Wolf Runner (16 page)

The journey was becoming more difficult for Cheyenne—the long hours in the saddle had taken its toll on her. She was not only bone-weary but sadness also lay heavily on her shoulders.

For the most part Wolf Runner ignored her, slipping into brooding silence that cut her to the heart. He only spoke to her when it was absolutely necessary. And that was not very often.

They rode from dawn to dusk and sometimes even after dark, where the horses would have to pick their way across the prairie by moonlight.

Cheyenne knew why Wolf Runner was in such a hurry to be rid of her—he did not want to be tempted by her, and that suited her just fine.

Setting her jaw in a stubborn line, she urged her horse forward so she could ride even with him. What did it matter if Wolf Runner pushed them until humans and animals were so weary they could hardly go on? If he expected her to decry her plight, he would grow old waiting. If he could keep going, then so could she.

Even Satanta was feeling the effects of their fast pace. When they stopped to rest the horses, the wolf would flop down, panting.

Their pace slowed when they reached hill country that was thick with bushes and trees. The weather
was bitter cold, and Cheyenne hunched over her saddle and pulled the blanket tightly about her. Her fingers were so numb with cold it was difficult to hold on to the reins.

Just after noon, heavy snow began to fall and before long the weary horses were forced to trudge through the high snowdrifts. Onward they pushed, ever forward.

Wolf Runner suddenly halted his horse and held up his hand for Cheyenne to stop. He whipped his head around, listening tensely, his hand on his rifle, apparently aware of something that Cheyenne could not hear.

“Dismount,” he told her, sliding off his horse and nodding to her. “We are being watched. Whatever you do, show no fear.”

She quickly dismounted, gazing through the heavy snowfall past a clump of pine trees, but she could see nothing.

“What is it?” she asked, turning one way and then the other, still seeing nothing threatening.

The fur on Satanta’s neck bristled, and the wolf went into his attack stance when an Indian brave appeared just to their right.

The warrior’s dark eyes flickered over Wolf Runner, and then settled on Cheyenne. Although his rifle rested across his arm and was not pointed at either of them, he was threatening nonetheless. He was young, perhaps Wolf Runner’s age. He was tall, and Cheyenne would have thought him handsome if not for the scowl on his face.

Without warning, a second Indian appeared, and a third, and forth.

Cheyenne could do nothing but watch as the Indians closed in on them. Her gaze flew to Wolf Runner,
who was watching one particular Indian with rapt attention.

“Are they Blackfoot or Cheyenne?” she asked quietly.

He did not answer, never taking his eyes off the Indian who wore yellow feathers in his hair and seemed to be the leader.

When Wolf Runner did speak, it was in a language she didn’t understand, and she was frustrated, not knowing what was being said.

Wolf Runner, filled with anger, knew exactly who led these warriors—his greatest enemy. Staring into the Cheyenne renegade’s eyes, Wolf Runner said, “Night Fighter, you will have heard of me—I am Wolf Runner, Blood Blackfoot and the son of Wind Warrior.”

Night Fighter grinned, his hand stroking his rifle. “Yes, I got your message from the warrior you spared when you killed the rest of my war party. I knew the day would come when we would meet, but I did not think you would be so foolish as to seek me in my own village.”

There was only coldness in Wolf Runner’s heart. “Today I have another task, but I will see you again.”

Night Fighter spoke heatedly, “You are an enemy to my people. Do you think I do not know you have hunted me and sworn to have my death?”

“I am not an enemy to the noble Cheyenne—only to the cowardly warriors such as yourself, who prey on helpless women.”

“You are a dead man,” Night Fighter hissed.

Wolf Runner stared at his foe. “The day will surely come when one of us will die, but this is not that day. This woman with me is the granddaughter of your chief, Bold Eagle. If I were not on a mission of honor
to see her placed in his care, you would already be dead.”

Night Fighter stared with hatred at the Blackfoot who was a legend among the Cheyenne people. He was filled with rage as he turned to the woman who stood beside Wolf Runner. “She looks white to me. I do not believe she is the granddaughter of my uncle. Why should I not kill you both now?”

