Gray Hawk's Lady: Blackfoot Warriors, Book 1 (19 page)

There, it was out. She’d grown to…well, to like him a little, and the thought of his leaving her, of his never again speaking to her, even if their talks did resemble a sparring match, was most unbearable.

She didn’t know why and she didn’t know what had come over her, but at the moment she didn’t care. All she knew was that Gray Hawk had to survive.

She looked around her at the seemingly quiet environment. Somewhere out there was danger.

Somewhere out there, Gray Hawk would have to confront an enemy.

Somehow she had to keep him alive.

Kneeling down, she began to pray.

Chapter Twelve

Gray Hawk had been among the white people long enough to learn some of their more choice, colorful words. He silently said some of them now.

He cursed at his own stupidity, at his nonchalance. Having crossed over into his own territory, he had relaxed his guard. And he hadn’t heard, hadn’t sensed, another party, hadn’t been expecting any, until they were almost upon him.

He might pay for his lack of diligence now.

These were not his own, the Pikuni, who approached him, nor were they Indian.

The lack of care as to where the foot fell, the rattling of bushes, the unconcerned talk, the smell of unwashed flesh—whoever it was stood upwind—all led to one conclusion: the white man.

What were white men doing in Blackfoot territory? What did they want? What were their intentions?

Were they the “Northern White Men” from Saskatchewan, those friendly toward the Pikuni? Or were they the newer, more aggressive “Big Knives,” the Americans, famous for their lying and cheating ways toward the Indian?

And if they were the Big Knives, were they looking for the white woman?

He didn’t think so, having lost the party that had first pursued them many days, almost one full moon, ago.

But if not them, who, then?

He waited. He was at a disadvantage.

He had just recently made his bow, and he hadn’t been able to obtain his favorite wood, the ash, for it. He had woven strips of sinew and rawhide around the bow to make it stronger, but it was still too soft, having been fashioned from the willow.

His arrows, too, had only stone or wooden points, not steel. And he had no gun, not even the cheap trading-post issue.

He was clearly handicapped in this situation.

And the woman—her response was unpredictable. Once she saw white men, would she sing out to them? Would she betray him?

He cursed himself for becoming at ease around her; he damned himself for neither tying her nor gagging her. If their positions were reversed, Gray Hawk knew which side
he
would take, and it wouldn’t have been what he hoped she would do now.

Luckily, the white men didn’t know he was here…yet.

He could wait them out, hiding from them, for they were not wise enough to have already spotted his presence.

But he knew this wasn’t a good plan. The white woman would betray him. Besides, once the Big Knives picked up his trail, even if several miles back, they could easily overtake him if they desired it.

Better to confront them now.

This decision made, he waited until the enemy came into sight. Then Gray Hawk stepped away from the tree, into the open, into their line of view. His senses alert and his knees quivering, as though ready for action, he waited.

Still, it was several moments before the trappers became aware of his presence.

There were four of them. Each went for his gun, the kind, Gray Hawk noted—as he had expected—that was the cheap, trading-post-issue rifle.

Gray Hawk held up his hand, a sign of peace. He waited for their understanding.

It didn’t come. Either the white men were stupid, or didn’t understand the sign, or just didn’t care. They still held their rifles pointed at him. And casually, as though he confronted such men every day, Gray Hawk said, “I am from the nation of the Blackfoot, the Pikuni. You are treading on country that is not yours. This is a warning. Big Knives are not welcome in Blackfoot country.”

“Did ye hear that?”

No answer.

“Spoke English, ’e did.”

“What’s a Big Knife?”

Said Gray Hawk back to them, “What are you doing in this, Blackfoot country?”

All four men, guns still pointing, smirked.

“’E says hits ’is country, gen-teel-mon,” said one, ignoring Gray Hawk’s question. “What do ye say we teach t’is varmint a lesson?”

“Wait, you bloom’n fools. What if thar be more’n ’im? Did you ever think o’ that?”

Another said to Gray Hawk, “Whar be t’ rest o’ yer party?”

Gray Hawk didn’t answer, didn’t move, didn’t even let his features betray his thoughts.

“Answer up, ye ’eathen.”

“Careful, Charlie, where thar’s one, thar’s bound t’ be more.” Then, to Gray Hawk, “Whar are t’ others? What are you do’n ’ere?”

His features didn’t alter one bit as Gray Hawk said, “This is
my
country.”

One smiled; then, waving his rifle at Gray Hawk, the man said, “Well, that don’t quite cut it ’ere. Thar’s four o’ us ’n only one o’ you. Answer m’ question, ’eathen.”

Gray Hawk stood silent, unmoving, seemingly at ease, yet he was ready and in position to grasp his bow and arrows.

One man cocked his rifle.

“Answer, now. Whar are t’ others?”

“Shoot ’im, Charlie, shoot ’im.”

“Yea,”
the man licked his lips, “let’s kill o’selves a’ Injun.”

Silence.

A gun fired.

Gray Hawk dodged and, pulling arrows from his quiver, shot off a series of missiles faster than a man could load a gun.

One shot, a miss.

Another arrow struck, landing in the man’s arm, narrowly missing his heart. He yelled.

Another made its mark. One down.

More yells. Two men jumped forward, grabbing Gray Hawk and wrestling with him, trying to knock him to the ground.

But though they were big and burly, they were also drunk. They were no match for Gray Hawk.

Gray Hawk trilled out his war cry and broke free, plunging his knife into the side of one of them.

A yell. “He cut m’.”

“Hold ’im, Charlie.”

“Hi’s tryin’.”

“Hi gots ’im. Shoot!”

Gray Hawk wrestled. He had to break loose. He had one arm almost free.

