Chapter 20
“Cougar-in-the-Night, come!” Tall Man commanded.
Sloan had been lying in his cousin’s tipi, wondering about his chances for escape. He knew that his family had been ordered to shoot him if he tried to get away.
The massive Sioux and Cheyenne encampment had been moved twice since Sloan had been taken prisoner, and both times, he had helped with the great effort of moving such a tremendous amount of people and belongings.
He was careful to do only the work a man, or a warrior, might do.
He had a feeling that now it was very important not to lose face with his people.
Some tasks, such as the folding of tipis and bedding, were considered women’s work, but he was able to care for the animals and help the women who were widowed.
Tall Man told him that soldiers had been seen by a number of the scouts.
The man called Son of the Morning Star or Yellow Hair was among them. Tall Man told him that the Cheyenne considered Custer to be their relative, and that Custer had promised not to make war on them years before, when he had smoked with the chiefs and arranged a treaty.
“The government wants the Indians on the reservations,” Sloan had explained to his cousin, “and nothing else matters now. Things have changed.”
“We know Yellow Hair is there; we will watch. The soldiers must be suffering; we fought many of them on the Rosebud, and though they attacked, we were victorious,” Tall Man told him.
And he seemed content; there had never been such a great mass of Indians gathered together before—Cheyenne and Sioux, and among the Sioux, so many tribes: Miniconjou, Brule, Two Kettles, Santee, Yankton, Sans Arc, Blackfeet, Oglala, Hunkpapa…
so many people. Under normal circumstances, the tribes would have broken up after the Sun Dance, and in time, they would have to do so.
It was too difficult to find enough game for so many in one place, and the grazing for the animals was too quickly destroyed.
Such a sight as this would not be seen often.
There were simple things about the Indian way of life that seemed good to Sloan.
He observed the way that the Sioux shared, still helping the Cheyenne—who had been devastated in Crook’s attack—and caring for the wounded who had been injured in the very recent battle with Crook along the Rosebud.
The elderly were respected for their wisdom; the children were loved and raised by extended families.
Sloan was allowed to go on an elk hunt, for they had followed a vast herd of elk through the valley of the Little Bighorn.
He enjoyed racing the wind bareback. When the hunt was over, he discovered that his own cousin was staring at him, his rifle in his hands—ready to shoot if Sloan sought this as an opportunity to flee.
From what he learned from Tall Man, Sloan deduced that General Crook remained south of them, and that General Terry had kept the columns divided, sending both Custer and Gibbon south along separate trails.
Terry would assume that between Gibbon and Custer, he could at last pinch the Indians—and if they escaped, they would ride straight into Crook.
But he wondered if anyone in the military could even begin to imagine the size of this encampment.
Among all of the troops in the field, Sloan reckoned that there were about two thousand soldiers separated into three main divisions.
But he had never seen so many Indians before. There were more than two thousand Indians altogether, and there were perhaps a thousand warriors among them. If the fighting men in the field were split up when they encountered the hostiles, they could very well be seriously outnumbered.
He knew what the Indians did not yet understand. The soldiers would keep coming. No matter how many they killed, more soldiers would take their place.
It seemed strange to him now that he had known nothing but this way of life when he had been a boy.
There were so many things he still loved and admired about the Sioux people and their way of life, but now…
he needed to escape. There was just somewhere else he longed to be.
He had a wife, and for the first time, he had a real home of his own.
“Cougar-in-the-Night! Come!” Tall Man urged, and Sloan realized that he had just been staring blankly at his cousin. He leaped to his feet, feeling a growing sense of urgency.
He followed his cousin out of the tipi and saw a horse awaiting him. To his amazement, Crazy Horse stood by the animal. He wondered if he was supposed to leap atop the horse and ride for his life while the braves sent arrows flying after him. It didn’t seem the way of a man like Crazy Horse, but…
“Blade saw that some warriors are engaged in a battle with White men. Trappers, he thinks,” Crazy Horse told Sloan.
Sloan stared at him, confused, waiting for him to continue.
“Blade knows your White wife. She is sister to his cousin’s wife.”
“Sabrina?” Sloan said. “Sabrina can’t possibly be here.”
Crazy Horse shook his head. “Cougar-in-the-Night, Gray Heron is now attacking the party—and he will gladly take your wife as his own, I imagine, if he is not stopped. If you want your wife, Cougar-in-the-Night, I suggest that you stop him.”
