Chapter 21
Sabrina lost all sense of time. Remembering the past merely helped to make her feel more anxious.
She had been a fool to come here. She had realized far too late that she loved her husband.
And now, because of her foolishness, he risked his life.
She wondered how much longer she could bear waiting before she did lose her mind completely and go running out into the night, until a rain of arrows came flying after her or a bullet exploded into her back.
She was nearing that point when she realized that someone was coming to the tipi. She rose to her feet nervously before the fire, watching a woman duck as she entered the tipi and stood before her, staring at her, up and down.
She couldn’t determine the woman’s age, but her skin was honey-colored and flawless, and her hair was thick and long and beautifully dark in color.
Even in her loose-fitting dress of beaded buckskin, the curves of her body were notably lush.
Her face was lovely; her form was very sensual.
Sabrina realized with a start that she had seen the woman before—in photographs with Sloan.
She felt herself shaking, and for once it wasn’t with the jealousy that had so often made her furious with Sloan and caused her to behave foolishly.
Now she was shaking with fear, praying that this woman’s sudden appearance didn’t mean that Sloan was dead.
“So…you are his wife,” the woman said.
Sabrina nodded, surprised that the woman spoke English so well.
Apparently, the Cheyenne easily read her mind and smiled. “I learned your language long ago; White soldiers have been killing my people as long as I can remember. It is good to know the people killing you, good to know their ways. You can tell them why, when you kill in return.”
Sabrina swallowed hard, wondering if the woman had come to kill her.
“Do you know me?” the woman asked.
“You’re Earth Woman,” Sabrina said.
The Cheyenne nodded, pleased. “We might have shared a husband,” Earth Woman said.
Sabrina chose not to dispute her.
“But I wanted no more husbands; too many of mine had died. Cougar-in-the-Night had one foot in this world, but his other foot was firmly set into the world of the Whites. Still, he is like a husband to me. You understand?”
“Yes,” Sabrina said. She wondered if Sloan had actually been living with this woman since he had been taken by the Sioux. At that moment, it didn’t matter in the least. “I understand. Please, tell me, is he…is he…?”
“He is not dead—yet. A lot happens before such a fight commences. I did not come to tell you bad things. I came to see you. I came to see the woman he has taken as such a special wife that he no longer wishes to take warmth from me.”
For several seconds, the woman’s words left Sabrina somewhat confused. Then she started trembling again, realizing that Earth Woman was telling her that even here, even as a captive, when he might die soon, Sloan had been a loyal husband. To her.
She was going to fall, she thought. To her surprise, the Cheyenne woman came to her side and supported her as she sank down to sit on the ground, her knees suddenly too wobbly to hold her.
“Now, he is my friend, yes?” Earth Woman said to her. “He is like my brother, and you are then my sister. I will come back to you. Don’t be afraid.”
Earth Woman rose.
“Wait, don’t leave!” Sabrina implored her.
Earth Woman paused, smiling. “There are many ceremonies tonight in the different camps of the different tribes. The matter with your husband must be solved. I will come back and see you again.”
With that, the woman left. Sabrina found the strength to make it back to her feet again, running after her. When she started out of the tipi, however, she discovered that two warriors guarded her, and they didn’t look happy about the task.
She returned to the tipi. Earth Woman had told her that Sloan was still alive. She had to pray that he remained so—and try very hard not to cause more trouble…
Even as fear gnawed away at her every sense of reason.
Sloan walked into the night, striding through a vast sea of tipis and people. And he came at last to a clearing before one of the largest tipis, used frequently for councils among the chiefs.
Sitting Bull was there, along with Crazy Horse, He Dog, and many other noble warriors.
He saw his cousin, Tall Man, who would watch all the proceedings, to remind them that Sloan was among his people.
The Sioux could be hard, as prejudiced as the Whites.
But they could be just, and far more often than the Whites, it often seemed, they could be honorable as well.
The fight would be fair, and its outcome would be respected.
A space had been cleared.
And in that space, Gray Heron waited.
He gestured at Sloan.
“Half-breed, for you, it is a good night to die!”
Sloan smiled, rising in a sudden fury to the challenge. He had, after all, been raised Sioux.
“Today is a good day to die,” he replied to Gray Heron. It was the Sioux way of saying that he wasn’t afraid to fight; he welcomed the battle.
