Night Thunder's Bride: Blackfoot Warriors, Book 3 Page 6

  Not that she was studying him all that closely, she tried to tell herself. It was only that he afforded her a singular view, the only thing she had to look at as he took the lead.

  She sighed, deciding she was fooling no one but herself, and determinedly glanced away from him.

  They had been traveling in a northerly direction for a few days now, their party conspicuously lacking horses. At first they had wandered only during the night, but more recently, perhaps because they were closer to their own territory, they journeyed during the hours when the sun was full in the sky.

  “Night Thunder? Why is it that we have no horses?” she asked, taking a few quick steps to catch up with him.

  He didn’t break stride or turn to look at her, and she feared he was not going to answer her. Then he said, “This is a war party which set out to avenge the death of Strikes The Bear’s wife.”

  “Strikes The Bear?”

  “The one who captured you.”

  “Oh.” She quickened her pace to keep up with him. It threw her out of breath, but she didn’t slow down. She was too intent on having a conversation with this man. All day long their party had been traveling over dry, arid, seemingly endless prairie. And though the country they traversed provided a beautiful view and would seem to inspire conversation, no one appeared inclined to talk. It was a situation she intended to remedy.

  “And capturing me, was that the way they were intending to seek revenge?”

  “Aa.”

  “But her death had nothing to do with me.”

  “Saa, no, it did not,” Night Thunder answered, “but you are white and a woman, and Strikes The Bear’s heart was grieved. It seemed to him that you provided the best means of retaliation, I think.”

  “But that is not fair, is it?”

  “Fair? What means ‘fair’?”

  “Fair means to be just, evenhanded, unprejudiced. It means to treat others as one would want to be treated.”

  “Aa,” he said, “fair. That is a good word.” He paused. “And is it ‘fair,’ do you think, to kill many hundreds of Indians—men, women, and children—for no other reason than sport?”

  His tongue slipped over the last word. “That is the way the white man described it when our chiefs protested the white man’s murder of a whole tribe of people last spring.”

  “Sport? Surely you jest.”

  He didn’t answer.

  She tried again. “What you are telling me cannot be true. No man kills another man in sport. It isn’t done. It is too incredible. Murdering innocent women and children? Truly, I find that hard to believe.”

  “I do not lie to you.”

  “No, I wouldn’t think you would, but there is something wrong here. If this truly happened, there must have been some reason, mustn’t there?”

  He didn’t respond. Several moments passed and all she heard was the wind rustling over the prairie, as well as their own footfalls. She picked up the conversation, saying, “The white man does not kill indiscriminately. His religion forbids it. And that’s the truth, as firm as the Rock of Cashel.”

  Night Thunder stopped and turned around so suddenly and without warning that she bumped straight into him. And though she was more than aware of the contact made by his bare skin against her own, he seemed unaffected by her. He said, “There was no reason for the murders. The people those white men killed we call the fish people because their men are not warriors. They live by taking the fish from the lakes and rivers. They had no weapons to wield against the guns of the white man. They had not the means to defend their women and children. It was murder.”

  She did not know what to say, what to do. Night Thunder rarely lost his temper with her such as this, speaking to her in such a decisive manner. She was uncertain she liked being on the receiving end of it.

  He had never shown her anything but the utmost respect. But then, she’d never said or done anything to cause him to take exception to her, had she? She was supposed to defend her own people, wasn’t she?

  But if what Night Thunder said was true? “I…” she began, the words coming more difficult to her than she would have thought possible. “I’m sorry. It is a terrible thing of which you speak. If it is true, then those people, no matter their race, are bad people. Maybe the white man had relatives that were killed by Indians. I have heard of some men going on a vengeance against Indians because of that. Mayhap that’s why he…”

  Night Thunder gave her a triumphant smile over his shoulder. “You think that the white man was justified in his murders? Perhaps also, then, Strikes The Bear was justified in the same way for what he was doing to you?”

  “What? How can you suggest such a thing?”

  Night Thunder merely snorted at her and turned away, striding back toward their party.

  She hurriedly followed him. “Night Thunder,” she said, touching him on the shoulder as she caught up with him, “how can you talk to me like that?”

  He shrugged. “I do not agree that Strikes The Bear is right for what he did to you. You too are innocent,” he said, though he didn’t turn toward her as he spoke. “I only try to make you see that perhaps he had reason for what he tried to do. Perhaps.”

  She swallowed hard. “What did the white man do to Strikes The Bear’s wife?” she asked, although she wasn’t certain she wanted to know.

  Night Thunder strode on ahead of her without answering her for so long, she began to feel their conversation had abruptly ended. She slowed her pace, not seeing any purpose in rushing to keep up with him, when all at once he began to speak, as though she were still trailing him. “The white man tortured her. He stripped her, maimed her, and then took her as a man sometimes takes a woman in anger before he killed her. There were several white men who did it. Not one alone.”

  Rebecca didn’t speak. What, after all, could she say? The thought did come to her, however: if she had been in Strikes The Bear’s place, would she not have felt the need to seek revenge?

