Sioux Slave (2 page)

The women broke up into little groups, talking of past war parties and booty that had been theirs. This evening when the warriors returned, there would be much feasting and gathering around the fire while the braves recounted each coup and happening. Old warriors then would tell of past glorious times when the Sioux were the undisputed rulers of the Plains; when they and their allies, the Cheyenne and the Arapaho, the Comanche and Kiowa, controlled the whole prairie from the Land of the Grandmother the whites called Canada to the Rio Grande of the Mexicans. Not so long ago, enemies trembled at the mere mention of their names. Now their enemies rode boldly for the gold of the white soldiers who had invaded Sioux domain and acted as if they might even dare to stay permanently, although the white chiefs denied it.

Absently humming her spirit song, Kimi reached up to touch the small fetish hanging between her breasts. Her mother had never told her where she had gotten it, but it must possess powerful spirit magic because it was such shiny metal like Wakan Tanka's own sun, Wi.

There was always work to do in the camp, and Kimi tried to help women burdened with children or old people too frail to dry meat or scrape a hide. She went about her chores and looked forward to the evening's victory celebration, even if it must be followed by Mato's thick body lying on her small one. Perhaps if she closed her eyes when he took her, she could pretend he was the strong, virile warrior of her troubled dreams.

 

 

Why had he been unlucky enough to end up stationed at Fort Rice, Dakota Territory? This was no place for a Southern aristocrat! Swearing under his breath, Randolph Erikson shifted his weight in his saddle as the patrol rode across the bleak prairie.

“Because it was either volunteer to join the Union Army or die in that hellhole of a Yankee prison camp,” he drawled aloud as he took off his hat and brushed his blond hair back.

“Huh? Lieutenant, did you say somethin'?” The rednecked lout riding next to him glanced over, startled.

“I'm not a lieutenant anymore, soldier,” Rand drawled. “The damn Yankees wouldn't let any of us Confederate officers keep our rank.”

The other soldier guffawed good-naturedly and spat tobacco juice that dribbled down his chin and onto his saddle. “Now you've learned how poor white trash lives, I reckon, with not even one slave to polish your boots. If I'd had all that, I'd have fought to keep it, too. I'll bet you was a purty sight in your fancy uniform at all the balls and soirées.”

Rand didn't answer, concentrating instead on the others of the patrol riding ahead of them across the endless prairie. “Reckon I've changed a little since being in Point Lookout. After that miserable trip here and all these months at Fort Rice, reckon we had it good in that Yankee prison and didn't know it.”

The other nodded in understanding. “Fort ‘Lice' would be a better name.”

Seven months in Dakota Territory. Maybe he had changed a little from the arrogant, spoiled plantation owner's son he was. Rand blinked pale blue eyes against the afternoon sun, not wanting to think about his miserable existence since he'd been captured.

Instead, he remembered olden, golden days before the war on his parent's Kentucky estate. With money and social position, Randolph Erikson's biggest worry was whether the fox hunt might be called off because of rain or if he might have to choose between a ball at the capitol or an elegant dinner at the nearby Carstairs' estate.

The other sneered. “What did a young dandy like you do in the war?”

Rand flexed his wide shoulders. “I was a liaison for the colonel, carrying messages. I reckon I never did much real fighting.”

The other spat tobacco juice again and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “I knowed you was quality the first time I laid eyes on you at the prison: hatin' to have to mix with poor redneck trash, swaggerin' when you walked. God, I don't even know what I was doin' in this war. I never had me no money to own no slaves.”

“Oh, we own slaves, I don't even know how many,” Rand shrugged, “but you know Kentucky was a border state, didn't go with the Confederacy, and Lincoln only freed the slaves in the rebelling states.”

The other looked at him, scratched his mustache. “Then what the hell was you doin' fightin' anyways?”

“I reckon my answer is about as foolish as yours,” Rand admitted as they rode through the late afternoon. “I thought it would be a grand adventure.”

The other man snorted with laughter. “Reckon you found out different, didn't you?”

