Holding on to Heaven (24 page)

"I'll find him, pay him to go after Lauren if need be."

Nelly's voice cracked. "You don't think they kilt her, do ya, Master Creed? Ya don't reckon they burnt her at they stake?"

Estelle moaned.

"No, Nelly, they want her alive like Biddle said." Creed turned to the old black man. "Biddle, I'm counting on you to take care of Estelle, Nelly, and the baby. I'll find the burial detail and tell them to send a doctor and a buckboard for Estelle. Make sure they get to Fort Ridgely since New Ulm's been evacuated. I don't know how long I'll be gone, but when I return, I'll have Lauren with me." He looked at Estelle. "You can count on that."

"Are ya gonna find the tracker?" Biddle asked.

"Yep, let's hope he's as good as they claim. The Indians who took Lauren will have a big head start by the time I find this tracker down in Blue Earth. If you're right, they've no doubt sold her to French traders and she's on her way to Canada."

"Nelly will get some food ready." Estelle nodded at the servant. "Please sleep for a few hours before you leave, Creed. You'll be no good to anyone unless you've eaten and gotten some rest."

"I'm beyond tired, couldn't sleep anyway. I can think of only two things right now. One, getting her back, and two, finding the savages who killed my family."

Estelle took to sobbing again. "No, Creed! Not Polly and Sam! The girls too?"

His eyes misted over. "I buried Pa and Minnie, but thank God Emily and Belle were in town when the Indians attacked the homestead. Martha made it to New Ulm with Jack."

"Polly?" Estelle held her breath.

"Missing. I searched the field and the woods, but no sign of her. I'm praying she's still alive."

"Oh, Lord, save us!" Estelle said with a moan. Then, as if a light went on, she asked, "Wasn't Brand in New Ulm when you got there? He went¾"

"Brand is gone too. He got caught in an ambush outside of town."

Another anguished groan from Estelle. "Bring her home, Creed. She's the only family I have now other than the baby."

"I'll find her, Estelle, I promise." Turning to the black servant again, his voice sounded tired. "Find a spade, Biddle. Before I go, we have bodies to bury."

"Three wooden crates are in the shed," Estelle said.

The old servant's eyes bulged. "They done burnt down the shed, Miss Estelle."

"We'll bury them up on the hill overlooking the meadow then. You best come help me, Biddle. I don't know how many more graves I can dig today.

"Yassuh, I is a comin'."

"What 'bout the dead horses?" Nelly asked.

"When the army gets here, they'll bury them," Creed replied.

Estelle let out a loud sob. "I wish the world would just swallow me up."

Before he and Biddle left to bury the bodies, Nelly ran to the kitchen and stuffed a saddlebag with food, beef jerky, fried pones, brown beans, and the makings for coffee. When she returned to the barn, Creed had the baby on his lap, looking over every feature of his face.

"He a fine boy," Nelly said.

"He is that," Creed agreed.

"I nearly choked on my cornbread the day Master Brand came to talk to Estelle and Mason about marrying Lauren. I didn't want no wedding knowing it weren't right, but now that Master Brand is gone, I feeling mighty shamed."

"Don't waste your time on regrets, Nelly. I think we all realize how short life is now." Creed bounced Finn on his knee and the child smiled. "What month was he born?"

"Last January, Master Creed."

Christ, she sure didn't waste any time marrying another.
Too damn tired to think about anything but finding her, he handed off the baby to Nelly and dismissed thoughts of Brand and Lauren from his mind. He'd bury the bodies and then head toward the Blue Earth River.

He had to find her before it was too late.

Chapter Fourteen

Lauren awoke to a pounding headache. Torrents of rain fell from the sky, soaking her clothes clear through to the skin. She lifted her shackled wrists to the tender bump near her temple, cringing at the pink blood trickling down her arms. Struggling against the rawhide straps, rage seared her lungs. The rancid smell of sweat and bear grease drifted over her from behind, forcing her to empty her stomach. Out of the chilled, black silence, her captor's laugh mingled with her vomit and scattered into the wind.

