Sweet Savage Surrender (4 page)

They had roughly tied him to a tree
,
leaving him stripped of all clothing except his underwear. One large warrior raised his lance and shouted  something she decided must be "Come, let us bring back the others to help us decide what we should do with our prisoner."  She could not  really understand what the large warrior had said but it really didn't matter. All that mattered was that   seven of the warriors climbed on their horses and galloped out
,
leaving only one war
rior to guard the prisoner. 

Utes!  They disgusted her .  Even their looks were repulsive.  The
y were short, squat and ugly, n
ot tall and graceful like her people.  She had to be wary
,
for they were always on the prowl for women of her tribe.  Being carried away by a Ute
would be a humiliating trial.

Skyraven remained immobile until the sound of  horse's hooves which had been so loud before
,
became muffled and sounded  distant.  She breathed a sigh of relief 
I should leave
,
she thought.  Why should the Great Spirit want her to help this yellow-haired man?  The whites had come to the area searching for
their
yell
ow metal, pushing the Indians farther and fa
rther from their hunting grounds  They had killed the buffalo and caused much destruction.   
Leave him!  Let the Utes have him.
  So thinking she turned to go
,
only to retrace her steps.  A war raged in her soul.  She was torn between leaving him and saving him.  Something about the white man was compelling, tugging at her heart.   Perhaps because she was ha
lf
white herself, she surmised.

Now that the  main party of warriors had gone, she would creep just a little closer to get a better look.  Frantically fighting the apprehension that coiled in her belly
,
she made her way through the foliage until s
he was nearer the stranger.

He was d
irty, bloody and unconscious.
If the Utes had their way he would be shattered by the tortur
es he would be made to bear. 
No!  She couldn't let that happen.  Not to this golden man.  She couldn't let him be mutilated by the sharp knives and cruelty of her enemies.  That her own tribesmen might be blamed was another thought that crossed her mind.  The spirits had instructed her to save this man and somehow now she knew why.  He was to be a part of
her destiny.

She felt so
small.  Could she rescue him? 
If only I had a dagger
,
she lamented .
  She was barehanded. It would be
sheer folly to try and rescue him without a weapon.    Perhaps she could free him if she could somehow get the knife away from the one warrior who was left to guard him.
  That thought was tempting.

Skyraven planned her strategy as she surveyed the Ute.  The short, squat little warrior  was bent over peering at the white man from a crouched position.  The laughter rippled from his throat as he tried on the white man's plumed officer's hat.  Skyraven thought how silly he looked as he folded his arms across his chest.  He seemed quite pleased with himself, however.  As
if he could ever measure up to the whiteman's
strength,
Skyraven scoffed silently
. He began fumbling through the man's discarded clothing until he found  the whiteman's black boots.   Pulling off his
moccasins,
he put his feet into the boots, which came well above his knees.   Foolish, foolish Ute!  He had put the left foot into the right boot and the right foot into the left boot
,
which made walking clumsy and difficult.  How like a Ute to do such a simple thing wrong, Skyraven thought sourly.  Hopefully he would be just as
incompetent at
fighting.  Well, she would soon find out
,
for h
e was headed in her direction.

The Ute
approached her hiding place
behind a clump of bushes.  Spotting a large rock
at her feet, she hefted it, preparing
to defend herself  in case
he  discovered her
.  Walking in the boots made him less than sure
footed and h
is eyes were on his feet
a
s
he continued his approach. As he was near enough, Skyraven brought the rock down full force on op of his head and watched
as he fell to the ground with a great thud.  As she groped for his weapon
, she felt the Great Spi
r
it smile,  her fingers caressing the knife.
  She  waited for a  moment
,
watching to make certain there were no other braves lurking
, then
she
hastened toward the white man.

"White eyes....?" 
she murmured questioningly.

The white man’s
chest muscles rippled as he breathed
,
but he did not acknowledge her.   Carefully she cut the leather thongs that tied his hands.  He slumped to the ground, moaning.   Overcome with sympathy
,
she knelt down and touched him, speaking to him in whispered tones.   Shaking his shoulders gently
,
she tried to wake him
to consciousness
.  She could get him away from here much faster i
f she didn't have to drag him.