“Yes, I surely did.” Rand cursed softly under his breath, remembering how he had expected this war to be a lark, an adventure to amuse the ladies with over drinks on Randolph Hall's veranda. He had never thought any further than how dashing he would look in the gray uniform. Father had tried to talk him out of it, but Mother, with her deep Southern sympathies, and his fiancee, Lenore Carstairs, had secretly encouraged him. After all, it was going to be a short war that the Confederates would win out of sheer gallantry. Lenore had said he looked so handsome in the uniform, and she gave a ball in his honor.

Instead the great adventure had turned out to be hell with the hinges off. The young blueblood had never before known hunger or pain or terror such he had experienced. The irony of it all was that he was captured carrying a dispatch in an area that was supposed to be controlled by the Confederates.

Rand flexed his shoulders again, trying to find a comfortable position in the saddle. Lieutenant Colonel Dimon led the patrol across the gray-green buffalo grass toward a small creek where stunted willows grew. Rand had lost track of where they were; somewhere near the Knife River, maybe. At least they would get a minute's rest while they watered the horses.

“Hey, Rand, you suppose there's any Injuns out here? We ain't seen any, and we're ridden clean through that area where we might have seen Hunkpapas and Sans Arcs.”

“Maybe we'll be lucky and not see any. Dimon's a glory hunter, but medals don't mean much to me.”

The other man shuddered. “After what them Eastern Sioux did to them settlers in Minnesota, I've had some nightmares about bein' taken alive.”

Taken alive.
Rand didn't want to think about it. Three years ago, after years of starvation and mistreatment, the Santee Sioux had revolted. When it was over, eight hundred white people lay dead. In the largest mass execution in American history, the government had hanged thirty-eight Sioux warriors.

Rand frowned. “The Yankees forgot to tell us about that possibility when they were looking for volunteers.”

“Do you suppose the war is over yet so we can go home?' The last we heard, it looked like Lee was nigh surrounded.”

“Who knows?” Rand shrugged. “If Dimon knew, he wouldn't tell us; afraid we'd all desert and leave.”

“Why didn't your rich folks bribe someone and get you out of Point Lookout?”

Rand made a noncommittal grunt. In truth, he'd sent a couple of messages and hadn't gotten any answers. Maybe his mail wasn't getting through. Now that he was stuck in the Dakotas, mail was almost impossible to send and receive anyway. Maybe that was why he'd heard so little from Lenore.

“Rich boy, what you gonna do when the war's over?”

Rand didn't bother to answer the ignorant lout. What was he going to do? As expected, he'd go back to Kentucky, marry the Carstairs heiress and return to the aimless, idle life that being one of the local gentry afforded him. Somehow now that he thought about it, that life didn't seem as appealing as it once had. As much as he hated to admit it, the freedom of this trackless wilderness and wild, windswept prairie was beginning to grow on him. He was even beginning to feel a little empathy for the Indians, who, like the Southerners, were fighting against invaders and a changing way of life.

They rode toward the thicket along the creek. Rand thought how a fine cheroot and a tumbler of good Kentucky bourbon would taste about now on the spacious flagstone veranda of his family plantation. Beautiful, dark-haired Lenore Carstairs might be there to visit.

Maybe it was that sixth sense that some men seem to have that sent a sudden warning prickle up Rand's neck as they rode into the willows. Whatever it was, he cried out a sudden alarm and reined in his rearing bay mount, even as the brush ahead of them seemed to explode with gunshots. Startled horses neighed and reared as men around him toppled from their saddles.

Young Colonel Dimon shouted orders, but no one seemed to hear him over the thunder of guns. Horses screamed and kicked while riders fought to control the terrified mounts. The men appeared ready to panic and retreat in disorder. Without even thinking about it, Rand found himself coolly shouting orders. He might be considered an arrogant and privileged dandy, Rand thought grimly as he directed the men around him to dismount, seek cover, but he was no coward.