“You could try, but you would be dead before your first blow fell,” Wolf Runner said, unsheathing his knife before Night Fighter could raise his rifle. “If you harm the chief’s granddaughter, you will answer to him.”

Cheyenne tensed during the angry exchange between the two warriors. The stranger then turned his gaze on her, and Cheyenne felt a prickle of fear.

Wolf Runner showed no fear as he gripped his knife, so she didn’t either. Cheyenne knew his aim was true; still they were outnumbered, and there was no advantage in that.

Satanta stood beside Wolf Runner as if waiting for the command to attack.

Cheyenne thought the two men would never come to an understanding.

Finally, the other Indian turned back to Cheyenne and looked at her long and hard. After a moment of reflection, he motioned for them to remount and follow him.

Cheyenne remounted, moving her horse close to Wolf Runner. “Who are they?” she asked.

“The Cheyenne I was speaking to is Night Fighter, the nephew of Bold Eagle—that would make him your relative. He is suspicious of us, but has agreed to lead us to your grandfather. Do not fear. You are in no danger.”

“Then my grandfather is alive!”

“So it would seem.”

Cheyenne glanced at Night Fighter, uncertainty swelling inside her. She could tell by how high he sat his horse that he was as tall as Wolf Runner and as proud. The robe he wore was of the finest fur, and he wore two yellow feathers in his dark hair. He was a handsome man, with a firm chin and a wide forehead. But the moment he turned those dark, seeking eyes on Cheyenne and discovered she had been watching him, she quickly lowered her gaze.

It was difficult for her to believe that after such a long, hard journey, they had finally reached her mother’s people. So many emotions ran through her head; relief that the arduous journey was finally over, joy that she would soon meet her mother’s father, but uppermost in her mind was the deep sadness she felt because she would soon be parted from Wolf Runner.

The Indians were silent as they rode. The one who was related to her led the group, while the others closed around Cheyenne and Wolf Runner. They carried rifles and kept casting suspicious glances at Wolf Runner.

This certainly was not the welcome she had envisioned.

They rode through the pine forest, where the deep snow muted the horses’ hooves. Cheyenne ducked her head as she rode beneath a pine bough. Then, without warning, the path opened to a wide expanse and Cheyenne saw soft rolling hills and a number of tipis situated beside a wide river. She lost count after thirty-two.

That part of her that was Cheyenne told her she had come home. But that feeling did not last—it was replaced by uncertainty and fear of the unknown as
women and children came out of the tipis draped in warm furs and looking curiously at her and Wolf Runner.

There was a frightening moment when Satanta came bounding out of the woods and one of the Indians raised his rifle and took aim. Wolf Runner defused the moment when he spoke rapidly to Night Fighter, who ordered the warrior to lower his rifle.

They continued toward the center of the village and Night Fighter motioned for them to dismount. While she and Wolf Runner waited, Night Fighter disappeared inside one of the lodges.

“Remember,” Wolf Runner quickly cautioned Cheyenne, “do not show fear.”

All she could do was nod because her throat was clogged with apprehension. What happened in the next few moments would affect the rest of her life.

Night Fighter reappeared a moment later and motioned for them to go inside.

Wolf Runner pointed to Satanta and spoke to him in Blackfoot, and the wolf dropped down on his haunches to wait. Out of the corner of her eye, Cheyenne saw several people drawing near, their curious gazes moving between Satanta and her and Wolf Runner.

When Night Fighter spoke to Wolf Runner, it was clear he was warning him about something, in heated words.

“He told me your grandfather is extremely ill,” Wolf Runner explained to Cheyenne. “He said not to tire Bold Eagle.”

Once they stepped inside the tipi, it took a moment for Cheyenne’s eyes to adjust to the dim light that came from a small fire. Although it was cold outside, it was almost stuffy in the tipi. The first thing
she noticed was a number of rifles propped against the tipi walls. She swallowed a lump of fear and revulsion when she realized she was staring at a string of scalps hanging from a lodge pole.

Her gaze finally settled on the Indian man who was watching her so intently from where he sat upon a reed mat. He was draped in a buffalo robe, but it was easy to see from his sunken eyes and the dullness reflected there that he was indeed ill, if not dying. His breathing was labored, and his eyes were pain-filled. Skin fell into deep wrinkled folds across his face and the hair that hung down his shoulders was completely white.

