Plenty Elk rose and went back to the edge of the prairie. Sitting with his back to a bole, he placed his bow across his legs. The sun was warm on his face, the wind stirred his hair. Somewhere in the cottonwoods a robin warbled. A yellow butterfly fluttered past.
The world was at peace, but the same could not be said of Plenty Elk’s spirit. Again and again he searched the far horizon in all directions, and always it was the same. He would like to believe Wolf’s Tooth was right. He would like to accept the fact they had escaped. But he had looked into the eyes of the scalp hunter who spoke their tongue, and what he saw had unnerved him. They were not normal eyes. Looking into them was like looking into the violent depths of a rabid animal.
Plenty Elk swallowed and licked his lips, and sighed. There was still no sign of anyone. Maybe Wolf’s Tooth was right. He worried too much. Leaning back, he closed his eyes. He could use some rest, too. The deaths of his friends, the long ride, had drained him.
A cricket chirped. High in the sky a hawk screeched. A fly buzzed near his ear. The usual sounds of a usual day. Peaceful sounds. Plenty Elk drifted into a gray realm between wakefulness and sleep. Part of him wanted to doze off, but another part, the part that always worried, warned him he shouldn’t. Despite what Wolf’s Tooth said, it wasn’t safe.
He fell asleep anyway.
Plenty Elk dreamed he was running. It was early morning, and fog blanketed the land. Something or someone was after him, but he couldn’t see what or who it was. He kept looking over his shoulder, but all he saw were shadowy shapes—and glowing eyes. Eyes like wolves. He ran and he ran, but he couldn’t outdistance them. They were always back there, always glowing bright with evil glee.
In his dream Plenty Elk tripped. Before he could rise, the shadowy shapes were on him. They bore him to the earth. Some pinned his arms while others pinned his legs. He struggled with all his might, but they were many and he was one. A knife appeared, sweeping out of the fog like a scythe. He tried to twist his head aside but a burning sensation filled his throat and he felt warm drops of blood trickle down his neck.
With a start, Plenty Elk sat up and gazed wildly about. He sucked air into his lungs and wiped the sweat from his brow with a sleeve.
“That was silly.” Plenty Elk pushed to his feet. The prairie was still empty of life. He glanced at the sun and was surprised to note how high it had climbed. He had been asleep much too long.
The horses were dozing. Wolf’s Tooth was still on his back, his arm over his eyes.
“Wake up. We must be on our way.”
When Wolf’s Tooth didn’t stir, Plenty Elk walked over and went to nudge Wolf’s Tooth’s foot with his own. Only then did Plenty Elk see the ring of red around his friend’s head. He took another step—and saw pink flesh where there should be hair.
Recoiling, Plenty Elk gripped the hilt of his knife. He had the blade halfway out when he was struck a terrible blow to the back of the head. Excruciating pain flooded through him. His senses swam, his legs grew weak, and his legs buckled. He came down hard on his knees. Struggling to stay conscious, he managed to draw his knife, only to have it kicked from his hand. Another blow, not quite as hard as the first, stretched him out on his side. Dimly, he was aware of being stripped of his weapons and having his legs tied at the knees and at the ankles. His hands, though, were left free. Why that should be mystified him until he was roughly rolled onto his back.
It was the black man. He had a rifle in one hand, a tomahawk in the other. A smile without warmth creased his cold features. Wedging the tomahawk under his belt, he leaned the rifle against a leg. Then his fingers flowed in fluid sign. ‘When brain work, Dog Eater, we sign talk.’
Plenty Elk tried to swallow, but his mouth was dry. He looked at Wolf’s Tooth, at the fate that soon awaited him, and felt great regret. He loved being alive. He did not want to die.
The black stared at him, waiting.
Plenty Elk wondered why he was still alive. Forcing his hands to move, he posed the question in sign.
‘Big man want talk you.’
By “big man,” Plenty Elk gathered that the black meant the man who spoke Arapaho. ‘Question. Why he talk me?’
‘He ask where you sit. He ask how many you people. He ask how many warriors. How many women. How many children.’
Fear filled Plenty Elk, not for himself but for his people. He resolved not to tell the scalp men where his village was or how many lived there, no matter what. ‘I no sign talk.’
The black did a strange thing; he laughed. ‘You talk. Him make all people talk.’
Plenty Elk didn’t like the sound of that. The scalp men tortured as well as scalped. Truly, he told himself, they were evil.
Squatting, the black regarded him with amusement. ‘Question. You called?’
Plenty Elk signed his name. ‘Question. You?’
‘No sign talk my name. I speak name.’ The black touched his chest. “Rubicon,” he said slowly.
“Rubicon,” Plenty Elk repeated. ‘You first black man I see.’
‘I last black man you see.’
Plenty Elk sank his cheek to the grass and closed his eyes. The pain had lessened a little and he could think again. Unless he did something, quickly, he wouldn’t live to greet the next dawn. But other than try and grab Rubicon’s rifle, what could he do? He looked up at his captor. ‘Question. Why you take hair? Take hair bad.’
Rubicon held his right hand out from his chest and curled his thumb and index finger to make a near-complete circle.
It was the sign for money.
Hope flared in Plenty Elk’s breast. ‘Question. You cut rope I give you my horse? You sell horse. Have money.’
‘Your hair more money.’
In the distance hooves drummed.
Plenty Elk stiffened. It must be the rest of the scalp hunters. He started to lower his hands to the rope around his legs. Without warning Rubicon sprang and swung the stock of his rifle in a tight arc. Plenty Elk nearly cried out. His ribs felt as if they had caved in.
“Don’t get no ideas, redskin.”
Plenty Elk understood the warning tone if not the words. He gazed through the trees to the west, seeking sign of his impending doom. They would torture him and kill him and lift his hair, and there wasn’t a thing he could do. In his frustration and helplessness, he raised a loud lament to the sky.
Rubicon rose. Smirking, he cradled his rifle. “Listen to you howl. That’s your death chant, ain’t it?”
The drumming hooves slowed as they neared the cottonwoods. Plenty Elk girded himself and dived at Rubicon’s legs, but the black man was too quick for him and leaped out of reach.
Snarling, Rubicon raised his rifle to hit Plenty Elk again.
That was when the brush crackled and out of the trees came the last person Plenty Elk expected: the young white woman.
Chapter Six
Evelyn King drew rein when the arrow thudded into the earth, and she watched the two warriors gallop off. She still didn’t know which tribe they belonged to. They weren’t Blackfeet or Sioux, or they would have tried harder to kill her or take her captive.
Degamawaku’s heart had leaped into his throat when he saw the glittering shaft arc out of the sky. For a few harrowing moments he thought it would bury itself in Evelyn. His relief when it missed was so profound that he trembled from head to toe. Drawing rein, he forced his throat to work. “Be careful, please. You almost be killed.”
“I don’t think so,” Evelyn said. “I don’t think he was trying to kill me, just scare me.”
“He scare me.”