“Get down!” Rand shouted again, then swore softly under his breath at that fool young colonel leading his patrol into this. Dimon was not yet twenty-five, and he lacked common sense. Rand was not much older himself; he wondered now if he would live to be a day older than that. “Don't give them a target! Keep calm, men! Make every shot count!”

He hit the ground, crawling through the damp dirt with his rifle to a vantage point behind a dead log. The trooper who had ridden next to him crawled up close. “What do we do, Rand?”

He started to answer even as the man screamed out. The soldier looked at him with wide eyes, tobacco juice dripping from his mouth and blood pumping with each beat of his heart through the ragged hole in his blue uniform and into the new green grass of spring. Rand reached to help him, saw it was no use. The redneck rebel who had tried vainly to save his life by joining up with the Yankees had lost his gamble.

Around Rand men reloaded and fired, the scent of blood and burnt powder so thick it gagged and choked him. The little patrol was outnumbered; Rand had been in battle enough to realize that. He aimed, pulled the trigger and missed. The corporal nearby brought down an older, war-painted brave wearing an eagle-feather warbonnet from his pinto pony. That Sioux looked big as a bear, Rand thought. Would he be next to spill his life blood upon the ground?

Gunshots and shouts roared in his ears. The smell of acrid powder and warm blood hung on the late afternoon air. All around him men screamed as they fell. Rand flexed his shoulders and swore silently. Had he come all this way from Kentucky only to die in a faraway wilderness against red men who were only trying to defend their land against white invaders?

All that mattered now was staying alive. Rand reloaded his rifle. A cavalry horse screamed and half reared as it was hit, and then went down. Somewhere over the noise and screams and shots, Rand heard the bugler blow retreat. He rose from the ground, looking for his horse.

A pain like a red-hot saber burned through his thigh. He was hit! Rand fell, cursing, grabbing at his leg, shouting at the patrol not to leave him. In the smoke it was hard to see anything. Over the noise and shouts, the soldiers seemed intent only on saving their own lives, scrambling for the few horses that hadn't bolted away or been killed.

Rand shouted for help again, but already he saw the soldiers were mounting up in panicked disorder, the Sioux warriors shrieking triumphantly as they crossed through the willows in pursuit.

The old timers always said it was better to kill yourself than be taken alive by the Indians to be tortured to death. He was out of ammunition and fast losing consciousness from pain and loss of blood. With sheer willpower, Rand struggled to hobble toward the retreating soldiers. He gripped his thigh, trying vainly to staunch the hot blood running between his fingers. Ironic somehow, he thought weakly. He'd been at Fort Rice since last autumn and had never killed or wounded a single Indian, yet he would die here, a victim of their revenge against white Yankees. He would have been better to have stayed in the Yankee prison with the other captured Confederates.

The soldiers had mounted up, were galloping away as Rand tried to hobble after them, but the remaining horses had bolted. Out of ammunition, all he could do was hide. Rand burrowed down behind some low bushes, listening to the warriors moving through the brush.

He took off his gun belt and used it to make an awkward tourniquet. It would be dark in a couple of hours. Maybe if he lay very still the braves wouldn't find him. At night, he might have a chance, although it was a long way back to the fort. He wouldn't think about that. He'd think about staying alive.

In the past long winter, out of sheer boredom, he'd learned a little of the Lakota language from an old drunken Sioux who hung around the fort. He wished now he hadn't. He could understand enough of the shouts to know the warriors were looking for more than scalps and extra guns. They were looking for revenge.

Abruptly, one of the painted braves stood over him, his painted face grinning with triumph. Over one eye, he wore a patch made of a scrap of red fabric.
“Hoka hey!
I have found one of their wounded!”

All Rand could do was lie there and look up at him, hoping the brave meant to kill him cleanly with that big lance he carried.

The warrior shouted to the others and gestured. “The bluecoats have killed my friend, Mato! We will take this yellow-haired captive back to camp for Mato's widow to avenge his death!”

