and soon she sighed with relief.

  Smiling, the woman handed her a wooden bowl of meat. Marianna forgot all the manners her aunt had taught her. Aunt Cora would have been appalled if she had witnessed the way Marianna gobbled down a piece of meat and reached for another.

  By the time Marianna had eaten her fill, she could hardly hold her eyes open. As she lay back against the buffalo robe, her eyes fluttered shut and she realized the herbal drink had not only helped her pain, but it had also made her sleepy.

  Forcing her eyes open, she tried to fight against the drowsiness. She stared through the opening above her and saw night was falling, and that was all she remembered before sleep took her once more.

  Lillian’s captor was not a young man. If she was any judge, he was in his late forties. His neck was thick, his nose hooked at the end, and the last day before they reached the village, he had begun brushing his hands against her breasts, and once slid his hand down her belly and clamped it between her legs.

  She understood that he had offered her to the Indian couple who’d taken Marianna into their tipi. But she had not been chosen, and now she knew her fate was in his hands.

  Lillian had been thrust into a tipi and left alone, crying on a buffalo robe. As soon as darkness descended, the Indian returned. Lillian heard him speak to someone, a female who had entered at the same time. Surely he wouldn’t rape her if there was another woman present.

  Raising her head, she watched the two of them argue. The woman was thick-waisted, her face round, her arms and legs like tree stumps. It soon became clear to Lillian that the woman didn’t want her there. It was also clear that the woman was losing the argument.

  Lillian sat up quickly, her hand going to her mouth when the woman hurried out of the tipi and the man turned his attention to her.

  Dropping to all fours, she scrambled to the back of the tipi, knowing very well what the Indian’s look meant. Soldiers at the fort had often looked at her that same way, and she had flirted with some of them, welcoming the touch of those she liked. She’d frequently slipped off into the woods with different men to have her body caressed and give them what they wanted. Willingly she had tasted their kisses and trembled with pleasure as they had stroked her naked flesh.

  But this was different. This would be rape by a dirty savage. She didn’t want him to touch her in any way.

  She felt his hands on her waist and he flipped her to her back, hovering over her. Lillian’s eyes widened. “Please don’t.” She shoved against him. “I beg you not to do this.”

  The Indian jerked Lillian’s gown up to her waist, his hands seeking and finding her most intimate places. It hurt when he jammed his finger into her, and Lillian would have cried out in protest, but she knew it would do no good.

  Squeezing her eyes together tightly, she swallowed a sob. She tried to think of home and of the life that had been ripped from her, but it was hard when the Indian jerked her head around and forced her to look at him.

  When he drove into her body, she quivered with revulsion. He pumped into her hard and fast, not caring if he hurt her.

  When he finally shuddered and fell forward, his weight pressing into her, Lillian thought she was going to be sick. She didn’t dare move, hoping he would leave her alone.

  But he was not finished with her.

  “No. Not again,” she moaned, as he took her again, and still again.

  Later, when he left and the woman had returned, Lillian huddled in a ball, wishing she had died like Susan.

  Her body ached and her spirit was crushed. She thought of Marianna and wondered if she had suffered the same fate.

  Dark thoughts took over her reasoning. No, precious Marianna had not been raped. That woman had taken her to tend her wounds.

  She despised Marianna because she was everything Lillian wanted to be. Crying quietly because she knew she would be beaten if the woman heard her, she rolled her head back and forth, writhing in misery.

  She was sore and hungry. Her mouth was dry because she had not had a drink of water since the day before.

  Trembling with fear, Lillian heard the man return. Closing her eyes, she hoped he would go to his wife, or whoever the woman was to him.

  But he didn’t.

  He came to her, ripping what was left of her soiled gown, and plunged his hardness into her. Grunting and sweating, he pumped harder in a dance she thought would never end. Her humiliation was twofold because Lillian knew the other woman could hear everything that was happening to her.

  Tears ran down her cheeks and she tried to think of something to take her mind away from what was happening to her body.

  Again her anger against Marianna raged through her. At this moment Marianna was probably being shown every kindness, while she was being denigrated and misused.

  In Lillian’s twisted way of thinking, everything that had happened to her was Marianna’s fault. The seeds of hatred had been planted in Lillian’s mind, and they now festered and grew.

  “I despise you, Marianna,” she whispered. “I’ll make you pay for what you’ve done.”

  Marianna awoke during the night to find herself wrapped in a warm buffalo robe. She was too weary to dwell on what might happen to her at sunrise. All she knew was that she had escaped the horrible savage who had captured her.

  At least for now.

  She felt the roughness of the buffalo hide and thought of the softness of Aunt Cora’s sheets, which always smelled faintly of lavender. She was still drowsy, and tried to focus on conscious thought.

  Why had she been placed with these people?

  What if the cruel and evil Indian who captured her came back for her?

  Hearing the mournful howl of a wolf pierce the night air, Marianna closed her eyes, wondering what had happened to Lillian. She tried
to picture the faces of her aunt Cora and uncle Matt.

  In her mind Marianna hummed the song Aunt Cora had always sung to her as a small child. But it didn’t help much.

  Aunt Cora had always bragged to anyone who would listen that her niece, Marianna, was a happy child, always laughing or smiling.

  Well, she wasn’t happy now. And she doubted she ever would be again.

  She prayed silently that Aunt Cora and Uncle Matt would find her and take her home, even though in her heart she knew that was not possible.

  How would she endure living with these savages for the rest of her life, however short that turned out to be?

  What would happen if she snuck out of the tipi and made her way across the river and into the woods?

  That was foolish thinking—she could never make it to freedom in her condition. But later, when she wasn’t being watched so closely, she would look for a chance to escape.

  If she didn’t believe she would one day escape and find her way back home, Marianna would lose all hope.

  She remembered the crazy white woman who had been brought to Fort Benton, and shook her head.

  “My name is Marianna,” she whispered over and over, determined to repeat her name every night before she went to sleep. “My name is Marianna Bryant. My home is Fort Benton.”

  Chapter Eight

  Several months later, Marianna stood in the frosted air, watching wild geese on their migratory flight, their numbers stretching endlessly across the bluest sky she had ever seen. There were clouds gathering in the north, and she thought it might rain before long.

  She was beginning to pick up threads of the Blackfoot language, so she could at least communicate. She had found life hard in the Blackfoot village, but there was also companionship and loyalty—joy in the children who played in the shadows of the vast mountains.

  The young girls worked beside their mothers, learning crafts that had been handed down through unknown ages. It was the women who really sustained the family units; they toiled from morning until night, their hands never idle. The warriors spent most of their time hunting and providing food, while young boys were given freedom to practice and learn how to use weapons.