Deep as the Rivers (Santa Fe Trilogy) (26 page)

   
Come spring she would decide what direction her life would take. The one course she knew it would not follow was that which went anywhere near Colonel Samuel Sheridan Shelby.

* * * *

   
Samuel’s summer and fall had proven not nearly so productive or enjoyable as had Olivia’s. After leaving Lisa’s party, he had spent weeks trekking from one small Osage camp to the next, smoking the ceremonial pipe with the elders and explaining about the coming war between the Americans and the English from across the ocean.

He had beaten the English agent to White Hair’s band, but at many other encampments it seemed the Englishman, stirring up discontent with his weapons and his whiskey, was always one step ahead of him.

   
Samuel was very careful to make clear that the Englishman’s king lived far across the ocean and had no permanent interest in the Osage, nor could he protect them from their enemies, while the American president would continue to be a presence along the Missouri. It was with the American government that the Osage must treat and it was the Americans who would win the war that would be fought on their own soil. Therefore it would be in the best interest of the Osage Nation to continue their treaty commitments with President Madison, the white father in Washington.

   
Shelby hoped his speeches had made a favorable impression, but reading the impassive faces of Indians had never been a particular skill of his, in spite of spending several summers among the Lipan Apaches with Liza and Santiago. Often he wished that he possessed his brother-in-law’s background so that he could deal more effectively with the Indians, but then he conceded ruefully, if he had been raised among them and lived as one with them, he would not be Jemmy Madison’s emissary.

   
By the end of summer, the trail of the illusive English agent had taken him all the way across the Mississippi into Indiana Territory where he found the Sauk, Fox and Shawnee already firmly allied with the British. After a brief conference with William Henry Harrison, the territorial governor and military leader of the region, a harsh young martinet whom he instinctively disliked, Shelby realized that open and bloody warfare between American settlers and those tribes was already a foregone and unavoidable calamity, welcomed by both sides.

   
He had finally returned to Louisiana Territory the past month. If he could redeem nothing else, he must at least speak before the Osage grand tribal council. Someone there would be able to lead him to the Englishman. If he could keep the land west of the Mississippi at peace, he would have to trust that Governor Harrison could deal with Indiana Territory, although he entertained strong doubts about the latter. The arrogant Harrison had a well-organized militia prepared to fight, but they would pay a price. Samuel knew the cost of defeating the pro-British forces led by Tecumseh would be dear indeed.

   
“Santiago was right,” he muttered to himself as he sat beside his morning campfire waiting for the coffee to boil. “Our government has bungled the situation with the Shawnee Confederacy.” American settlers had been allowed to usurp tribal land, then rely on the government to come in and enforce treaties, continually pushing the Red Man farther and farther to the west. “Now that we’ve taken claim to the whole upper Missouri all the way to the Pacific, what will be left for any of the Indians?” he wondered aloud, sipping the bitter rich coffee he had poured.

   
He swirled the black liquid around in the big tin cup and smiled, recalling the horrific muddy mess with which Olivia had almost choked him. Where was the little fire-haired hoyden by now? Certainly back in civilization. He wondered if there was any chance he might find her waiting for him in the house on Plum Street. Just thinking of her lying with all that flaming hair spread on the white sheets of his big bed made his pulse leap and his body grow hard.

   
If only he had been able to return within the few months he had projected for the mission. But circumstances had dictated otherwise and he had no way to find out if the beautiful mademoiselle was sleeping in his bed while he was out chasing about the wilderness. In all likelihood she had not spent any time in his house, he was forced to admit. She probably took the letter of credit and bought herself passage on the first steamer headed to New Orleans and that supposed uncle, who was more likely an old lover.

   
Somehow the thought of her exotic young beauty being enjoyed by a decadent older Creole gentleman made his guts clench. “Best I forget the damned vixen. I’ll never see her again.” He stood up and tossed the remaining coffee into the fire, knowing in his heart of hearts that he still hoped to find her waiting for him when he returned to St. Louis.
Fool.

   
When the big piebald he had bought in Pawhuska’s village whickered, Samuel looked around, his hand immediately going to the Martial Pistol in his sash. Although well out of hostile country, there were always small bands of renegade Osage not adverse to disobeying the elders’ orders, eager to lift a white scalp. With a silent oath, he kicked out the remainder of the small campfire, the first such luxury he had allowed himself in several days. Someone was in the dense stand of hickory trees upwind from his horse. And, ominously, they were not showing themselves.

   
He picked up the rifle that had been leaning against the log on which he had been sitting, and cautiously walked toward the horse, which had its hackamore on. He could swing up on its back and ride hell-bent, if need dictated. Still no overt sign of movement. Suddenly a lone Osage warrior showed himself across the clearing, approaching unarmed. In spite of the Indian’s friendly demeanor, a prickle of warning shivered up Shelby’s spine. He recognized him as Man Whipper, a young troublemaker from the big Osage village. His worst fear was being captured by Osage renegades who would ignore Pawhuska’s wishes. Slowly, Samuel shifted his grip on his rifle, holding it loosely in the crook of his arm, waiting to see what his visitor wanted.

   
Then without warning a blinding blaze of light seared his eyeballs as something struck the back of his head with sledgehammer impact. He stumbled to his knees and pitched forward. Everything faded to black.

   
Man Whipper grinned broadly as Bad Temper and a dozen of his followers filed into the clearing and peered down at the fallen Long Knife. A small pool of blood was forming at the crown of the soldier’s head where the war club had found its mark. Hurled from a distance, it had not cleft his skull in two as it would have if wielded directly, but the blow was sufficient to render their foe unconscious.