The warriors were returning. Kimi, working on a pair of beaded moccasins in her tipi, heard shouting throughout the camp. She sighed as she laid her work aside and looked toward the blankets. What she had managed to delay must soon take place unless Mato was too weary from the fight or there was a great victory to celebrate. She could only hope he would drink enough of the white man's liquid fire that he would not bother her tonight.

A Sioux woman could leave her man; it was part of Sioux custom. However, there was no other man in this camp that had turned her head. Maybe she was better off to be Mato's only wife rather than the second wife of another warrior. He was a good man, just a little old. She would try to be a dutiful wife to him and produce a son quickly. That would insure that her mother would be well cared for.

Kimi paused as she stood up, feeling a sense of foreboding because she didn't hear shouting or victorious trilling from the people outside. She reached to touch her spirit charm hanging around her neck before leaving her tipi to stand in the twilight with her mother. Together they watched the war party riding slowly into view.

Aihee! Yes, there must be something wrong; the warriors were not shouting triumphantly and galloping their horses in the way they should be if all had gone well. No, the men rode with their shoulders slumped and several looked bloody and wounded. None wore the customary black victory paint.

Her mother made a small noise of alarm. “One is missing. I thought more rode out.”

Around them, a murmur went through the crowd that waited in the big circle as they, too, seemed to realize something was wrong. Mato. She didn't see him among the riders.

Kimi put her left hand to her mouth, guilt sweeping over her.

Abruptly, her mother cried out and a sympathetic murmur ran through the women as they turned and looked toward Kimi. Oh, no. She shivered with apprehension, said a little prayer to Wakan Tanka. She promised she would be a good wife, she would not regret her husband's age, if only ...

A warrior led a pinto horse with red hand prints on its shoulders. But another crimson smeared the horse's white coat and dripped in a crooked trail from the limp body thrown across its back. Mato.

She was a widow before she had ever really been a wife. The impact of it hit her and she screamed along with the other women as they ran forward, surrounding the weary men as they slid from their horses.

“Mato. Mato!” She shouted, crowding close. Maybe he was only unconscious and wounded, maybe—

His friend, One Eye, looked down at her, shook his head sadly. “Your husband died a brave death, trying to get some brass buttons for you to decorate your dresses.”

Tears flooded her eyes and she wasn't sure whether it was grief or guilt. Mato was dead and she had never pleasured him. Now she never would.

Around her, women set up shrieks of mourning. Her mother sang a mourning song, tearing at her hair and clothes, slashing her skin with a small knife. She handed the bloody knife to Kimi, but it fell from Kimi's numb fingers as she pushed forward to touch Mato's arm. Already his body was cold.

One Eye muttered, “Kimi, we brought back a captive for your revenge. You may do with him what you wish.”

“A captive?” She turned and looked toward the rest of the war party. A tall, blond soldier sat his mount, sweat and grime and blood smearing his torn blue uniform. He reeled in his saddle, looking barely conscious. Hinzi–Yellow Hair. “Did–did he kill Mato?”

“Does it matter?” One Eye snapped. “I think the bluecoat who fired the shot had dark hair. But this is the one we captured, so he is the one who will pay!”

Already people had gathered around the trussed soldier, throwing horse dung at him, striking at him with sticks, spitting, yelling taunts. “Kill him! Strip his flesh in small bits! Make him scream and beg for death!”

“Be still!” One Eye thundered. “As leader of this war party, I have given this captive to Kimi. It is for my friend's widow to decide how the Hinzi should die.”

A nodding murmur of approval ran through the crowd. “Hoka hey! Yes, it is only just. In her grief, the widow will think of more terrible things to do to him than any of us.”

Yes, she would enjoy killing him all right, Kimi thought grimly as she pushed through the crowd and looked up into the soldier's blue eyes. Maybe punishing him would lessen the guilt she felt. His fair skin looked pale, the thigh of his blue pants was wet with blood. He might bleed to death and do her out of the pleasure of torturing him, Kimi thought, as she glared up at him.

