“Wake up. We must be on our way.”
When Wolf’s Tooth didn’t stir, Plenty Elk walked over and went to nudge Wolf’s Tooth’s foot with his own. Only then did Plenty Elk see the ring of red around his friend’s head. He took another step—and saw pink flesh where there should be hair.
Recoiling, Plenty Elk gripped the hilt of his knife. He had the blade halfway out when he was struck a terrible blow to the back of the head. Excruciating pain flooded through him. His senses swam, his legs grew weak, and his legs buckled. He came down hard on his knees. Struggling to stay conscious, he managed to draw his knife, only to have it kicked from his hand. Another blow, not quite as hard as the first, stretched him out on his side. Dimly, he was aware of being stripped of his weapons and having his legs tied at the knees and at the ankles. His hands, though, were left free. Why that should be mystified him until he was roughly rolled onto his back.
It was the black man. He had a rifle in one hand, a tomahawk in the other. A smile without warmth creased his cold features. Wedging the tomahawk under his belt, he leaned the rifle against a leg. Then his fingers flowed in fluid sign. ‘When brain work, Dog Eater, we sign talk.’
Plenty Elk tried to swallow, but his mouth was dry. He looked at Wolf’s Tooth, at the fate that soon awaited him, and felt great regret. He loved being alive. He did not want to die.
The black stared at him, waiting.
Plenty Elk wondered why he was still alive. Forcing his hands to move, he posed the question in sign.
‘Big man want talk you.’
By “big man,” Plenty Elk gathered that the black meant the man who spoke Arapaho. ‘Question. Why he talk me?’
‘He ask where you sit. He ask how many you people. He ask how many warriors. How many women. How many children.’
Fear filled Plenty Elk, not for himself but for his people. He resolved not to tell the scalp men where his village was or how many lived there, no matter what. ‘I no sign talk.’
The black did a strange thing; he laughed. ‘You talk. Him make all people talk.’
Plenty Elk didn’t like the sound of that. The scalp men tortured as well as scalped. Truly, he told himself, they were evil.
Squatting, the black regarded him with amusement. ‘Question. You called?’
Plenty Elk signed his name. ‘Question. You?’
‘No sign talk my name. I speak name.’ The black touched his chest. “Rubicon,” he said slowly.
“Rubicon,” Plenty Elk repeated. ‘You first black man I see.’
‘I last black man you see.’
Plenty Elk sank his cheek to the grass and closed his eyes. The pain had lessened a little and he could think again. Unless he did something, quickly, he wouldn’t live to greet the next dawn. But other than try and grab Rubicon’s rifle, what could he do? He looked up at his captor. ‘Question. Why you take hair? Take hair bad.’
Rubicon held his right hand out from his chest and curled his thumb and index finger to make a near-complete circle.
It was the sign for money.
Hope flared in Plenty Elk’s breast. ‘Question. You cut rope I give you my horse? You sell horse. Have money.’
‘Your hair more money.’
In the distance hooves drummed.
Plenty Elk stiffened. It must be the rest of the scalp hunters. He started to lower his hands to the rope around his legs. Without warning Rubicon sprang and swung the stock of his rifle in a tight arc. Plenty Elk nearly cried out. His ribs felt as if they had caved in.
“Don’t get no ideas, redskin.”
Plenty Elk understood the warning tone if not the words. He gazed through the trees to the west, seeking sign of his impending doom. They would torture him and kill him and lift his hair, and there wasn’t a thing he could do. In his frustration and helplessness, he raised a loud lament to the sky.
Rubicon rose. Smirking, he cradled his rifle. “Listen to you howl. That’s your death chant, ain’t it?”
The drumming hooves slowed as they neared the cottonwoods. Plenty Elk girded himself and dived at Rubicon’s legs, but the black man was too quick for him and leaped out of reach.
Snarling, Rubicon raised his rifle to hit Plenty Elk again.
That was when the brush crackled and out of the trees came the last person Plenty Elk expected: the young white woman.
Chapter Six
Evelyn King drew rein when the arrow thudded into the earth, and she watched the two warriors gallop off. She still didn’t know which tribe they belonged to. They weren’t Blackfeet or Sioux, or they would have tried harder to kill her or take her captive.
Degamawaku’s heart had leaped into his throat when he saw the glittering shaft arc out of the sky. For a few harrowing moments he thought it would bury itself in Evelyn. His relief when it missed was so profound that he trembled from head to toe. Drawing rein, he forced his throat to work. “Be careful, please. You almost be killed.”
“I don’t think so,” Evelyn said. “I don’t think he was trying to kill me, just scare me.”
“He scare me.”
The others came trotting up, Wakumassee and Tihikanima and Tenikawaku and Mikikawaku.
“Why did you chase them?” Waku demanded. He liked the white girl, liked her a lot, but at times she did rash things.
“I wanted to talk to them,” Evelyn explained. “I still do. Didn’t you see that one of them was hurt?”
“They not want your help.” Waku considered the arrow the warrior let fly a distinct hint.
“They were afraid of us.”
“They afraid of us?” Waku repeated in some amazement.
Evelyn rose in the stirrups and surveyed the vast extent of plain to the north. “The important thing is who hurt that warrior? They must have run into enemies. If there’s a war party somewhere close, we need to know.”
Waku hadn’t thought of that. “If there is war party near, we must go far away.”
“What if they’re between us and the mountains?” Evelyn shook her head. “They could be anywhere. We need to find out who and how many and where those two warriors last saw them.” She gigged the mare.
Dega was aghast. She had just escaped being shot with an arrow and here she was going after the men who shot at her. He glanced at his father in mute appeal and saw that he was just as dumbfounded.
Tihi didn’t like this one bit. “What is that foolish girl doing?”
“She thinks we need to talk to the two warriors,” Waku said. “She says there could be enemies close by.”
“Then we should return to the mountains. Out here on the prairie it is too open. We are too exposed.”
“I agree with Mother,” Tenikawaku said. She never wanted to come hunt buffalo in the first place. She was perfectly content to stay in King Valley where they were safe.
Little Minikawaku said nothing. She did not understand any of this, but she trusted her parents to do what was best.
“Stop her, Waku,” Tihi said. “Call to her.”
“She would not listen. She is headstrong, that one.”
Tihi smothered a tart reply. At moments like these she wished her husband was a bit more forceful, even if it wasn’t the Nansusequa way. The People of the Forest believed in living in harmony with everyone where possible. They exalted reason over confrontation, peace over violence. Unfortunately, as they had learned to their bitter sorrow, not everyone shared their ideals.
“We must go after her,” Waku said. “Her father and mother have been exceptionally kind to us.”
“She is a child in a woman’s body,” Tihi said in uncharacteristic anger. “I am grateful for what her parents have done for us, but they have not raised her right.”
“They are not Nansusequa.”