"Please!"
she urged, but  i
t was no use.  Hurrying to a small stream that bubbled through the area
,
she dipped the edge of her doe skin dress into the water and returned to wring its moisture  in his face.  She was rewarded for her e
ffort when he opened his eyes.

"No....!  Go away!"  he moaned.   Major John Hanlen looked beseechingly at her, pleading with her to leave him alone.  He had suffered so much.  Dear God, he was not afraid to die, he was a soldier and had been trained in the art of warfare, but to be picked at and poked at until he lost his mind, to be cut apart piece by piece while he was still alive frightened the living hell out of him.  It was too gruesome an end. 
He had heard
stories about these heathens and their devilry
, but he had
not realized until this very moment that the fearsome tales were really true. Was this another of the heathen band come to watch him suffer?
Perhaps.
The warriors of this tribe were sadistic
, why not
their
women as well?

"Listen to me!  You m
ust stand!  You must........."

"No......!  Leave me be."

"
I've come to help you escape!"

John Hanlen felt light-headed, weak and dizzy, but he shook his head to clear it of its spinning.  Had he heard her right?  She did not mumble and grunt in words he could not understand.  She spoke En
glish. Did he dare to hope?
Looking full into her face he was startled by the blue eyes
looking back at him. 

"If that's true, then thank you.........!  he choked.  Thank God she spoke English. She was  no savage
,
then
,
but an educated woman.  The thought made him smile.  As he did it was Skyraven's turn to be startled.  He had a lovely mouth and fine, strong teeth, but
she was foolish to notice such
thing
s
. 

"Stand up!"  She barked as if to order then quickly added "If we do not hurry we will both be victims of the Utes."  As she spoke, she grabbed his clothes from
the body of the fallen warrior lest he awaken. She was not sure whether she had killed him
or simply knocked him  out. 

Struggling
, John Hanlen
called upon his inner strength
,
somehow managing to get t
o his hands and knees.  With the Indian girl’s
help he crawled through the thick undergrowth towards the mare Skyraven had carefully
camouflaged
. She placed his clothing into a leather saddle bag, then helped him
onto Running Antelope's back.

John Hanlen felt the softness of her hands
as she pushed and pulled him on
to her horse, then he sensed nothing more.   Black swirls danced before his eyes.  He fell victim  to  the darkness once again.

Chapter Four

Skyraven guided her horse along at a furious pace, holding to the reins with one hand and keeping the other wrapped securely around the white soldier to keep him safely in the saddle.  She knew that she must put as much distance between herself and the Ute warriors as
possible.
  When they returned and found their captive had escaped
, the Utes
were sure to send out a search party.  She and the white man could be in dire dan
ger if she did not act carefully
.

Even the added weight of the soldier's body did not slow down Running Antelope's fast pace.  She was a well trained horse, always obeying every command.  Skyraven  had cautiously judged just how far her  horse could travel and how much weight the animal could carry.  Several times she doubled back
,
and whenever possible would travel in the shallow creek in order to confuse anyone tracking them.  The Ute's would soon find that their quarry had vanished with no tell-tale signs left behind.  That thought made her smile and wish for just a moment that she could see their faces when they realized they had been so easily duped.  Foolish Utes, they were no match for an Arapaho
, she thought. 
Our People
were much too wise.

As she neared the low lying hills just to the west of her tribe's camp grounds she knew just where she was going to take her precious burden.  Though she would have
preferred
taking him to the sweat lodge  or to the medicine lodge to be tended by her grandfather
,
her instincts warned her on such a brazen move.  Some of the braves did not like the white eyes and might stir up trouble.  Lone Wolf for one. They might resent her for bringing him to the village.  This was a time of change
, when m
ore white men were co
ming, threatening to alter the Arapaho’s
traditional nomadic way of life. She could not be assured that this white
man would be totally safe among her people. She remembered
a small cave she had discovered while searching for
herbs.
She must take him there
, to the special place she thought of
as
her
cave, where she often went to be alone
.  It wasn't a deep cave
,
nor a wide one
,
but it would do for
a hiding place.
. As far as she knew
,
no one else was aware of its existence. 
The cave was not too far away from camp, yet it was not so close that
sea
rching eyes would discover it.

