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Aboard that paddle wheeler had been Flame. Colonel Russell had bragged to White Fire, he had taunted him, about sending Flame where no one could ever find her.
He had known that Colonel Russell would have only been this open with him, because he knew that White Fire would never have the opportunity to go and release her from her imprisonment, because he would be dead.
He gazed up at the window and listened as the boat let out another sharp whistle as it came to a stop at the pier. White Fire’s pulse began to race, knowing that Flame was near again. He fought against the chains that held him in bondage. He struggled to get his ankles free.
All that his efforts gained him was more blood running from the wounds that the irons had inflicted on his wrists and ankles from him straining against them.
Yet White Fire could not help but think that with Flame’s return came just a slight ray of hope for his release . . . for his life. Perhaps the boat had returned solely because of her!
With her willful stubbornness, perhaps she had convinced those who accompanied her that White Fire was wrongly imprisoned by her madman father.
Just perhaps someone would come soon and release him.
But he knew that he was only reaching for a miracle in all that was bleak.
He hung his head and again slipped into a troubled sleep. He had not been fed. He had not been given water.
His body throbbed from being held up flat against the cold stone wall, his legs spread wide, his arms stretched out on either side.
“Flame . . .” he whispered in his sleep. “Flame . . .”
Chapter 33
My face turned pale as deadly pale,
My legs refused to walk away,
My life and all seemed turned to clay.
—John Clare
Breathless, Flame dismounted, then stopped suddenly when she found someone besides White Fire standing at the door of the cabin.
“Chief Gray Feather,” she gasped, her eyes wide with questioning.
Chief Gray Feather stared at her, then looked past her, his eyes searching for White Fire. Then he gazed at Flame again.
“Where is White Fire?” he asked, raising an eyebrow.
His gaze swept over her and saw her disarray. He gazed into her eyes once again. “When I last saw White Fire he was with you,” he said guardedly. “Why is he not with you now? Your clothes. Your hair. They are in such disorder. Why?”
Flame’s heart sank to learn that White Fire wasn’t there. He was still in that damnable cell, unless . . .
Fear brushed her insides in cold splashes to think that, to know that, her father could take away White Fire’s life at any moment, if he hadn’t already.
She rushed to Gray Feather and frantically gripped o
ne of his arms. “White Fire was taken away by my father and . . . and . . . placed in the fort’s dungeon,” she said in a rush of words. “My father sent me away on a riverboat. I jumped overboard. I went to your village to seek your help. I . . . was—”
“No-gee-shkan, stop. Tell me more slowly what happened, and why,” Gray Feather said, placing a gentle hand to her elbow. “Come inside. Sit down. Take a deep breath. Tell me everything. Then I will determine what must be done for White Fire.”
“What must be done?” Flame cried. “We must go and save him! That’s what must be done.”
Then she recalled how she had been treated at the Chippewa village.
Could she trust this chief to really listen and care about anything she had to say? Did he not care about White Fire any longer? Or did he blame both of them so much for the death of his daughter that he could never forgive them?
When Gray Feather said nothing more, but instead led her inside by a gentle hand on her elbow, Flame was glad to have time to get her breath. She knew that she must have some rest before heading out again to save her beloved. She even had to eat something, or else she would not have the strength to do what was required these next few hours.