The soldier looked down at her and their eyes met. He tried to say something through cracked, dry lips, reeled, fainted, slid from his horse, and landed in a heap at her feet. Her people pushed closer, shouting for her to kick him, hit him with her fists.

Kimi hesitated. Even though he was an enemy, her heart softened with pity for a brief moment. Then she turned and saw her own man hanging dead over his horse. Steeling her emotions, she knelt and turned the wasicu's face to look at him. Under all that gun smoke and blood, his own woman probably considered him handsome. “If we don't do something to keep him alive quickly,” she said to One Eye, “this captive will die and do me out of the pleasure of revenge.”

A murmur of agreement went through the crowd. “Aiyee! Of course he cannot be allowed to escape Mato's widow's wrath.”

As she touched his face, the soldier opened his sky-colored eyes slowly and looked up at her. Their gazes met and a feeling like the surging lightning of summer storms coursed through her.
Hate
. The passion of hate, she thought.

She knew a little English from her mother and tribal people who had occasionally traded with the whites. “You. You die soon.” He tried to reach to her with his bound hands. Kimi listened closely as he gasped the unfamiliar words of his language. She couldn't understand it all, but she understood a little.

“Help . . . help me,” he whispered, looking up at her, and then he fainted again.

She looked around. Her people were watching. She would not let herself pity him when her own man was not yet properly mourned. “The Yellow Hair begs me to help him, not knowing who I am.” Kimi stood up. “Stake the captive out by my tipi. I'll see to his wound. He must not be allowed to die until I have time to take my revenge, after the ceremony is over for Mato.”

One Eye nodded and gave orders. “Yes, this is how it should be.” He, Mato's stout friend, the
Akicita
called Gopher, and several others half carried, half dragged the big man through the camp, leaving a trail of blood behind.

Kimi stared after them, listening to her mother wailing with grief behind her, nodding to the sympathetic murmurs of the women. Much as she hated to touch the pale body of this captive, if someone did not do something quickly, he would die. She would not allow him to escape her revenge so easily when he had just destroyed her future. She could not even look forward to Mato's child.

Torture. She had no stomach for it, and the Sioux seldom resorted to it, but for the tall
wasicu
she could make an exception. Besides, when she thought about the loss of a good warrior and the plight she and her mother now faced her anger grew, fueled by the guilt she felt over Mato. This soldier would pay.

While others took the body from his pinto horse, Kimi followed the warriors back to her tipi. Her mother trailed along behind, weeping and pulling her hair in grief. She had cut off the tip of her little finger. When Otter had been killed, Wagnuka had sacrificed two fingers to show her grief.

Kimi wasn't sure what emotions she felt; anger, yes, guilt that she hadn't really loved her new husband, fury at the white soldiers for invading the Lakota lands.

She was numb as she watched the warriors rip his shirt open, spread-eagle the big, unconscious man on his back, and stake his hands and feet down to pegs driven in the ground so he lay helpless. He didn't look as if he would survive, even though he was a magnificent specimen of a male. His breath came in shallow gasps, his naked, brawny chest moving as he breathed. Unlike Indian men, this wasicu had much hair on his chest, as blond as his head.

It was not fair, Kimi thought as she stood looking down at him. He was alive and her man was dead. Why couldn't it have been the other way around? The Hinzi's manhood was visibly prominent in his tight blue pants. She tried not to stare at it as she went into her tipi, came out with some old scraps of trader's cloth, some ointment and a water jug.

As much as she hated to touch his bloody white skin, she could not let this soldier die. Later she would take more time with his wound. Now she only hastily bound it so he wouldn't bleed any more.

Her mother and some of the other women stood by, wailing and making trilling songs of grief. Old Wagnuka had slashes on her arms and legs and had hacked away her long gray hair.

“Daughter, I will help the women begin to prepare Mato's body while the men cut willows and cottonwoods for the burial platform. You get some of his weapons and favorite things.”