Somehow the thought of the w
hite man being enclosed within Mother E
arth in this shallo
w cave and watched over by the Earth S
pirit gave Skyraven the hope of a speedy re
covery for the yellow-haired stranger
.  It was as close to
a sweat lodge as she could manage,
considering the circumstances. Clasping her pouch closely to her chest s
he guided her horse to a stop
close to the mouth of the cave.  Positioning the white
man safely on Running Antelope's back,  she  carefully slid from the animal
.

From the medicine pouch she took a small handful of the sage she had collected for her grandfather and walked to the mouth of the cave, sprinkling the poignant smelling herb along the way.  At the mouth of the cave's entrance
, she turned in the directions--
east, t
hen west, then north and south--
chanting softly.  When the cave was purified she collected some fallen branches and fashioned a bed, taking her own buffalo robe from her saddlebag and using it as a cover
, then,
hurriedly  collected some wood and started a fire to bring warmth to the chill of the cave.   She managed to
bring the soldier to
consciousness long enough to get him inside. Once inside the cave  she tried to make him as comfortable as
possible.
  He had drifted in and out of consciousness along the way,
and
now he moaned as he tos
sed his head from side to side.

Leaving him only for a moment, Skyraven gathered some horse mint which grew abundantly just outside the cave, chewed the leaves and placed the moistened vegetation on his most severe wounds to reduce any swelling and stop possible infection.  She secured the leaves by tying them to his wrists and arms with  wide rawhide strips. He winced and cried out  from time to time as she tended his injuries but drifted into a deep sleep, relishing the softness of the buffalo hide  as soon as she had completed the treatment.   Somehow he seemed
to sense his danger was over.

Skyraven let her eyes roam over what she could see of the whiteman's body.  His skin was several shades lighter than her people's
,
yet dark where the skin had been exposed to the sun.  His arms and chest were well-muscled. 
Fine golden
  hair covered his broad chest and trailed in a thin straight line down to his navel.  The strange red leggings kept her from seeing further yet she couldn't help but wonder if he was as well endowed below as the braves she had seen bathing in the river. She supposed all men were much the same. That unmaidenly thought caused her face to flame
,
for it was more like Whispering Wind's boldness than her own resolve. She hurriedly pushed such questions from her mind as being unseemly for a young woman who held su
ch high honor in her tribe.

While he slept
,
Skyraven climbed to the edge of the ridge and peered over.  Down below she could see the trail of smoke which rose from her village, swirling into the air. There were more than a hundred tepees shining white and clean in the sun. Skyraven could see  lightly blanketed women  out gathering firewood, 
while
others  were working at their looms or meat drying racks.  Children ran about.  Although most of the men seemed to be away from camp
,
there were a few sitting near their lodges or restringing bows.  One was fashioning some sort of weapon from a bison bone. On the flat land near the river
,
the ho
rses were grazing indolently.  From her vantage point, t
he people and horses of her camp looked like miniatures
, s
mall enough to put  in her pouch and carry  away. That thought made her smile.  When she was a child her grandfather had fashioned just such a tiny village for her play.  Whispering Wind had maliciously trampled Skyrave
n's most precious possession, b
ut that she-wolf would not have the chance to practice her malice on the yellow-haired whiteman.  He would be Skyraven's secret.  Just the th
ought gave her an inner glow.

From this
position on the ridge,
she could
observe all the activities in the camp.
She felt safe here and knew that the golden haired soldier was safe
,
too. 
But I must be careful lest my absence be noted
, she thought.  She could not stay with the white soldier too long.  She would  be missed  and searched for if she failed to get the sage to her grandfather in time for the evenings dancing and thanksgiving ceremony.  Nor could she ever shirk her duties to her grandfather for any reason, even one as important as this white man who the great spirits had sent into her care.  By the position of the sun, however, she knew she still had a long time before nightfall.  Rising from her  crouching position on the ridge
,
she returned to the white soldier's side to keep
watch until it was time to go.