A shaman came up behind each man. Sloan was drawn back into a tipi, where he sat very still, listening as the Indian priest intoned the help of the Great Mystery as he went into battle. He was aware that his family had insisted he be given the same prayers and respect as his enemy.
The rest of his clothing was taken. He washed and was covered with bear grease for the fight, and given a breechclout to wear for the battle. Finally, the time came.
Gray Heron was a formidable opponent. He was a young warrior with a reputation for having fought soldiers and Sioux, for having counted coup many times in battle.
He was muscled like an ox. While some of the Indian people might have suffered hunger, Gray Heron had not.
He wasn’t as tall as Sloan, but he was heavier, very solidly built He was cunning and brave.
Sloan didn’t lack confidence in his own abilities; he just knew that he would have to use everything he had learned in both worlds to best his enemy. He couldn’t grow careless.
It was late. Stars dotted the heavens. A fire burned in the center of the clearing as many warriors of the camp watched and waited.
Sloan was given a knife, as was Gray Heron. Before the fight could begin, he asked permission to speak with Crazy Horse.
Crazy Horse agreed, and Sloan was granted a few minutes of privacy with the powerful warrior who had once been his close friend.
“My wife is expecting my son. I believe that Wanka Tanka will fight with me, and that I will win. But if I die, I beg you to intercede and see that she is returned to her sister, Hawk’s wife, with my unborn babe.”
“Gray Heron will demand her.”
“I chose the way of my mother’s father when my father died; I have served the White army.
But I have served you and my father’s people honestly at all times.
I have never lied or cringed beneath the anger of the Sioux—or the Whites.
If I am killed, I ask that you challenge Gray Heron in my honor, to win my wife and son for my people. ”
Crazy Horse nodded solemnly after a moment. That was all. It was all Sloan needed.
The chanting began, soft at first, then growing louder. It was time to fight.
Sitting Bull said that no man needed to die; the matter could be decided by strength alone.
But the way that Gray Heron was staring at him, Sloan knew that only death would appease his opponent.
Gray Heron made the first lunge, coming after him.
Sloan veered. Thanks to the bear grease that covered him, Gray Heron’s first angry attack merely brought him hurtling by. Gray Heron held his knife in his teeth then, balancing back and forth on his feet, gesturing for Sloan to come to him.
Sloan circled the man warily. He held his own knife in his right hand. He baited Gray Heron, waiting.
A warrior cried out, calling him a woman for not leaping forward. Gray Heron seemed pleased, calling out names himself. Sloan smiled. When Gray Heron became angry again and leaped for him once more, Sloan stepped to the side and slashed his opponent’s right arm.
Blood gushed from the wound. Gray Heron grabbed his arm, staring at Sloan, his lips tightening against his bronze and blue-painted face.
This time when he attacked, he caught Sloan in the ribs with the blade of his knife, and Sloan felt the warm trickle of his own blood.
Gray Heron saw that he was weakened. He made a flying attack that brought them both down to the ground. He straddled Sloan, trying to slash his throat.
Sloan gritted his teeth, fighting both the bear grease and his enemy’s strength as he tried to keep the sharp blade from connecting with his jugular.
He bucked and managed to dislodge Gray Heron.
He rolled on the ground and then kicked furiously, sending Gray Heron flying across the clearing. Gray Heron fell hard.
Sloan leaped to his feet.
Gray Heron scrambled up. Ducking his head, he ran across the clearing, butting Sloan in the abdomen.
Sloan fell back, but Gray Heron grappled with him.
Sloan brought his knife against his opponent’s neck.
Gray Heron slashed his left arm. Deeply.
Sloan felt the ooze of blood. Straining for power, Sloan slipped free from his enemy and slammed both fists down on the back of Gray Heron’s head.
His opponent staggered to his knees, gasping for breath.
He didn’t rise. Sloan waited. He started to walk over to Sitting Bull, who had not wanted a warrior killed when they would soon go to war against the soldiers.
But as he walked, Gray Heron came to his feet and dashed after Sloan, his knife raised.
Sloan turned. He couldn’t entirely deflect the blow, but the knife slashed across his shoulder instead of stabbing his back. He was growing weaker, he realized.
Loss of blood.