Savage Skies Read online

  There was much about this powerful-looking Indian that told her he was not one to fear, yet it was still true that his skin was red, and red-skinned men had come and destroyed her world today. They had brutally murdered her neighbors, people who’d never brought harm into anyone’s lives. They were all God-loving souls.

  She swallowed hard as she fought back the sting of tears at the thought of her sweet Megan. She was almost certain now that she would never see or hold her daughter again.

  She felt so numb inside, she no longer cared whether she was a captive or not.

  As far as she was concerned, her life was over. She was the same as dead, for everything within her told her that life was no longer worth living.

  All the same, she tensed when Blue Thunder stepped closer to her.

  He reached out and spread her blood-stiffened hair to study her wound. His shaman would make it well, and then Blue Thunder would set the woman free, so she could find her way back to her own world.

  There were forts close by his village. He would take her near one, then set her free to go the rest of the way on her own.

  After she was healed by the shaman and cared for by Blue Thunder’s people, surely she would not go to the fort and complain about him. He was the one who had saved her.

  Surely she knew this, even though she was looking at him as though he were one of those whom had killed and raped.

  He would give her time enough to know the truth about him and his people before setting her free. She would in time realize that he had saved her from a fate worse than death.

  “Hakamya-upo. In my language I tell you to come with me,” Blue Thunder explained in English, placing a gentle hand at Shirleen’s elbow. He understood when she yanked herself away from him, her eyes filled with a sudden loathing.

  “Come with me,” Blue Thunder insisted, stepping toward her as she backed farther away from him. “I mean you no harm. I am a friend. I have rescued you from the renegades. I will take you to my village and see that your wound is cared for. I will give you clean clothes. I will give you food. I will also give you a lodge of your own until the time comes for you to go on your way again.”

  “I want freedom now,” Shirleen blurted out. “I . . . do . . . not want to go with you. Not anywhere.”

  “If you do not come with me, other renegades will find you. You would not even want to think what your fate would be then,” Blue Thunder said softly.

  “You are only trying to frighten me,” Shirleen accused, her voice breaking.

  “Yes, I am, especially if that is the only way I can get you to go with me,” Blue Thunder said. “You are with friends. You will not be harmed while you are in my company.”

  “And I am to believe that?” Shirleen said, laughing sarcastically.

  “In time you will see the truth of what I say,” Blue Thunder replied, reaching out and taking her gently by the hand. “Now come. It is time to start back toward my home.”

  Recalling how viciously the renegades had killed and raped her friends, and noticing that this warrior’s words were spoken kindly and sincerely, Shirleen knew that for now she had no better choice than to go with him.

  She shyly nodded.

  After she was placed on a horse, she slowly looked around her. The Indians had gathered the stolen horses together, as well as those with the bags of clothes on them.

  She made it a point not to gaze at the fallen, bloody renegades, although she was glad they were dead.

  All she wanted for now was to get away from this horrible place and find some sort of sanity in what remained of her life.

  It all seemed like a bad dream she might never awaken from!

  Chapter Seven

  Act well at the moment,

  And you have performed

  A good action to all eternity.

  —Lovater

  Shirleen could hardly believe her good fortune. She was riding one of the horses that the Comanche had stolen from her friends. The familiarity of the steed was especially welcome since everything else was vastly different from the life she’d known before.

  She had been told by the chief of these Indians that she was no longer a captive, but someone who had been rescued.

  She would believe it only when she was truly released to try to put her life back together.

  She knew her life would never be the same. Her daughter was gone, and Shirleen had been left with the hideous memory of the deaths of her special friends.

  She could hardly believe that her life had been spared, but surely it had been for a purpose. To find and save her daughter from harm.

  In time, oh, if the good Lord was willing, she would be able to fulfill that purpose.

  Her head was pounding so hard she found it difficult to hold it up as she continued riding beside the chief, but she did. She didn’t want to look weak in the eyes of these Indians, or they might come to the conclusion that she was not worth the trouble of helping and would leave her behind.

  But she had seen how the chief had given her occasional sideways glances.

  She supposed he was looking at her like this to see if she was alright and still able to make the journey to his village.

  Yet there was something else in his eyes when she happened to meet his gaze. It was nothing akin to the loathing she had thought all Indians felt for white people.

  Instead, there was a kindness, a softness in his dark eyes that made her believe she was in the company of someone she could trust.

  And there was something else in his eyes that filled her with wonder. He was gazing at her as if she were someone he truly cared for, as though they were not strangers, but instead kindred spirits. She, too, was feeling something vastly different from hate for this red man. She actually felt intrigued by him.

  And how could she not?

  She had never seen such a handsome man in her entire life. His facial features were sculpted to perfection. His long, black hair, which reached far down his straight, muscular back, was beautiful and shone beneath the rays of the sun as though he had just come from bathing in the river.

  And as his hair fluttered when a breeze swept through it, she could almost smell its cleanness. She could almost feel it against the palms of her hands.