The rhythmic motion of the pony pounding his hooves against the hard ground added to the throbbing in her head, minor in comparison to the stabbing pain in her heart. During the last two hours, she'd been vaguely aware of the hard-muscled arm gripping her tight as they sped across the plains in a never-ending journey. Memories of the massacre trampled her mind¾Uncle Mason's lifeless body, Aunt Estelle reaching out in slow motion, blood spurting from Adobe's withers, and the undeniable screams of banshees torching the outbuildings.

In the distance, an outline of tipis reached toward a cloudless, dreary sky. Her brain screamed against the thought:
They're taking me to their village.
She dug her fingernails into the palms of her hands until they oozed blood. She knew she must remain calm if she wanted to survive, couldn't show them cowardice no matter what they did to her. If she died, she’d die with dignity. The words ran through her mind, mouthed so frequently, she could recite them in her sleep.

Men, women, and children celebrated their arrival, their bronze arms raised in jubilation when the triumphant warriors returned with a captive. Hatred smoldered in their black eyes when her captor dumped her unceremoniously to the ground. The masses converged on her battered body with closed fists, their outraged shrieks echoing through her ears. She assumed a fetal position, covered her head with her bound hands, and called on the saints for mercy.

A voice from the crowd rose above the deafening roar and strong arms plucked her from the grasp of death. "This one is mine and will not be harmed! She will need her strength for the journey!"

Hisses and shouts buzzed through the air.
For the journey? What are they planning to do with me?
Dragged by the wrists through a venomous crowd, the enemy led her to one of the tipis, apparently the place he called home. The victim of his hateful glare as he tethered her ankle to a nearby stake, she masked her fear and met his eyes with boldness. The moment he left, she collapsed on the cold, hard ground and fought against threatening tears.

In the ensuing hours, her enemies ignored her presence, went about their business as if she didn't exist. The unfamiliar chatter and noise in camp sent a reverberating shudder through her, churning her stomach.

The rain had disappeared long ago and in its place, the hot blazing sun arrived. How long she'd been left to bake beneath its pitiless rays, she didn't know, but estimated four hours had passed since her descent into hell.

If she didn't get water soon, she wouldn't live to see daylight. She didn't know if she spoke the words aloud or only dreamed them. "Water, I need water."

She hadn't eaten in hours, couldn't remember the last time she had water. Her mind wandered to the conversation she had with Brand that morning. Would she ever see him again? And what of Finn? Had they killed Nelly and baby Finn too? Fear, stark and vivid, tore through her. If Finn had perished, she’d want to die as well, wouldn't care what they did to her.

Just before dark, a young woman approached. Balancing a bowl in each hand, she kept her distance, but dropped to the ground, tucking her legs beneath her. The maiden cast a wary glance in her direction and held out a gourd.
Water, oh, blessed water.
Her other hand held a bowl filled with a paste-like substance. Lauren eyed the woman before grabbing the gourd from her hand. She downed the water in unrestrained gulps and waved off the pasty substance.

The woman's face impassive, Lauren couldn't begin to assess her thoughts. She didn't care. When she lifted her head again, the woman had left, but returned moments later with a crude animal pelt.

She tossed it on the ground near her feet. "This belonged to my son, dead now from the hunger before he saw nine summers."

The venom in her voice sent shivers down Lauren's spine, yet a pang of sympathy for the woman surfaced. She opened her mouth to speak, but thought better of it. Whatever she said at this point would be answered with open hostility. The bruises on her arms and legs were a grim reminder of the hate the natives felt for white people. Lauren dropped her gaze when the maiden rose and returned to the tipi.

Alone again, and still tethered to the stake, she stared at the rank fur. Two choices existed—sleep on it or under it. After several futile attempts to gain a modicum of comfort on the hard ground, she closed her eyes and sought the sweet oblivion of sleep, the pelt covering her body.

She awoke at dawn to a strange chanting coming from somewhere in the village. Her captor stood before her, his stance fearsome. Tall and rawboned, his massive shoulders blocked out the sun. Faded remnants of war paint still masked his hawk-like features, showering her with memories of the massacre. When she rose to her feet to face him, the same flicker of admiration she'd seen in his eyes the day before surfaced.

Dressed in a well-worn buckskin shirt and pants, a strip of bright red fabric below each knee challenged the wind. Yesterday, his long, black hair hung loose and wild, but today two braided plaits entwined with rawhide strips rested against his collar bones.

