Night Thunder's Bride: Blackfoot Warriors, Book 3 Read online

  Dedication

  This book is dedicated to some of the kindest people I have ever known.

  For my friends, Becky Johnson-Hillman, a true inspiration, who first introduced me to romance novels.

  Mary Bridges-Thompson, whose loyalty and friendship I will always treasure.

  Christine Pickens-Milliman, how could I forget our many adventures in high school?

  Also to my daughter, Alyssa Elstner-Howson, who celebrates her first year of marriage.

  HAPPY ANNIVERSARY

  Acknowledgments

  Because one never really writes a book “alone,” I would like to acknowledge the following research sources: to Chief Buffalo Child Long Lance and his book Autobiography of a Blackfoot Indian Chief, from which I received the information on the seven tents of the medicine man and many other interesting facets of Blackfoot life.

  To James Willard Schultz and his book My Life as an Indian; what an adventure in reading.

  Also to L. Ron Hubbard for his books Buckskin Brigades, a truly unusual book of the Blackfoot Indians, and Assists Processing Handbook, specifically, data on the “Bring Back to Life” Assist and the “Unconscious Person” Assist.

  Note to the Reader

  The year is 1833, a time when the Blackfoot Indians held control of their country and patrolled it with unmerciful vigor. The white man is the invader in this land, and from the Blackfoot viewpoint, the white man is the interloper. With his weapons and snares, the trapper purges the land, taking more than he could ever use. With his whisky and wine, the trader further weakens the more feeble spirits within the Indian tribes, and with his lack of conscience, the white man begins a practice of taking Indian women as wives, only to cast them soon aside.

  Most of the Blackfoot chiefs urge their people to trade with their Canadian allies in the north, rather than risk the dangers of bartering with the newer, more savage “Americans”; men who will ply whisky in their trade in order to cheat the Indian out of his hard-earned goods. At Fort Union, such a man was Kenneth McKenzie, who encouraged whisky to flow freely under the cover of darkness.

  It is this period in history which is most condemning to the newly founding country of the United States. The white men who first met the Indians were often no more than criminals escaping justice in the east. Here these men felt free to dramatize their antisocial acts upon a people who had no recourse with the new American government. Such people as these first white men often placed themselves above the law and held little respect for the life and well-being of others, often writing, when they could write at all, of the savage aspects of the Indian—perhaps to atone for their own wild conduct. But careful research of unprejudiced, firsthand accounts, reveals an entirely different scenario.

  They (the Indians) were friendly in their dispositions, and honest to the most scrupulous degree in their intercourse with the white men…Simply to call these people religious would convey but a faint idea of the deep hue of piety and devotion which pervades the whole of their conduct. Their honesty is immaculate; and their purity of purpose, and their observance of the rites of their religion, are most uniform and remarkable. They are, certainly, more like a nation of saints than a horde of savages.

  —GEORGE CATLIN, from the writings of Captain Bonneville

  Never in the history of the United States have unspeakable injustices been carried on amongst an entire people who knew so little of such things. Rarely has such information as what truly transpired in the west been so suppressed and hidden.

  We have no other mode of accounting for the infamous barbarities, of which, according to their own story, they were guilty—hunting the poor Indians like wild beasts, and killing them without mercy—chasing their unfortunate victims at full speed; noosing them around the neck with their lassos, and then dragging them to death…A great number of Shoshokies or Root-Diggers were posted on the opposite bank, when they (the white men) imagined they (the Indians) were with hostile intent; they advanced upon them, leveled their rifles, and killed twenty-five of them on the spot. The rest fled to a short distance, then halted and turned about, howling and whining like wolves, and uttering most piteous wailings. The trappers chased them in every direction; the poor wretches made no defense, but fled with terror; neither does it appear from accounts of the boasted victors, that a weapon had been wielded, or a weapon launched by the Indians throughout the affair.

  From these, and hundreds of others that might be named, and equally barbarous, it can easily be seen that white men may well feel a dread at every step they take in Indian realms, after atrocities like these, that call so loudly and so justly for revenge, in a country where there are no laws to punish, but where the cruel savage takes vengeance in his own way—and white men fall, in the Indian’s estimation, not as murdered, but executed, under the common law of their land.

  —GEORGE CATLIN, taken from the writings of Captain Bonneville, Letters and Notes on the Manners, Customs, and Conditions of the North American Indians

  It is at this riotous point in history that our story begins.

  Karen Kay

  Please note: There is a glossary provided at the end of this book for unusual or uncommon words—also some definitions of commonly used Indian words.

  Wide brown plains, distant, slender, flat-topped buttes; still more distant giant mountain, blue sided, sharp peaked, snow capped; odor of sage and smoke of campfire; thunder of ten thousand buffalo hoofs over the hard, dry ground; long drawn, melancholy howl of wolves breaking the silence of night, how I loved you all!

  —JAMES WILLARD SCHULTZ, My Life as an Indian

  Chapter One

  Northwest Territory

  July 1834

  During the moon when the flowers blossom, Strikes The Bear’s wife had been raped, abused and killed by the white men. Soon after, his sister had been taken to a white man’s sleeping robes, supposedly in marriage, only to be discarded shortly thereafter.