  How different this man was from her husband. Earl had worn his hair long, too, but it was blond, not shining blue-black. And Earl’s hair had never smelled good.

  Then, too, the chief was tall, his body fully muscled. It filled out his fringed buckskins to perfection.

  She blushed when she wondered how it would feel to run her hands down the chief’s muscled back.

  She had been repelled by the very nearness of Earl’s body after she realized the sort of man he was.

  It had gotten so that just being near Earl made her want to vomit.

  And Earl was a man who scarcely bathed. The smell of perspiration that always clung to him and his clothes had made her stay as far from him as she could. She had dreaded those times when he would grab her and almost wrestle her to the bed before taking what he wanted from her . . . even in the presence of their precious daughter.

  It was so good to know that that would never happen again; nor would she ever have to look into his leering blue eyes as he forced himself on her.

  Her thoughts of Earl were interrupted when up ahead, in a clearing of trees, she saw many tepees nestled beside a beautiful river. A bluff reached out high above them on the far side of the village.

  And as she grew closer and was able to see the whole camp, she noticed how clean the tepees were, and how smoke spiraled slowly from their smoke holes.

  She even smelled the delicious aroma of meat cooking, which caused hunger pangs in the pit of her stomach.

  She only now realized just how long it had been since she had eaten. Not since early this morning when she had made oats and fried eggs for herself and Megan.

  When Megan came to mind again, tears filled Shirleen’s eyes. She prayed that her child was alive somewhere and being treated
kindly. But she feared that could not be, especially if she was with the damnable Comanche renegades.

  She had heard mention of Big Nose among the Indians who had rescued her. Surely he was the one they had truly wanted to find and kill.

  Before she had been hit over the head with a war club, she remembered having seen a renegade with a strange-looking bulbous nose, with purple veins running in all directions across it.

  Just as she was hit, he had looked at her and smiled cruelly.

  Oh, Lord, if that man had her daughter . . . ! Again her thoughts were interrupted, and she was glad, for she did not like where they had taken her.

  It was best not to labor over her daughter’s misfortune.

  Not now, anyway. There was nothing at all she could do for the present.

  But when she was well enough to ride a long distance, she would not stop until she found her daughter. And although Shirleen was not skilled with firearms, she would use one to rescue Megan if need be.

  Now they had arrived in the midst of the village, where women and children and many elderly people stopped to stare at her. Shirleen kept her eyes locked straight ahead. She was afraid to look into the eyes of those who lived in the village, for she was white, and most whites were hated by Indians.

  Most warriors who had stayed behind paid her no heed, but watched their chief until he drew rein before the largest tepee in the village.

  Blue Thunder dismounted and smiled at the warriors who greeted him, then nodded toward the edge of the village, where the rescued horses were being led into a corral.

  “Go. There are many captured horses,” he said. “Divide them among yourselves.”

  When the men looked questioningly at him, he added, “Our mission was successful. Our friend Gray Eyes’ stolen warriors are soon to be reunited with their families.”

  “And what of Big Nose?” one of the warriors asked anxiously. “Has he been stopped forever?”

  Blue Thunder kneaded his chin, gazed down at the ground, then raised his eyes slowly again. “He was not among the fallen renegades,” he said, regretting that he had lost the opportunity to question Big Nose about Shawnta’s death. “Somehow he escaped our wrath. But he will be brought to justice one day. I promise you that.”

  He noticed how his warriors’ eyes now went to Shirleen, then turned again to him in question.

  “I have not brought a captive white woman among us,” Blue Thunder said, going to Shirleen and helping her from the horse.

  He gently placed a hand at her elbow and walked her closer to the men, who were now being joined by women and children. “This woman was being forced into captivity by Big Nose and his renegades,” he said softly.

  “Why have you brought her among us?” one of the warriors asked.

  “And how long will she be with us?” one of the women asked quickly.

  “She is here only for our shaman to see to her wound. She was injured on her head by the renegades,” Blue Thunder said, indicating the dried blood in Shirleen’s hair. “She survived the wound, but it needs medicine so that it will completely heal.”

  He gazed at the woman who had asked the question about how long Shirleen would be among them. “She will stay only long enough for her wound to heal, and then she will be free to go,” he said, yet his heart was not in his words.

  He felt protective of her and even more than that.

  His fascination with her had aroused needs that he had not allowed himself to feel while in the presence of any woman, white or redskinned, since the death of his precious wife, Shawnta. Since her death, he had put all his energy into fulfilling his duties as chief.

  But now?

  He was beginning to feel the need to have a woman in his life again.

  And if it was this white woman who sparked such need, so be it!

  But he now had to make her understand that she was safe among his people. And the fact that he no longer saw resentment or hate in her eyes made him hope that he might be able to reach inside her heart.

  “Come with me,” Blue Thunder said as he led Shirleen away from everyone. “After I decided to bring you to my village, I sent a warrior ahead to make certain a tepee was prepared for you. It is not as fancy as you are probably accustomed to in your white world, but it should be comfortable enough for you as you recover from the head wound.”