Sloan didn’t dare wait any longer. He wasn’t being given permission to escape; only to get his wife back.
His wife.
It couldn’t be.
What idiotic purpose could Sabrina have in coming out here with a party of fur trappers?
But he leaped atop the mount offered him and rode furiously in the direction shown him.
He could see the fighting going on. The Sioux…
The White men.
Sabrina.
Bullets flew. Arrows soared.
The White men were dead. All of them. Sloan rammed his heels hard against his Indian pony, racing to reach the point of battle.
Gray Heron lifted his bow high in his left hand and let out a high, undulating cry of victory, then threw his leg over his horse’s haunches to jump to the soft ground of the plain.
He stood very still, all-powerful as he surveyed Sabrina. He raised his bow into the air again, shaking it—claiming victory, claiming Sabrina—letting out his terrible war cry.
Don’t fight him, don’t fight him, don’t let him kill you! Sloan prayed silently. The earth churned up around him. He had to reach her. But he could see Gray Heron, swaggering now, as he approached her.
Sabrina stood still. Tall, proud, still. Don’t be too proud, my love! he begged in silence.
“Damn you!” he swore out loud.
For Gray Heron was playing games, taunting his prisoner.
He approached Sabrina, pushing her. She staggered back.
Gray Heron persisted. He caught hold of her, wrenched her up in his arms, and threw her down on the ground.
But he didn’t know the woman he was up against. She leaped up before he could straddle her.
Gray Heron pulled a knife.
Sloan cast back his head and cried out, a cry lost on the wind. Cruelly, he slammed his heels against the pony, needing greater speed. The wind ripped by him. He could feel the setting sun beating at his bare back, and yet he was numb. If he could not reach her…
Gray Heron was on top of her again. Sabrina was fighting like a wildcat, struggling, clawing, kicking, swearing…
She had hurt Gray Heron—somehow. He staggered back, then slapped her so hard that she went down. And Gray Heron was approaching her again, his knife held out, his face contorted with anger.
At last, Sloan reached the scene. Reining in his pony, he leaped to the ground, flying at Gray Heron. He wrenched the warrior far from his wife, and they struggled together on the ground.
He was vaguely aware that Sabrina was up, coughing, and running. She was trying to reach the pony he had nearly ridden to death in his effort to reach her. She could ride.
But if she tried to escape…
She might well die.
He slammed his fist into Gray Heron’s jaw. Hard. Gray Heron grunted and went still.
Sloan staggered up. “Sabrina!” he cried, shouting her name.
She went dead still and swung around, staring at him incredulously. He realized he must make quite a sight, shirtless, his chest slicked with sweat and mud.
“Oh, my God!” she breathed. “Sloan!”
She hurled herself at him, throwing her arms around him, trembling. Her hold was. tight, the feel of her trembling body in his arms was incredibly sweet. He couldn’t believe that it was her. Oh, God, it was her—what was she doing here?
“Sloan—”
He held her away from him, knowing that they faced a difficult situation and that he had to take grave care. He studied her face. Dusty, but beautiful. Her dark hair was free and wildly swirling about her face in the breeze. Her eyes were huge and beautiful. She was quite a prize…
And Gray Heron was definitely going to fight to have her.
“The situation is almost worth the greeting,” he murmured dryly, then asked quickly, “Are you hurt?”
“No, Sloan, but all these men—”
“Are but a fraction of those who will die,” he murmured softly.
“Sloan—” she began, then broke off, looking around them.
They were surrounded by Sioux.
“Sloan!” Sabrina gasped in warning. Gray Heron was coming up behind him.
“I’ll—I’ll get the horse!” Sabrina cried.
“Sabrina, no!” he commanded before turning around to face Gray Heron. He switched into Sioux. “She is my wife, Gray Heron. My wife.”
“Your wife—my captive!” Gray Heron argued back angrily. “You are a captive now, Cougar-in-the-Night. You do not deserve a wife.”
“Crazy Horse said that I should ride for her.” He stared furiously at Gray Heron. Whatever happened, he didn’t dare back down a step.
“Sloan! We have to get out of here!” Sabrina insisted, tugging at him, starting for his Indian pony again.
He didn’t dare let her reach the horse. He caught her just before she could leap upon it. He lifted her slightly, holding her in his arms, close against his chest. “Sloan, what are you doing?” she whispered desperately. “We have to get out of here!”
He shook his head.
“Sloan, we can run—”