  It had to be these things, and these things alone, which accounted for Strikes The Bear’s present behavior. No true warrior would treat a woman so badly. Not without direct provocation.

  Night Thunder, hidden by many trees and bushes, sat considering, with the age-old logic which had been passed down to him since “time before mind,” that Strikes The Bear had some cause for his anger. Still, this particular white woman had not caused the tragedy to Strikes The Bear’s family. And Night Thunder had pledged to protect her; she was his responsibility. His to defend.

  Night Thunder inspected the temporary warrior’s camp, knowing with a sickening sensation what was to come.

  The men stood in a circle around the fire, which burned ominously, its crackle and smoky, pine-scented odor offensive rather than pleasant. A drum beat steadily, slowly—a throbbing portent of what was to come. The woman had been placed in the center of the circle—fire to her back, Strikes The Bear in front. And in his hand, Strikes The Bear wielded a knife.

  Voices were raised in song and in quiet murmurings, occasionally interrupted with a bellow from Strikes The Bear and a whimper from the woman.

  Night Thunder observed that there were no guards posted to watch over the encampment. Either Strikes The Bear was overly certain of his safety, or the warriors, too aroused over the spectacle taking place before them, no longer cared.

  Night Thunder suspected the latter and despaired.

  How could he save her?

  If these men had been of an enemy tribe, Night Thunder wouldn’t have hesitated to act, despite the fact that they were fifteen and he was one. He would have already seized the opportunity for glory, rushing into the enemy camp and killing or being killed.

&nbs
p; But such was not to be. These warriors were his own people, many of them his friends. True, they were Kainah, of the Blood tribe, while he was Pikuni—or as the white man called his people, the Piegan. Still, this made no difference. These warriors were Blackfeet, his relatives, his brothers. He could not fight them. Not and remain honorable to himself.

  Yet he must save the woman.

  How?

  Custom dictated that a captured woman belonged to the one who had stolen her; that man being Strikes The Bear. It was not a law Night Thunder was willing or prepared to break.

  Still, he had to do something.

  He glanced at the woman now, noting in a single glance that her golden-brown hair, usually as bright and shiny as a full autumn moon, lay lackluster and disheveled around her face. Her eyes, which he knew to be as amber as those of a panther, mirrored her fear, though pride and perhaps resignation kept her silent. Her hands shook where they were tied together in front of her; her knees trembled, making her flimsy dress flutter as though it waved in a breeze.

  Yet she had jutted her chin forward, had thrown back her head and had a look upon her face which could only be called defiant. And if those were tears which fell over her cheeks, she at least pretended to have no knowledge of them.

  She had courage, this one. She might be young, perhaps no more than twenty winters, but Night Thunder knew very few women who would remain so stouthearted in similar circumstances. He added one more quality to his long, growing list of her attributes: her courageous spirit. Someday, he thought, she would make a man a fine wife.

  Night Thunder drew his brows together in silent realization.

  Wife? Was this a possible solution? If Night Thunder claimed her as his bride…?

  No, he couldn’t.

  But if he could make the others believe that he had married this woman, it would. give him first rights to her. He could then save her without raising his hand against his brothers.

  Could he do it? To do so would be the height of dishonesty. Surely Sun and the winds would carry the tale of his treachery into the Sand Hills, reaching the ears of his ancestors, bringing those who had gone before him great shame.

  Yet the consequences if he did not act…

  Strikes The Bear suddenly let out a growl and, gripping his knife as though prepared to use it, approached the woman.

  Her scream split the air with a terrifying intensity as the knife tore through her dress, and in that instant Night Thunder ceased to wonder if and when he should act.

  He would rescue her.

  Now.

  The Indian growled at her, striking out at her with his knife, the action plummeting Rebecca instantly and horribly into the present. As though in a dream, she’d been lost in the past. She wished she could have remained there; the present held too much pain, too much fear.

  She wasn’t certain how she had lived through the first few hours after her capture by these Indians, so strong had been that fear. Still, live she had.

  She stared into her enemy’s black-painted face, trying to remember if she had ever seen a human being look more frightening. Nothing came to her. Nor did she register much else about the man, not even his nearly nude body. All she could focus on was his face and that knife he waved in front of her. Her stomach dropped and the scent of her own fear engulfed her. She needed no wise man to tell her what her future held.

  Was this all she had left, then? Was she to join, at last, her dearly departed fiancé? Would she never see the shores of her parents’ beloved homeland, Ireland? Would she die here never to have realized her dream? Would she never dance? This last thought, strangely enough, was more depressing than all the rest, even the idea of dying.

  Odd, she considered, that here, before her imminent demise, she found herself bemoaning a ball she would never have, a party she would never attend. How her parents would have moaned her loss, had they been living—that their American-born daughter would not come to know her Irish heritage.

  Her heart sank.

  Perhaps in the hereafter, please God.

  Well, if this was all that there was, then let the Indian get on with it. Taking what she speculated might be her last breath, she threw back her head, raised her chin, and voiced, “Is that the best you can do to frighten me, now?”