  Shirleen was struck anew by his kindness, by his gentleness toward her.

  He took her by the elbow and led her past his tepee to a beautiful lodge set at a little distance from the others. It was much smaller than his, but it was enough for her.

  Blue Thunder held aside the entrance flap. He nodded toward the opening. Not at all afraid or apprehensive, Shirleen stepped lightly past him.

  Just inside the tepee, she stopped and gazed around her. It was most certainly smaller than the others she had seen in the village, and there was nothing in the tepee, only an earthen floor and rocks positioned in a circle of dug-out earth in the middle of the tepee. The rocks were situated beneath a smoke hole, so she knew that this must be the Indian firepit she had heard about.

  Suddenly she realized that she was alone. While she had been so absorbed in looking around her, the man who had brought her there had left the tepee.

  She heard his voice just outside the entrance. He was telling one of his warriors in English to stand guard outside her lodge.

  Suddenly she no longer felt so much at ease. Why was she being guarded?

  She had heard tales of Indian captives, and she shivered at the thought of what usually happened to those captive women.

  But then she recalled how he had said she would be among these people for only the length of time that it would take for her injury to heal. Once her strength returned, she would be allowed to leave.

  But now she wondered if he had only told her that to make her cooperate with his plans.

  She badly wanted to ask the young chief to search for Megan, but knew now that she must be careful about everything she said to him. First she must see if he was truthful; she must judge how he treated her. If what he had told her were lies, she would not even mention Megan’s plight, for he would be of no help.

  Standing quietly in the tepee, now no longer hearing the young chief talking with the warrior who stood outside the entrance, Shirleen was not sure what she should do. There were no comforts at all in the tepee, not even a blanket upon which to sit.

  At that moment, two Indian maidens came into the lodge. One immediately spread what looked like bulrush mats over the earthen floor, leaving none of the ground exposed to the naked eye, while the other woman brought in firewood and started a fire in the firepit.

  They left, but soon returned again. One carried blankets. The other positioned a pot of tantalizing-smelling food over the fire, hanging it from a tripod of sorts.

  They left again, and before Shirleen could have time to wonder about all that was happening, the women returned.

  One carried a wooden basin of water, the other wooden bowls and spoons.

  The two women wore beautifully beaded doeskin dresses and matching moccasins, their coal-black hair hanging in long braids down their backs. They said nothing to Shirleen, nor did she say anything to them.

  And then she was left alone again.

  She turned and watched the entrance flap, expecting the women to return with other things. But this time it seemed that they were gone for good.

  She was glad to be alone, for her head was throbbing again where she had been struck by the horrible club. Groaning with pain, she sank to the mats beside the warm fire.

  She hung her face in her hands and sobbed, then stopped when she heard someone enter the tepee.

  Afraid of who it might be, she looked slowly up and saw an intelligent-looking old man standing there with a buckskin bag.

  The Indian spoke to her in good English.

  “I am called by the name Morning Thunder,” he said in a deep, resonant tone. “I am my people’s shaman, which in your white world is call
ed a doctor. I have come at the command of my chief Blue Thunder to see to your wound.”

  Unsure of how to feel about this old man’s presence, Shirleen sat up stiffly and looked at him anxiously.

  “Do not be afraid,” Morning Thunder said softly as he knelt down on the mats, gently turning Shirleen to face him. “You are with a friendly band of Assiniboine people who do not kill whites unless forced into it.”

  Shirleen swallowed hard. “I am no danger to any of you,” she said. “I will do nothing to cause you to want me dead.”

  Morning Thunder smiled, reached out, and gently separated her hair to check the wound.

  He “tsk-tsk’d,” as Shirleen remembered her grandmother doing so often when she was not pleased with something.

  The familiar sound made Shirleen relax.

  “It hurts so much,” she offered.

  “I shall take the pain away,” Morning Thunder reassured her. “Close your eyes as I tend to your wound if it will make you feel better. Soon my healing powers will make you well.”

  Shirleen was surprised that she had been in the presence of two powerful Indians, and both had shown her kindness.

  And more than that. She was so glad to know that she was with a friendly tribe of Indians, the Assiniboine.

  She was beginning to hope that the young chief, who she now knew was called Blue Thunder, was sincere in what he had said to her.

  “You are called by what name?” Morning Thunder asked as he slowly and carefully washed Shirleen’s wound, removing all the blood.

  “Shirleen,” she responded without hesitation. She felt comfortable in his presence, and he was as gentle as her grandmother and mother had been when she had gotten hurt as a child.

  This had been a frequent occurrence, because of her size; everyone always got the better of her in the rougher sorts of games.

  She had preferred jump rope or jacks, games that would not cause her harm, or dirty her pretty dresses.

  “I believe you should be called Tiny Flames,” Morning Thunder said as he stopped and admired her red hair, which reminded him of the color of flame. “While you are in my presence, I shall always address you by your Indian name.”