Kimi could only nod numbly as she went back into her tipi. Inside, she broke down for a long moment and wept, wondering as she did so if it were for Mato or for her own plight as a widow.

Trembling, she picked up the new blanket that had been her marriage blanket. Mato should have taken her virginity on it tonight. Instead, it would be his burial wrap. She selected some of his personal possessions to send with him to the Forever Place where he would look on the face of the Great Mystery tonight.

Now in mourning, she tore her clothes and hacked recklessly at her long ebony braids with a small knife. Keening in a traditional sorrow song, she gathered up the things and her knife and went outside into the growing twilight.

The chanting and the drumbeats drifted through the camp in the chill spring dusk. Tonight her man would sleep alone and cold on his burial platform instead of in the warm, naked flesh of his bride.

The women stood outside, silently waiting. Kimi paused and looked down at the spread-eagled soldier, shivering in his near-nakedness on the ground. She nudged him with a contemptuous small foot, knowing this big man was powerless as a trussed stallion, awaiting her pleasure.

There was one more thing she must do. She laid down her bundle and made small cuts on her arms, felt the sting of the knife, smelled the coppery scent of her own blood running red and warm down her arms.

This is for Mato,
she wept.
Soon, Hinzi soldier, your blood shall run, too.
She held her arm out and let it drip red drops on the brawny, naked chest. His blue eyes flickered open and he looked up at her. For a long moment he looked deep into her eyes and it sent an unaccustomed rush of feeling through her.

The man licked his dry lips and tried to speak. “W–water,” he gasped, and then he said it in Lakota, which surprised Kimi,
“Mni . . .”

“Mni!”
she sneered, struggling to think of white man's words. She wanted to be sure he understood. “This is what you get instead of water.” She held her bloody arm up triumphantly and motioned to the drops on his pale skin, still wet and warm from her arm.

“Iyokipi,”
he whispered in Lakota. Please. How did he know some of her language?

“No!” she shouted in the little English she knew so he wouldn't mistake her meaning. “The dead don't need water.”

He muttered white man's curse words under his breath. “I–I'm not dead.”

“You will soon wish you were,” Kimi promised.

She handed her bundles to the waiting women, watched her mother lead them away to take care of Mato's body. She would see if she could keep this hated wasicu alive before she went off to join the mourning as twilight turned the sky pale purple and gray.

When she looked down at him the soldier had closed his eyes, and she wondered if he were unconscious or couldn't face the stark truth of her words. Kimi hesitated, his pain and plight pulling at her heart. Then she reminded herself that soldiers like this one were causing much trouble and misery for her people, and steeled her heart against softness. His half-naked body shivered in the chill darkness of the coming night.

She squatted next to him, examined the wound in his thigh. His eyes opened as she took out her small knife. The sudden apprehension on his handsome face told her he expected she was going to stab him, but he didn't beg. Whatever he was, this wasicu was proud. No, more than proud, he looked arrogant.

As she ran her hands over him, hating to touch him, the Yellow Hair pulled against the ropes binding his arms to the stakes like a wild stallion fighting to escape. She finished cutting away the dirty, bloody shirt, watched the muscles of his bare chest and arms ripple as he strained and pulled. His handsome pale face contorted with the effort and the pain it must be causing him.

He was an unusually big and powerful man, Kimi noted, but he would not be able to pull free. One Eye had driven the stakes deep in the ground. Even though it was chilly in the growing darkness, perspiration gleamed on his virile, muscular body. The furry hair on his chest was as light as the golden hair of his head.

She had never seen fur on a man's chest like this; Indian males were almost hairless on their bodies and many plucked the few hairs from their faces and eyebrows.

As she touched him, he stopped struggling and shivered. Hinzi was not as cold as Mato was at this moment, she thought bitterly. But if she did not keep him warm, the weak flame of life that flickered in his great chest might go out and do her out of her pleasure. He would not escape so easily into a merciful death. Kimi went back to her tipi, got an old buffalo robe, brought it to throw across the soldier and tuck it in around him, except for the thigh she must treat.