  She knew her words were hollow, however, her bravery for naught. She would break down soon enough, more’s the pity. But perhaps the Lord would let her keep her dignity, as least for a little while longer.

  Propelling himself forward, out of the shadows, Night Thunder leaped into the Kainah encampment, making as much noise as he could, in order that he draw attention to himself.

  “Night Thunder!”

  He heard the woman scream out his name in the white man’s tongue. Odd, he thought fleetingly, that her voice would sound so pleasant, even under such duress.

  “Go back,” she shouted at him. “There’s naught you can do for me here. There are too many of them.”

  Night Thunder paid her little attention. He took note of Strikes The Bear, saw the man turn his head slightly. Night Thunder drew his arms together over his chest, preparing to meet the other Indian in silent battle. But all the other Indian did by way of greeting was grunt before he turned back toward the woman. He shouted, “Omaopii! Be quiet!” and at the same time, reached out toward her as though he might strike her.

  “The devil bless you,” she spat out, defiance coloring her voice, her composure, her bearing. And Night Thunder realized that though the white woman might not have understood Strikes The Bear’s words, she had clearly grasped his actions.

  Strikes The Bear shrieked all at once and sprang forward, slashing out at her again with his knife. Another piece of her dress fell to the ground. But the white woman held onto her pride, this time not uttering even a sound.

  Night Thunder congratulated her silently for her fortitude. He cautioned himself, however, to show nothing: not admiration, not pride, not even his anger. “Oki, nitakkaawa, hello, my friends,” he said at last to the warriors at large. Then, with what he hoped was a tinge of humor, he added, “Do we intend to start treating the white women as that man does ours?”

  “Miistapoot, go away, my cousin.” It was Strikes The Bear who spoke. “We do not wish to hear your talk if it is to say bad things about what we do.”

  “You think that I would say bad things about this?”

  Strikes The Bear groaned slightly before he continued, “We all know how you cater to the white man, spending so much time in his forts and lodges. Many are the times when we have likened you to a dog seeking the white man’s scraps. But you are alone in your regard for this woman. Most of us hate the white man for what he has done to us, to those dear to us. Look around you. Do you not see that each warrior here has suffered from the white man’s crimes? We do not wish to hear your honeyed words about him.”

  Night Thunder listened patiently, as was the way of his people, and he paused only slightly before responding, “I come here before you with no pleasant talk for the white man on my tongue. But this woman, she is different.”

  “Go away. I will do as duty requires me. Can you deny that I have the right and the obligation to do to this white woman those things which were done to my wife? Is it not true that only in this way can my spirit, and my woman’s, at last find peace?”

  Night Thunder again paused, long enough to show respect for what Strikes The Bear had said. But after a few moments, Night Thunder began, “Aa, yes, my cousin has cause to speak and to do as he does, I think, and all our people weep with him in his grief.” Night Thunder shifted his weight, the action giving emphasis to his next words. “But even as he scolds the white man for his ways and scorns his path, I see that my cousin adopts his customs, too. For is it not the sweet scent of the trader’s nectar that I smell here in your camp? Is it not the stench of whisky on your breath that I inhale as you speak to me? I cannot help but wonder how a man can curse one part of a society while holding another dear.”

  Strikes
The Bear howled and turned away from the woman. He took a few menacing steps toward Night Thunder before, motioning with his arms, he snarled, “Miistapoot! Go away!”

  Night Thunder didn’t flinch, nor did he raise an arm against his cousin. “I think you have had too much of the whisky, my cousin,” he said. “It would be best if you slept through the night before you decided what to do with this woman.”

  “Miistapoot! I will hear none of what you say. No man can tell another man what to do.”

  Night Thunder nodded. “So the old men of our tribe tell us. But if you value your life and your few possessions, you will take great heed of my words.”

  Strikes The Bear hesitated. “You speak in riddles. Say what you mean.”

  “I mean that you must leave this woman alone.”

  These words seemed to cause Strikes The Bear great humor, for he began to laugh, though there was little amusement in the sound of it. At last, though, Strikes The Bear said, “My cousin has taken leave of his senses, I think.”

  Night Thunder grinned. “Perhaps I have,” he said, “or perhaps you should ensure that you learn all that you can about a woman before you decide to use her for your own purposes.”

  “A white woman? What value is a white woman to me? There seem to be so few of them that maybe if we kill them all, the white man will go away, since he will have no one in which to plant his seed.”

  This statement appeared to amuse the crowd, and Night Thunder smiled along with them. Shortly, however, he held up a hand, silencing all present as he said, “You speak with the foresight of a child, my cousin. Must I remind you of the teachings of the elders in the value of life?”

  “Not a white man’s life.”

  “Who said I speak of a white man’s life?”

  Strikes The Bear smirked. “Are your eyes so weak, my cousin, that you cannot see the color of this captive’s skin?”

  “Is your mind so cluttered,” Night Thunder countered, “that you have failed to discover that she is not only white, she is Siksika? She is Blackfoot.”