The old man finally turned his attention to Wolf Runner. The two exchanged words Cheyenne could not understand.

At last the chief returned his focus to Cheyenne and she was surprised when he spoke to her in hesitant English. “You look much like my daughter. It does my heart good to look upon your face, Granddaughter.”

She felt overwhelming relief to find she was welcomed into her mother’s tribe. “I did not know my mother. She died when I was a small child.”

“I know this.” Broken Lance continued to stare at her. “You also have the look of your white father about you,” he said, patting a place beside him and inviting Cheyenne to join him there.

Cheyenne had longed for this moment, and now was disappointed. She was not sure what she had expected. To finally meet her grandfather had been her fond hope, but everything around was strange and frightening. If he were a white relative she would have given him a hug, but she thought it best not to make the first overture.

Settling next to him, she raised her gaze to Wolf Runner, who must have been told to sit because he went down on his knees, his gaze searching Cheyenne’s as if gauging her reaction to the meeting with her grandfather.

“You do not speak the language of the Cheyenne, my granddaughter?”

“Sir, I do not. Where I lived in Santa Fe there was no one to teach me how to speak Cheyenne.”

“You are welcome in this village. I hope you have come to dwell with us for a time.”

Cheyenne raised her troubled gaze to Bold Eagle. “If you will allow it, I will remain with you.”

He smiled a toothless grin and patted her hand. “It will be like having my daughter with me once more.”

She wanted her grandfather to know how grateful she was to Wolf Runner for bringing her to the Cheyenne village. “I could not have come so far without the guidance of this grandson of the Blackfoot chief.”

Bold Eagle nodded, looking at Wolf Runner. “Your name is known to me,” he said, continuing to speak in English so Cheyenne could understand him. “Your grandfather, Broken Lance, is a great man. You are the son of the white woman who I have heard has music that soothes the soul.”

Wolf Runner nodded. “I am Rain Song’s son.”

“Then you are the son of Wind Warrior, a great man. He sees that which others cannot.”

Wolf Runner nodded his head. “I am glad you know of my father. I have heard him speak of you with respect.”

The old man’s eyes took on a cunning light. “Yet you attacked some of our warriors and slew them not so long ago.”

Cheyenne’s mouth opened in shocked surprise. Why had Wolf Runner never told her about that?

Wolf Runner met the old man’s gaze. “I did,” he admitted, his gaze never wavering. “It was done in retaliation against those who brutally attacked and killed our helpless women—on Blackfoot land.”

There was a tense moment as each warrior took measure of the other.

At last Bold Eagle nodded, speaking so Cheyenne would not understand his words. “Your cause was just. I know of the incident.”

Wolf Runner answered him in kind. “Then know this—your nephew was the leader. The matter is not over.”

“You are a guest in my lodge,” the old man said, his eyes growing sharp. “You are welcome, Blackfoot, but do not think you will have your revenge here.”

“As a guest in your lodge, I will honor the code of friendship between our people.”

Bold Eagle suddenly doubled over with a wracking cough, and it took him a moment to recover. Although Cheyenne’s instinct was to help her grandfather in some way, the look Wolf Runner gave clearly warned her to take no notice.

At last the old chief was able to speak, and reverted to English. “Wolf Runner, I thank you for bringing my granddaughter to me. You are most welcome in our village. We hope you will dwell with us for a time.”

Avoiding looking at Cheyenne, Wolf Runner replied, “I thank you, but I must leave for my home tomorrow.”

“Then let it be known that you are welcome anytime you choose to come to our village. The Cheyenne and the Blackfoot have not always been friends, but we have no quarrel with your grandfather Broken
Lance’s tribe. You are welcome to pass the night in my tipi.”

“Your offer is generous, but I will camp outside the village. I have a wolf with me, and he seems to make some of your people uneasy.”

“Then let it be so.”

Cheyenne glanced up at Wolf Runner, knowing she would probably never see him again. “Please do not leave before I rise in the morning,” she said, feeling lost at the thought of being parted from him. This was her grandfather, and he was obviously a kind man, but the Indian customs were still strange to her.

In a moment of panic, she was not certain she belonged there at all.