A shot. A miss.

And as it occurred to Gray Hawk that these men would never win a shooting contest, both men plunged at him, kicking him off balance and knocking him to the ground.

“Shoot ’im, Charlie, shoot ’im.”

Gray Hawk wrestled one, broke free and jumped on top of the man. Another pulled him off from behind, sticking a knife at Gray Hawk’s neck.

“Shoot ’im. Now!”

“Yea, shoot ’im.”

A gun cocked. A deadly silence.

“No!” The white woman suddenly jumped up, out from behind her cover of bushes.

“Lordy be.”

“Gawd almighty.”

Gray Hawk glared at her and, watching her look around, he saw that she trembled.

He scowled then, but she didn’t see, and Gray Hawk thought he would have gladly wrung her neck at that moment.

She had come to help the white men. She had leaped out from her cover, clearly anxious to see him die. And this, thought Gray Hawk, when he had almost gained the advantage over these men.

“Lordy, it be a white woman.”

The knife dug deeper into Gray Hawk’s neck. The man said, “Now what be a’ Injun doin’ with a white woman?”

“He was helping me to return home,” came the response.

Silence.

Then, all at once, all three men laughed.

“Thar’ll be a story t’ bring ’ome, boy, now, won’t hit?”

Gray Hawk stared at her—actually glared. What was she doing?

“Gentlemen, I am Lady Genevieve Rohan, recently come to this country with my father, Viscount Winfred Rohan, the famous author and anthropologist.”

“A’ Hi’s the queen o’ t’ Nile.”

All three men cackled.

“I had come here,” she crept slowly forward as she spoke, “to help my father with his project, and as you can see, I had become terribly lost. This gentleman, this Indian, found me and is returning me home. I would appreciate your letting him go.”

“Now ain’t tha’ pretty?”

Two of the white men snickered.

Gray Hawk scowled at her, not understanding her. What game did she play?

“Why would Hi let t’ ’eathen go, ma’am? This Injun varmint done kill’t m’ friend—”

“In self-defense.”

“Don’t matter. Hi’s afraid ’e’ll ’ave t’ pay.”

With the gun pointed at him, the knife at his neck, Gray Hawk struggled to get out of the hold. The knife cut into him—how much, he didn’t know.

He heard a gunshot, then another.

He was free, the shots having hit one of the men who’d held him. The other man backed away.

Two down.

Swearing, cursing, the one who held the gun glared first at him, then at the woman.

The woman? Gen-e-vee. She held one of those cheap rifles in her arms, pointed not at him—but
at the white man
.

Gray Hawk gazed at her, momentarily frozen. What was this? Had the white woman really come to
his
defense?

He looked around him, at the men on the ground, at the obvious evidence.

It would seem so.

Had he misjudged her?

He’d hated her, sought revenge upon her, desired her. But he’d never trusted her, nor had he ever thought she would trust him.

Was there more to her character than he’d supposed?

Amazed, he watched as she motioned the remaining man who’d held him back toward the first white man.

This was too much for Gray Hawk to comprehend all at once. He snapped at her, “What do you do?”

“I’m saving your life.”

“That is not what I meant.”

“Isn’t it?”

“
Saa
,
no. You were supposed to stay under cover.”

“And watch you die?”

“Do I look dead?”

She spared him a glance. “Almost.”

“Have you thought what you do? These men are white. Why do you not go with them? They would take you to your St. Louis.”

“Would they?” She smirked. “Somehow I doubt that. But it wouldn’t matter. Do you think I could watch them kill you?”

“And why could you not?”

“Because I—”

“Ah, ma’am, Hi hates t’ interrupt yer interestin’ talk with yer Injun friend, but why’s you ’olding t’ gun on us? We’s yer own kin.”

Irritated, she glanced toward the white men. “Be quiet.”

“Gen-e-vee.” Gray Hawk grinned. “And here I believed the white woman wanted nothing more than my scalp within her hand.”

“Ma’am? Ma’am?” one of the men piped up. “What does ye do? ’Ave ye thought about it? This Injun ’ere will kill ye as easy as ’e talks t’ ye.”

“Be quiet; I—”

It all happened so quickly then; there wasn’t a moment to think.

One of the white men suddenly produced a knife, throwing it toward the woman.

Gray Hawk pushed her out of the way while at the same time picking up the knife, which had harmlessly hit the ground. He threw the weapon back at the man in reflex.

He hit his mark.

The man fell.

The fourth man, the last one still standing, had rushed forward. Gray Hawk met him now. He wrestled with him for a moment, but the man had the advantage; Gray Hawk having just thrown the knife had put himself off balance.

The man succeeded in knocking Gray Hawk down and now pointed a gun right at him.

Another gunshot sounded.

The white man looked up, startled. All at once, he fell.

Gray Hawk sent a puzzled glance beside him, his scan taking in the fallen man, the gunshot wound, the man’s obviously deceased state.

He swung his gaze back around to the white woman.

She held a smoking gun. She said, “My father made sure I was an excellent shot.”

Gray Hawk rose to his feet. He came right up to her and took the gun from her hands. He said, “I am very glad of that. I am also very happy you are on my side.”

“I have never killed a man before,” she said.

Gray Hawk nodded. “It is never an easy thing to do. You are very brave. I honor you.”

“Brave?” Her voice caught on a sob. “Honor?” Turning away from him, she hiccupped. Then she gasped. “I don’t think so.” And saying that, she ran from the scene as though the spirit wind itself were pushing her forward.

Gray Hawk watched her go, and as he did so, it crossed his mind that he did not understand this woman whom he had alternately hated and desired. And it came to him that he had greatly underestimated her.