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She took a quicker one back from him.
“If not for you, she would not have died,” Red Buffalo growled out. “In time White Fire would have married her.”
“White Fire never loved her,” Flame said.
She then wished she had not so openly spoken her mind when she saw the warriors face redden with rage.
“He would have learned to love her, for Song Sparrow was sweet and lovable,” Red Buffalo said. “She had no enemies except the love she felt for a man who scorned her.”
He then gestured toward the entrance flap. “You are in our chiefs lodge without his permission,” he said in a monotone. “You are in our village without an invitation. Mah-szhon, go. Go while you can.”
“What . . . do . . . you mean by saying go . . . while I can?” Flame asked, swallowing hard. “How can I make you understand that I am not to blame for anything?”
“Too many will never believe that,” Red Buffalo said. He went to the entrance flap and lifted it. “Go now.”
“But you haven’t told me where I can find Chief Gray Feather,” Flame murmured, inching toward the flap, her eyes never leaving the warrior’s. “I need his help. Please tell me where I can find him.”
“You are an interference in the lives of the Chippewa,” Red Buffalo said, glaring at her. “Why would I tell you where our chief is, or why he is there? None of my people’s lives are your concern, especially not our chief’s.”
Frustrated, and fearing that as each moment passed White Fire’s life was more at stake, Flame impulsively grabbed Red Buffalo by an arm. She sank her fingers into his copper flesh.
“I desperately need to know where I can find your chief,” she said, begging him with her eyes. “White Fire is in trouble. He needs your chief’s help.”
The fact that White Fire was in trouble caused Red Buffalo to be somewhat taken aback. Flame searched his eyes, trying to understand his feelings.
Then she thought of why there was such anger toward her today. Surely these people had the same anger toward White Fire, for it was he who had turned his back on Song Sparrow’s love. The Chippewa must hold him responsible for her death!
“You also blame White Fire for Song Sparrow’s death, don’t you?” she gasped out. “You no longer see him as a friend . . . as a brother?”
Red Buffalo’s lips became tightly pursed together. He offered no further comment as he continued to glare at Flame.
“If anything happens to him, don’t you know that you will be partially responsible?” Flame said, her voice rising in pitch. She felt almost hysterical now that she saw that she would not have the help she had sought here at the Chippewa village.
“How can you stand there so cold and unfeeling toward White Fire when you know that he is not responsible for anything but being your friend—your ally?” she half screamed. “Your chief loves him as a father loves a son!”
She paled and dropped her hand to her side. “Oh, no,” she said, her voice breaking as a cold splash of fear grabbed her in the pit of her stomach. “Your chief does hold White Fire responsible for his daughter’s death, doesn’t he? Lord, he would not have helped him if he were even here. Even if I begged, do you think he would ignore the danger White Fire is in?”
She could see Red Buffalo’s eyes waver somewhat. Then she saw his gaze wander over her, seeming suddenly aware of her disheveled clothes and hair. It was obvious to anyone who looked at her that she had been in the river.
By that, the warrior must know then that she had also faced danger. That would surely tell him that she had come out of desperation to seek help from his chief. From his people.
But Red Buffalo still offered no kindness, no sympathy. Instead he held the flap open more widely with one hand, while gesturing with his free hand toward it. She knew that nothing she had said, or would say, could make him change his mind about how he felt about things today. Perhaps the death of the Chippewa maiden was too fresh in his heart to care for anyone else, especially a white woman and a ’breed who had no blood ties at all with the Chippewa.
Inhaling a quavering breath, finding the courage to say just one more thing to this stubborn Chippewa warrior, Flame went and stood before him. Her eyes held his as she glared at him. “If White Fire dies, I, personally, will hold you responsible,” she said flatly. “I know that if Chief Gray Feather knew that he was in mortal danger, he would go to his rescue. He just can’t hate someone so quickly whom he has loved so dearly. Not even because he has lost a daughter!”
When she saw how that
made Red Buffalo’s eyes soften, and how it made him take a long, slow swallow, she knew that she had hit home. This warrior absolutely knew that his chief would defend White Fire, at all cost.
Yet he still stood there, making no attempt to go to his chief and tell him the bad news about White Fire. Nor did he offer her the information of where Gray Feather was.
Stifling a frustrated sob behind a hand, Flame ran from the lodge.
Ignoring that everyone still stood around, staring at her, she quickly mounted the horse.
When no one budged, she sighed deeply. Then she gazed at the crowd with rage-filled eyes as they edged closer, giving her no escape route.
“If you don’t give me space to ride from your village, by damn I shall make space!” she cried. “I will trample anyone who gets in my way beneath the hooves of this horse!”