Sitting on a rock by the fire
,
Skyraven let her eyes touch on the whiteman, caressing him visually.  It was really the first time she had  studied him in detail and she found him  most definitely pleasing.  She had seen whitemen before at the trading posts
,
but none had such pale hair.
He was handsome in an unusual kind of way, different from Lone Wolf's sullen dark
comeliness
but just as muscular.  Whereas Lone Wolf's hair was dark and long
,
the whiteman's wavy golden hair was cut just below his ears.  His eyes were closed now but Skyraven remembered that when they were open his eyes were the color of the sky, like hers. 
Lone wolf’s
brows went from eye to eye without end, the whiteman's were not as bushy.  Both men had high cheekbones but Lone Wolf's nose jutted out like a stone while the soldier's nose was carefully chiseled.  It was what grew beneath the whiteman's nose that fascinated her, however.  Yellow-colored hair as thick as that on his head grew on his upper lip.  None of the b
raves grew such facial hair.

"How strange!"
she said aloud.

Skyraven could not help reaching out to stroke the golden hair to see if it was soft or scratchy.  It was smooth and pleasing to her
fingers
.  Cautiously she ran her
fingertips
over the entire length of the mustache
,
then just as quickly pulled her hand away as if she had been scorched by the
contact.
.  What was this feeling in the pit of her stomach?  Just touching this man caused her to tremble.  With sudden fear she drew away  and walked to the mouth of the cave.  This whiteman must have potent magic to so affect her, she mused, folding her arms across her chest as she frowned.  The feelings his magic stirred within her breast made her wary.  She should flee, return to her people.  He didn't need her anymore.  She had done all she could do for him.  All he really needed now was rest
, she decided, rising to tak
e her leave.

Hurrying to
Running
Antelope
, she un
tethered
the mare and
started to mount yet something caused her to pause.  He might be dangerous
, she thought, but she
was not afraid of the whiteman's potent magic.  She was the medicine man's granddaughter.  She could counter any spell he might be able to weave.  If she ran away right now she would be
admitting
that his magic was greater.  That she would not do.  Squaring her shoulders, holding her chin high in the air
,
she
retethered the mare and
returned to the cave and her vigil, maintaining a cautious distance
.

"No!  Dear God, no!"
The sound of the white
man's murmuring as he thrashed his head from sid
e to side  brought Skyraven closer to his side. Over
come by sympathy
,
she knelt down beside him and reached out to soothe his brow, thankful that there appeared t
o be no fever.

"Rest, white ey
es.  None will harm you here."

The soldier's eyes flew open as if responding to her voice. "Dead.  All dead......"  He started to sit up but Skyraven
forcefully
pushed him back down.  "No......  Leave me be!  Heathens.  God damned
savag
es
!"  He twiste
d and squirmed, trying
to escape from the hand that pressed against his chest
,
but Skyraven maintained her hold on him.  At  last he ceased his struggles as fatigue seemingly drained him of energy.   Even so
,
his eyes remained open, focusing a
t last on her.  "Who are you?"

Skyrav
en was wary. "Why do you ask?"

"I...I  just want to know by w...what name to call you.  That is all."  John Hanlen's eyes raked over her, remembering vaguely that in some way she had come to his rescue.  Certainly she was  a welcoming sigh
t, a striking beautiful woman.

"My name is Skyraven, white
man." There could be no harm in telling him.  "I brought you here.  You are safe from those Ute de
vils who tortured you."

"Utes?"  Not quite believing her, he lifted his head and looked around as if expecting a war
party to fall upon him again.  He was in some sort of cave.  With a shudder he recalled what had happened to him.  How then could he ever f
eel safe again?  "Where am I?"

"In my secret cave."  As if reading his mind she said, "far away from the Ute cam
p.  Near my people's village."

"Your people.....?"

"Arapaho."  She said the name proudly.  "The Utes are our enemies.  They are warring.  We
are peaceful."

"Peaceful?" he croaked.  Were any Indians really peaceful?  After his experience he couldn't hel
p but wonder.

"Our name means traders
.  We have kept our word to the whiteman."   A frown creased her brow.  "They have not always done the same."   The old hostilities assailed her and for a moment she could not bare to even look at him, but his
w
racking
cough renewed her sympathy.  His throat was dry.  He needed water.  She had with her some pemmican and a water pouch made of the lining of a buffalo paunch.  The vessel had a small wooden hoop at the mouth to keep it open and a stick across the hoop acted as a handle.  She fetched it now, giving him the comfort of it's soot
h
ing moisture.  "Here...."