Running Wolf. Jenna Kernan
“That one is mine. I took her.”
“You took a handful of beads. This one is mine.”
So he pointed at the blue roan.
“The horse is mine, then.”
Yellow Blanket looked at the reins of his captured horse that now rested in his hand. Older and more experienced, he had only to lift a brow at Red Hawk before the man fell silent.
Yellow Blanket looked at the beads in Red Hawk’s hand.
“Those are yours.”
Red Hawk’s face went scarlet but he held his tongue. Yellow Blanket had been war chief and his bravery was without question.
“Were you unclear on your war chief’s instructions?” asked Yellow Blanket. Running Wolf appreciated the man’s assistance. It was difficult to lead a man older than you, especially when he felt he should have been Yellow Blanket’s successor. But he was not. The council had chosen Running Wolf.
Red Hawk shook his head.
“Then, why were you chasing old women instead of driving away their horses as you were told?”
Red Hawk looked at the strings of broken beads in his hand. He stuffed them into a pouch at his waist. The warrior woman’s gray horse pawed the earth beside Red Hawk and then lifted its head to sniff its mistress.
Weasel brought Red Hawk his horse.
“Let’s go,” said Running Wolf. His prisoner wriggled and tried to lift her head, but he pushed her back down with one hand planted on her neck.
What kind of woman was this who fought like a man?
The raiding party rode toward home, with great commotion. The woman spread across his thighs tried to throw herself headfirst off his lap, but he held her easily. She was small, even for a woman, making her act of unseating Red Hawk even more impressive.
He had never taken a captive but now wondered if he could keep this one. He liked the feel of her warm, firm body against his thighs, and her clothing and behavior had him both troubled and intrigued. He did not understand why she acted as she had, but he did know that she had the heart of a warrior.
Still, keeping her was not entirely his decision. True, their chief, Iron Bear, was generous, often leaving the spoils of their efforts to each warrior to keep or distribute as they saw fit. Running Wolf found himself holding the wiggling woman more tightly and recognized with some shock that the thought of giving her up filled him with a selfish, grasping need. It was perhaps the best reason of all to give her away.
He straightened in his saddle, lifting to a stand in his stirrups. He heard her gasp as she slid from his lap to wedge into the gap between his legs and the saddle’s high horn. She pressed her hands against his horse’s side to keep from tumbling headlong to the ground. Still fighting, he realized. Fighting for the old woman. Battling Red Hawk. Resisting capture and now struggling to survive. She was brave, this enemy warrior woman.
Did that mean she had earned her life or a swift death?
He pulled her upright and settled back in his seat. She curled against him for just a moment and sagged as if in relief. He stared down at the curve of her bottom and the short dress that had hiked up.
Was she wearing a loincloth?
He had seen a woman wear leggings in winter, but never a loincloth.
He rested a hand across her lower back and felt her muscles stiffen in protest. But she did not struggle. Perhaps she waited for her chance to plunge his knife into his heart. He added patient to her list of attributes.
Running Wolf stifled his rising need, fighting that deep empty place in his heart. He struggled to resist the whisper of desire for this woman. No. His father had died at the hand of a Crow. They were his enemy, and that included this small temptation. His duty was to his ancestors, his chief and his tribe.
He told himself that he would not covet this woman even as his hand tightened possessively about her.
Snow Raven bounced with the steady lope of the black-and-white stallion. Each landing of the horse’s front hooves jarred the warrior’s muscular thighs against her stomach and breasts. She saw at close range the blue war paint along the horse’s long elegant leg. Handprints for kills, bars for coups and hoofprints for horses stolen in raids and, the last, a square. He was the war party leader. This man was impressive by any measure. She stared at the heavily beaded moccasin. The cut and decoration were more reminders that he was Sioux.
If only she had followed her brother’s instructions, she would be safe in the woods right now.
And her grandmother would be dead.
Her grandmother would have preferred that, Raven knew, rather than see her only granddaughter taken and debased by the enemy.
Raven had enough of lying across the warrior’s lap as if she were some buffalo blanket. But when she tried to push herself up, he shoved her back down.
How long they traveled like this, she did not know. But when his horse finally slowed from lope to trot to walk, she was sweating and nauseous.
Her captor ordered a halt to check on the injured and called for his men to report to him. His accent was strange. Their languages were very similar, but his speech was faster and more lyrical than that of her people. His voice seemed almost a chant.
He captured one of her wrists. She tried and failed to keep him from securing the other. Before she could stop him, he had dragged her up before him and plopped her between his lap and the tall saddle horn made of wood covered in tanned buckskin. He used his other hand to loop a bit of rope about her joined hands and wound the rope around and through her wrists, binding her.
She had lost her skinning knife, her bow and her dignity. But she had not yet lost her pride or her virtue. That would come later, at her arrival to camp. She knew how Sioux captives were treated by her people.
Her band currently had no captives because her father killed all the Sioux he could, including women. But she had seen the female captives at the larger gatherings and winter camps when all the tribes of the Center Camp Crow came together. The women wore buckskin dresses soiled and torn, their hair a dusty tangle and their eyes hollow. She had even tossed an insult or two in their direction. Now she would be on the receiving end of such derision. The hatred between their people was old and strong. Everyone she knew had lost someone to the constant fighting and raids.
Once with the Sioux, she would get little food and might die of starvation or exposure. But that was not the worst. Dying was preferable to being soiled by a Sioux snake. Unless she had a protector or was lucky enough to be adopted, any might take her. This warrior who captured her or one of his tribe.
Raven shivered, vowing to take her life before submitting to such indignities. But what if she was not able to kill herself? There were ways to prevent her, deny her even the freedom to die. Her head hung. Should she try to stay alive and wait for her father and brother to come? Or should she try to end her life at the first opportunity?
Where was the warrior she pretended to be? She would know how to face her fate. But if she were a warrior, her destiny would be far worse. Male captives had to endure a slow death by torture designed to test their bravery. She might be roasted over a low fire or have bits of flesh cut from her body.
Some small part of her wondered if that end might be preferable to hers. She had always prided herself on her virtue. Now she realized it was already gone.
She did not wish to die. But she did not wish to live like this. She had saved her grandmother’s life and, in the process, she had lost her own.
* * *
Running Wolf halted the raiding party after a long run. The open plains hid a spring of sweet water for the horses and riders. Here they could rest and the