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Eagle Feather reined his horse to a stop in front of a large tepee decorated with stars and half-moons. Regan checked her watch. It was three hours until sundown. She only hoped she was still alive when Santiago came looking for her.
The warrior riding behind her slid off the rump of the horse, then lifted her from its back.
Regan glanced around, her apprehension growing as dozens of men, women, and children gathered around her, their expressions ranging from merely curious to openly hostile. Angry voices rose on the wind, some of them in English, some in Lakota.
She clenched her hands at her sides, determined to keep her face impassive lest they see how frightened she was.
A sudden stillness fell over the crowd as a bent old man came into view. He leaned heavily on a wooden staff as he slowly made his way to the center of the group. His skin was the color and texture of old saddle leather. An eagle feather was tied into one long gray braid.
The old warrior stopped in front of Regan, his dark eyes moving over her from head to foot. "Who are you?" he asked. "Why have you come here?"
One look into his eyes and Regan knew she didn't dare lie to him. "My name is Regan Delaney. I came here looking for a man, a shaman."
The old man's eyes glowed with interest. "What is this shaman's name?"
"I don't know."
"Then how will you find him?"
"I'm traveling with a friend. He knows the way."
"Where is he, this friend of yours?"
"I don't know. He was to meet me this evening."
"Why do you need a medicine man? Are you sick?"
"No. Yes. Well, not exactly, but I might be. I was told the shaman in the Black Hills could help me."
The old man grunted softly. Turning to the man beside him, he spoke a few words in his native tongue, then walked away.
Before Regan could call after the old man to ask what was going on, a grim-faced warrior led her to a small lodge and pushed her inside.
"Stay here," the warrior said brusquely, and dropped the door flap into place.
Regan glanced around the dim lodge. It was empty. No blanket. No firepit. Nothing to eat or drink. Nothing to do but pace the dirt floor while her imagination conjured up one horrible scenario after another, each one worse than the last. The Indians would kill her and take her scalp. They would leave her in here to starve to death. They would skin her alive. They would bury her up to her neck in an ant hill and cover her head with honey. They would…
Muttering, "Stop it!" she sat down on the hard-packed earth and forced herself to take slow, deep breaths. Santiago would be rising soon, and he would come for her. Of that, she had no doubt.
Santiago rose as soon as the sun slid behind the horizon. For a moment, he simply stood there, basking in the beauty of his surroundings. It was a wild and beautiful land painted in vivid hues, from the rusty reds and earth tones of the shale and sandstone cliffs to the deep green of the pines. Animals were plentiful—buffalo and elk, beaver and muskrat, white-tailed deer and mule deer, bighorn sheep and mountain goats, eagles and hawks.
Standing there, his face lifted to the sky, he could feel the ancient power sleeping deep in the heart of the sacred Hills. He had felt similar vestiges of power at Stonehenge, in Chaco Canyon, at the Mayan pyramids, and at the pyramids at Giza, but nothing as strong as the power he felt here, in this place. For hundreds of years, mystics and shamans had come to the Black Hills seeking visions. The Lakota believed that the sacred Paha Sapa were the heart and soul of their people, and although Santiago was not Lakota, he was Indian enough to understand why the Lakota revered this place above all others. He knew of their unending struggles to regain the land through the centuries. He knew of the battles they had fought against the whites in the past, remembered their victories and their defeats. He had met some of their leaders. Men like Crazy Horse, Red Cloud, Sitting Bull, Two Hawks Flying, and Black Elk. All had been brave warriors, proud of their heritage, willing to sacrifice everything they possessed to preserve their way of life. He wondered if those ancient warriors knew that the Hills again belonged to their rightful owners.
Santiago blew out a sigh as the sun sank further into the west, splashing the horizon in vivid blood red hues, reminding him that he had not fed, but there was no time to search for prey now. He had left Regan alone long enough. He smiled at the prospect of seeing her again, and then frowned as a sense of foreboding rose up in his mind.
It took him only moments to return to where he had left her.
Less time than that to realize she was gone.
He scanned the ground, his preternatural sight easily picking up the tracks of three unshod ponies and the moccasin prints of a Lakota warrior. He read the story quickly. Three Indians had ridden into Regan's camp. One had dismounted, put her on his horse, and carried her away.
He glanced briefly at the hoofprints cut into the ground, but it was Regan's scent he followed through the gathering dusk.
Regan lifted one corner of the door flap and peeked outside. The sun was setting in a splash of crimson. Plumes of blue-gray smoke rose from a multitude of smoke holes and cook fires. The scent of roasting meat reminded her that she hadn't had anything to eat or drink since early afternoon.
Looking at the activity in the camp, it was difficult to believe that she hadn't been transported back in time to the early 1800s. Except for the boys she had seen playing football earlier, there were no visible signs of civilization. No cars. No houses. Nothing but a vast untamed land, tepees, horses, and dogs. And people wearing native dress. If she wasn't being held prisoner, she might have thought she had stumbled onto an old Western movie set, only these people weren't actors, and there were no lights, and no cameras. And no sign of the Seventh Cavalry!
She watched the sun sink further behind the Hills, her anxiety growing as she wondered what was taking Santiago so long. Surely he was awake by now!
Nearing the outskirts of the village, Santiago heard the slow, steady beat of a drum, smelled the slightly nauseating scent of roasting buffalo meat and the acrid odor of smoke curling from numerous cookfires.
He paused at the tree line, his gaze sweeping the lodges spread along the river. Seeing so many tepees took him back in time, back to a large Lakota village camped along the Little Big Horn in the summer of 1876.
What a day that had been! It was a day still discussed in some places, a day made famous by the death of George Armstrong Custer and his command. Santiago had been unable to fight in that epic battle, but he had gotten his licks in after the sun went down. Impervious to enemy fire, he had slipped into the ranks of the soldiers under Reno's command. The soldiers had taken refuge on a hill now known as Reno's Hill. He had counted coup on a dozen bluecoats, killed a handful, and fed off a few others. His only regret was that he had been unable to fight alongside Crazy Horse.
