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Ho, Two Eagles thought to himself, he must avenge this injustice. He could not bear the thought that soon he would not have his uncle to sit with him beside the night fires; never again would they speak of things long past that no one else would know to tell Two Eagles.
His eyes glittered when he recalled what his uncle had said about there being only a few white pony soldiers left at the fort. Surely among them was Colonel Creighton, who had given the orders that brought such harm to Two Eagles’s uncle.
This colonel, and those who remained at the fort with him, would pay.
They would pay for their sins against humanity with their lives!
To the Wichita, war was sacred, Two Eagles reminded himself, trying to find justification for what he planned to do, when for so long he had used only peaceful means to achieve his goals.
Long ago, before his father and grandfather reigned as peace chiefs, war was what had gained the Wichita all that they had.
It was time for warring again.
Ho, yes, it was time.
It was time for Two Eagles to take his place in that long line of warring chiefs.
“My chief, I read much in your eyes that frightens me,” Crying Wolf said. “Is it the need for vengeance that I see?”
“Do you not also feel the same cry inside your own heart?” Two Eagles demanded. Then he turned and sat facing his uncle once again.
Outside he could hear his people congregating before Short Robe’s tepee. Prayers were being offered to the God of the Wind, which was breath, hence life.
Two Eagles heard the prayers, then spoke one aloud, himself, as he gazed lovingly down at his uncle. “Now, good wind, I ask you to come and breathe on my uncle, so that he may be healed and feel comfortable,” he cried. “I pray you, good wind, enter my uncle, so that he may breathe and be healed.”
When he was finished with his prayer, he nodded a silent farewell to the shaman, who continued his vigil at Short Robe’s side.
Just as Two Eagles stepped outside, he saw a red-tailed hawk flying from a tree, screaming as it rose upward into the star-speckled sky. The moonlight cast a white sheen on its outstretched wings.
A shiver raced across Two Eagles’s flesh, for he could not help believing that what he had just seen and heard was an omen.
But was it a good omen?
Or . . . wakan, bad?
Only in time would he receive his answer.
Chapter Four
The little leaves hold you
as soft as a child,
The little path loves you,
the path that runs wild.
—Max Eastman
A full day and night had passed since Candy had watched the old Indian walk listlessly from the fort as chains rubbed against his raw flesh.
Dressed today in a fully gathered cotton skirt of a soft green color, and a white drawstring blouse, Candy shivered again at the memory as she stood at that same window in the dining room. Out on the parade grounds, the haunting notes of a bugle sounding taps floated in the air.
Candy watched the familiar ritual, one that had always touched her from the time she’d understood what an American flag was, and what it stood for. A soldier was lowering the flag; then several carefully folded it. Soon one soldier would carry the flag, marching stiffly, slowly, and formally across the parade grounds toward her father’s study in their cabin. It was this fort’s main headquarters even though it was also where she and her father lived.
Candy turned and gazed at the grand oak dining table where a white linen tablecloth was spread out neatly.
Tall tapers burned at each end of the table, and a turkey, all browned and smelling delicious, sat on a large platter in the center. It was surrounded by dishes of mashed potatoes, gravy, and even green beans that her mother had grown and canned.