He loosened the strap at her ankle, slid it over the stake, and jerked her forward, so hard her neck cracked. While dragging her through the camp like a heifer on a lead, the camp dogs ran circles around her and nipped at her heels.

At the center of the village, he stopped near a cluster of tipis arranged around a large central fire. Perched on their haunches around the smoldering brush, a handful of braves turned to look at her, the contempt in their eyes causing her to flinch.

Terrified, she wondered what fate would befall her now. Perhaps they meant to toss her into the fire and dance around the blistering flames. The pulse in her ears throbbed in perfect sync with the hammering of her heart.

She thought of Finn and prayed he and Nelly had survived. Hope rose when she recalled the last time she saw them. She'd told Nelly to run away and hide. The servant, though feisty, had never defied her.

She had to think. They must have been alive when the war party left the ranch, and unless they'd stumbled upon another renegade band, there was a chance they'd made it. Despair swept over her at the awful thought she might never see their faces again.

No one could help her now. The truth made her lips to tremble and her eyes pool with tears. She lifted her head, glared back at the unfriendly faces mocking her and remembered her vow.
No matter what they have in store for me, I’ll not cower.

Three white men walked from a nearby tipi. Elated to see them, a tiny spark ignited. Maybe they’d help her. Her hopes fell when they engaged in an animated conversation with her captor in French.

Dressed in leather breeches and plaid shirts with bright colored sashes wrapped about their waists, something rang familiar in her mind. A passage from a childhood book,
A Study in Cultures
, popped into her head. French and Canadian traders wore sashes to prevent hernias while carrying heavy loads of pelts. French traders! What were they doing here in the middle of a Sioux outbreak?

A mixture of grease and bloodstains covered the fabric on their torsos, reminding her of the apron Mr. Peabody, the local butcher, wore. Long, greasy hair spilled from the woolen caps on their heads accentuating weathered, fierce features. Lauren's knees shook when they turned their lustful grins on her. A rancid smell¾a mixture of dried blood, dead animals, and human feces¾reached her nostrils, and since it had arrived with them, she could only guess its source. She averted her face from their lecherous grins and thrust a defiant chin forward.

"You have done well, my friend," one of the Frenchmen said. "She is a treasure, for sure." Gold coins clinked between his hands.

"Nine gold pieces for this one, LaRoux." Her captor tugged on her chin, forcing her head toward the Frenchman. "She will warm your blankets all the way to Montreal."

Montreal?
When the meaning behind their conversation became clear, her blood ran cold.

The rapid call of a Cooper's Hawk,
kek, kek, kek,
spilled from the second man's lips. "We're going to share her, right, Jock?"

"It's my gold and she's my woman, Henri. Keep your filthy hands off unless you want to end up with my knife in your belly." LaRoux turned his anger on the third man. "We have an understanding, Pierre?"

The man nodded and avoided LaRoux's eyes.

Chur-wi, chur-wi.
The melodic notes of the bluebird echoed in the air while the one called Henri flapped his arms like an enraged goose.

Good God! I've been sold to three lunatics, and one thinks he's a damn bird!

Not once during the exchange had the third trader taken his beady eyes from her chest. LeRoux grabbed her bound wrists and headed toward the river outside of camp.

Two canoes rested in the mud on the bank. Constructed from birch bark, they'd been seamed together with leather thongs and a hardened material resembling tar. Three wooden seats spanned their width and in between, furs and pelts reached the tops of the transports.

A squaw suddenly appeared from a nearby thicket, her muscular, stout frame lumbering toward the canoe. When the one called Pierre pushed the canoe from the bank, she jumped in and plopped down on the front seat. Lauren didn't know what tribe she belonged to, but knew from her attire she wasn't Dakota. The bird-caller jumped into the second canoe, and the mournful wail of the mourning dove, "
Coah, cooo, cooo
," rang in her ears.

LaRoux shoved Lauren toward the second canoe. "Move!"

She landed on a pile of furs between two seats and struggled to remain upright. LaRoux jumped in behind her, took a seat, and picked up a paddle. Lauren focused her eyes on the scenery ahead, glancing side to side to memorize their route.