   
They stood over him while Man Whipper used the toe of his moccasin to kick Shelby in the ribs, turning him onto his back. “This is the one Pardee told us of, the one who hunts him.”

   
“Let us take the Long Knife’s scalp to the Englishman. He will be pleased,” one of the others said.

   
“No!” Bad Temper replied. “His hair is black, not bright. It will make only an ordinary trophy. Better that we have some sport before he dies. Wake him,” he commanded.

   
When Man Whipper nodded, two of the braves hauled Shelby up by his arms and a third poured the remains of his waterskin over the unconscious man’s head.

   
Samuel awakened with a severe headache pounding from the nape of his neck, wrapping all the way around to his eyeballs. The brackish taste of stale water combined with the subtly sweet substance of blood trickling into his mouth. He shook his head, then instantly regretted the rash act as a thousand war drums reverberated inside.

   
His arms felt as if they were being pulled from their sockets. He knew he was being restrained. Then gradually he recalled the scene with the lone Osage, and he knew it had been a trap. They had hit him from behind and disarmed him, then awakened him. But at least he was not dead…yet.

   
Slowly he raised his head and shook free of the two men holding him up, then stood his ground and sized them up. If only his vision would clear so he could count straight. Even if he was not seeing double, there were still too damn many Indians!

   
“I am Shelby, emissary from the great white father in Washington,” he began in Spanish, the commonest European language spoken among the Osage. “I travel under safe conduct from White Hair, peace chief of the Little Ones. I have seen you in the village of the great chief. You know I speak truly.”

   
Bad Temper scoffed. “You are our prisoner. White Hair is not here.”

   
“You are still honor bound to free me because of his word,” Samuel replied, stalling for time, wondering what their game was.

   
“Our honor is our own,” Man Whipper replied arrogantly, “Something white men do not share. Your fate lies in my hands, not that of any other man.”

   
“I think it does lie with another man...another white man. The one known as the Englishman. He has sent you after me, hasn’t he? Is he then too much a coward to fight his own battle with me, face-to-face? Then all might see who is strongest—his king or my president.”

   
“We care for no king or president—for no white chief of any sort. We are Osage and this is our land,” Bad Temper said belligerently.

   
“So, the Long Knife would fight,” Man Whipper interjected, stepping between the soldier and the other warrior. Although Shelby was over six feet, Man Whipper had a good two inches on him and took full advantage of the fact, puffing up his chest and posturing as he continued, “We will give you a chance to save your life...if you are bold enough to take it.”

   
“What chance?” Shelby asked with careless bravado, knowing that to show fear or reluctance would more quickly seal his fate.

   
“How fast can you run, Long Knife?” Bad Temper asked, smiling nastily.

   
Within minutes they had stripped him of his shirt and boots, leaving him barefoot and completely unarmed, clad only in his buckskin breeches. Two rows of Indians lined up five feet apart, each man brandishing a stick, spear or club with great relish. He would have to run the gauntlet between a dozen armed men. If he survived it, then what?

   
As if intuiting his question, Man Whipper said, “Pass through this ordeal and we will see how strong your medicine is. We will see how fleet your feet are. After the first trial you must outrun us...if you have the heart to do either.”

   
Shelby looked from his own bare feet to the Osage’s thick moccasins with scathing contempt. “My heart is strong enough. It is you who lack, else you’d not have taken my boots.” It was a gamble. The savage might simply shoot him out of hand. Or, perhaps not. Man Whipper was young and full of himself. Perhaps he might be bothered to hear the unfairness of the contest so boldly pointed out.

   
The inscrutable expression on his face revealed nothing for a moment. Then he nodded. “Pass through the rain of blows still standing and we will give you from here to the great oak.” He gestured across the open meadow of thistles and snakeroot to the tree, a distance of roughly three hundred yards.

   
Not much of an advantage, especially if he received any more blows to his head but it was all the edge Samuel was going to get. He knew he had best try and make the most of it. He nodded to Man Whipper, then said, “You have that amulet for medicine,” pointing to a small beaded pouch fastened around the Osage’s neck. Spending the past months among their villages had been an education that might save his life.

   
Man Whipper touched his talisman. “Yes. White men do not believe in medicine,” he replied scornfully.

   
“The Long Knives who fight for the great white father in Washington do. Our medicine is in our uniform.” He pointed to his heavy dress tunic, lying on the ground where it had been pulled from his pack by several of the marauding Osages who had examined his shaving equipment and other personal belongings with great interest. Shelby’s eyes dared Man Whipper insolently. “You wear your medicine. Are you afraid to let me wear mine?”

   
A nasty feral smile spread across the Osage’s face. “Take it. We will see how powerful the medicine of the white father is,” he said with contempt.

   
Samuel picked up the heavy jacket with its braided epaulets and medals. He had brought the damned gaudy thing only to wear on ceremonial occasions in front of chiefs and their councils. Perhaps at last he would find a practical use for it. He walked to the head of the dual line of waiting warriors and stood with his feet braced apart, then nodded to Man Whipper. If he survived the gauntlet, he knew this tallest and longest legged of the warriors would be the man to beat in a footrace. Shelby did not don the jacket, only held it loosely on one arm.

   
The tall Osage raised his hand above his head, then dropped his arm in a signal. Samuel took off down the line wrapping the jacket partially around his right arm to use as a shield. He zigzagged around the worst of the blows and slashes, many of which glanced off the stiff braid and double worsted wool. Several of the Indians aimed low trying to trip him or injure his knees or ankles. He used the loose arms of the tunic snapping them in front of him to absorb the blows and entangle the arms of the men who were bent over low, easily throwing them off balance.