  No, never. She was too God-fearing a woman. Still…she gulped and took a moment before she was able to voice, “I…I’m sorry. But it had nothing to do with me.”

  “Likewise those fish people had nothing to do with what might have happened to the white man—if that was the white man’s reason.”

  Rebecca became silent. She didn’t want to understand. She didn’t want to feel any more sympathy for these people than she already felt. Yet sympathize she did, and an understanding of sorts began to form within her mind, a comprehension of why the big Indian might have done what he had.

  It didn’t make her like the other Indian, but she didn’t feel so…angry. She asked, after a time, “Where is Strikes The Bear? I have not seen him since the feast the warriors gave us.”

  “He scouts ahead of us.”

  “Why?”

  “He has done that in the past.”

  “But I thought you said he was the leader of this party.”

  Night Thunder sent her a scowl.

  “Did you have something to do with this?”

  “I might have.”

  “Did you ask the others to have him scout ahead because you knew I would be uncomfortable?”

  “Perhaps.”

  Which brought another question to mind. “Then he will not always be spending the evenings with us?”

  “Not always. His eyes will watch us closely, though, I think. We need to be careful at night, so that we do not bring questions about our marriage to the minds of the others.”

  “But if Strikes The Bear is not here to watch us…”

  “He has many friends who travel with us.”

  “Oh,” she sighed, her hopes suddenly deflated. Then, deciding to change the subject, she asked, “Why does a war party have no horses?”

  He gestured around him before he said, “Because it is easier to travel this way when in the territory of our enemies, the Assiniboin. But soon we will be in our own country and we will then travel with more ease.”

  “Ah,” she said, “good. Will that mean we’ll soon be getting horses, then?”

  “Saa, no,” he responded. “The capturing of horses,” he went on to explain, “is done by making a raid upon an enemy. And that involves too much danger. This party is more concerned with getting the two of us to my home safely.”

  “I see,” she said, and she did, although she wished the “home” of which he spoke were the fort.

  That these men considered it their duty to accompany her and her “husband” seemed a terribly chivalrous act. It made it hard, too, to envision a way of returning to the fort any time soon.

  Still, Rebecca tried to envision a plan that would take her back there, though none came readily to mind.

  Perhaps her mistress, Katrina, would offer a solution. When Katrina returned to the fort, might she send someone to find out what had become of her maid? Rebecca could only hope so.

  It was a thought which gave Rebecca hope, although the idea of meeting anyone in her current state of dress was less than appealing.

  She glanced down at herself. Her apparel, a homemade item of trade cloth and ribbon, had never been a thing of beauty; but with its corals and browns, it had been pleasing enough. Now, ripped and torn, snagged on the bottom from the dried grasses and sharp vines they had traversed, it looked more duggins than dress, and she wondered how long it would hold up under the duress of their travel.

  Her slippers, too, would soon be unserviceable and her hose contained more holes and rips than her dress.

  But she wouldn’t complain. It could be worse, she thought with a shudder, recalling the evil, big Indian who had captured her. What would he have done to her?

  “Night Thunder.” Again she quickened her pace to catch up with him. “Where were you the day I was captured by these Indians?”

  He took so long answering that she touched him on the shoulder.

  “Night Thunder?” she asked again.

  He turned his head slightly to gaze down at her fingers where she had placed them upon him, and she wasn’t certain, but it felt as though he shuddered. At last he said, “The fort was low on meat. I had been asked to hunt.”

  “Oh,” she said. “I see. Did you not see the war party?” She drew back her hand as she spoke.

  “I went west, they came from the north.”

  “It was silly of me, I reckon, to have gone out onto the prairie alone. But I had done it so many times in the past that I had felt no danger. You were always with me, though, were you not? Perhaps I felt too safe.”

  He shrugged, picking up his pace, and she had to practically run to keep up with him.

  She said, “Came out of nowhere, they did, right enough. Before I left from the fort, I thought I could see in all directions. But I did not see these Indians.”

  “No white man would have. Do not blame yourself.”

  “I cannot help it. If I had not been out gathering wildflowers and fruit, it would not have happened.”

  “Perhaps. But no more of this. It is an unwise man who constantly looks into the past to condemn himself. You breathe life today, and it is what you do now that will see you through to tomorrow.”

  “I cannot help it. It was terrible.”

  “Aa.”

  “His face was painted black.”

  “It is the way of the warrior.”

  “And smelled awful, he did.”

  “The anxiety of a warrior can often be smelled.”

  “I was so frightened.”

  He nodded.

  “I thought I was going to die.”

  “You are too pretty to kill. Maybe Strikes The Bear spoke truth when he said he only wanted to frighten you before he took you for his wife.”

  “Slave, you mean. And no, I do not believe that to be truth. He is telling lies, I think.”

  “Aa,” he said.

  They both became quiet for a few moments, and then she asked, “Did you mean it?”

  “What?”

  “Do you truly think I’m pretty?”

  He chuckled slightly, and she was struck by the enticing quality of the sound. It wasn’t often that she heard him laugh.

  He said, “You are no different from women everywhere, I think.”

  “I am uncertain that you flatter me. But come now, you have not answered my question.”

  He gave her a curious look. “What is wrong with the white man that you are not told of your beauty every day of your life? You should already be certain of it.”

  “Then you do think me pretty?”

  “You need not ask.”

  “But I am asking. Do you?”

  “Aa, yes,” he said with a sigh, “I do.”

  Such a simple word, aa. But it was at this moment the nicest of compliments. She smiled and glanced up at the blue of the sky, feeling strangely at peace as she said, “Thank you, Night Thunder. I will not be forgetting your kindness. Not for a very long time indeed.”

  “It’s noontime. Are we not going to stop to eat?”

  “Eat?”

  “Aye,” she said. “’Tis that thing people do at this time of day to still the hunger in their stomachs.”

  “Saa, we will not eat. It is an unwise man who satisfies his hunger when the sun is at its zenith.”

  “Unwise? How can this be?”

  “Have you never noticed what happens when a man eats to his fill at this hour? When a man rises, that is when he should eat. He goes out and hunts. He feels good. Strong. Powerful. He kills much game, provides for his family. The sun rises and if he has not consumed enough at the start of the day and he decides to satisfy his hunger, he eats until he can eat no more. Then he feels suddenly tired. He can’t keep his eyes open. He falls asleep and maybe he is in enemy territory. The enemy finds him and kills him, or if he is lucky, he simply fails to hunt enough game, returning home to the frowns of his wife and children. There he lies and tells those close to him that there is little game to be found. No, you eat at this time of day if you dare; the Indian does not.”

  Rebecca digested all he said in silence. Hadn’t she often observed in herself and in others a sort of lethargy which set in after the noonday meal? Perhaps there was a bit of wisdom in what Night Thunder said. “Then we will keep traveling throughout the day without the least amount of food?”

  “Aa,” he answered her, “tomorrow you must take care to eat more in the morning and to eat well.”

  “Aye,” she said, “that I will.”

  The day was a warm one, the air clear, fresh, invigorating. Scents of wild sage and buffalo grass filled the air while the occasional squawk of a hawk could be heard from high above them. She looked upward, her hand shielding her eyes from the brightened sun. The hawk circled once, twice, his movements reminding her of a miniature ballet.

  She smiled. It was an odd feeling, this sensation of contentment which began to sweep over her. What had caused her change of viewpoint? The environment? The plains? Or was it simply the presence of this man, Night Thunder, beside her? No matter, she began to understand why it is said of the adventurer that once he begins, he will never again be content with a more sedate life.

  They set up camp that evening on a high butte overlooking the prairie. With no fire lit, they ate a supper of dried meat and stale bread. It seemed an unusual place to make camp, Rebecca thought. Gazing down from her spectacular view, she could see a deep valley far below them, the coulee seeming to beckon her with a lazy shelter beneath its shady willows and cottonwoods. There were groves of these huge trees, all standing tall beside a clear stream of pure running water.

  She mentioned her thoughts to Night Thunder.

  “Humph,” he responded, “our scouts spotted a Cree war party today. They are not too close to us, but we do not want to put ourselves into a position that would be hard to defend. If we were to camp in the valley down there, an enemy could more easily surround us and render an escape impossible. Here on this butte, it is safer; we can spot the approach of an enemy and have a better chance of getting beyond his reach, if he were even to see us. But because we light no fire, and the party is distant from us, the chances of that happening are not very good.”

  She had simply nodded to him and had glanced again into the coulee and the surrounding plains. She had once heard that the plains should be likened to a place of desolation. But seeing this place, she disagreed. Life teemed here, everywhere. Over to the left and in the distance grazed several buffalo; over to the south several antelope romped; on a distant bluff a wolf and its mate moved; and in the valley stood a herd of elk. She had never witnessed such abundance.

  Material gain might be the only thing missing here. But if one had little use for the riches of the world, this place stood as a sort of haven for freedom, for the wandering soul. Perhaps it was the environment which began to disabuse her of the idea that fear and apprehension reigned the plains.

  The evening passed quickly into night, the sun setting with a foray of pinks and golds, casting a reddish glow over the brown plains, making it appear as though the land and hills were nothing more than a reflector for the magnificence in the sky. Stars began to appear one by one; first in the west and soon more overhead.

  It was dark by the time Night Thunder set out their sleeping robes, reminding Rebecca of what was yet to come. She had hoped to somehow avoid it, but she became more and more aware, as she watched him, that eluding their sleeping arrangements would be impossible.

  She stood by nervously, watching him set up their place on the ground, far away from the others. Was she really going to have to sleep next to him again—throughout the entire night? She wasn’t sure she could do it and still keep hold of her dignity.

  If she were to be honest with herself, losing her dignity was not all that she feared. She wasn’t certain she could sleep next to the man without becoming…aroused. She blushed at the thought.

  The man made her feel all soft and warm inside. And something else…

  He set the buffalo robe on the ground, and giving her a speculative glance, he commented unnecessarily, “This is where we will sleep.”

  Rebecca nodded.

  “You will sleep in your dress, then?”

  Another nod.

  “It will be mussed.”

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