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Echohawk and Silver Wing nodded, then swung themselves into their saddles and rode hard across the meadow. They entered the forest, but were stopped when a volley of arrows came at them seemingly from out of nowhere. The bowstrings twanged a death song, arrows humming like angry hornets at the Chippewa.
Suddenly many Sioux braves appeared on horseback, riding toward the Chippewa, White Wolf in the lead. Guns bellowed. Gunfire filled the air. More arrows screamed from their bows.
Echohawk threw back his head and uttered a war whoop almost in unison with Silver Wing’s throaty cry. Kicking his horse into a run, Echohawk soon lost sight of Silver Wing as the Sioux and Chippewa mingled, all whooping and charging. They met in a head-on clash, clubs striking deadly blows, horses floundering and slamming onto their sides in the snow when they received the bullets meant for their riders.
The air soon thick with black powder smoke, Echohawk fought hard for his life, unable to look around him, to see how anyone else fared.
But soon the firing ceased and all that could be heard were the groans of the wounded.
Echohawk sat stiffly in his saddle as his gaze moved around him, seeing the death that lay strewn around him, the blood like roses in the snow.
And then his heart plummeted with despair when he spied a familiar face among the fallen. He quickly dismounted and ran to Chief Silver Wing, easing his head up from the snow onto his lap.
“Take the scalps of our enemy to our people,” Silver Wing said between deep, quavering breaths. He grabbed at his chest, where his fur cloak had been ripped open from the explosion of a bullet, blood freezing in shreds along the matted fur.
“There is no time for scalps,” Echohawk said, his voice drawn. “That time will be spent in taking you to your people. To your wife. Your Mide priest will perform magic over you. Your wounds will soon be healed!”
“Gah-ween,” Chief Silver Wing said, blood now trickling in a stream from the corner of his mouth. “The Mide’s magic will not be strong enough for this elder chief this time. The wound is a mortal one.” He struggled to get up. “Take me to Nee-kah. I will not let myself take that last breath until I can hold her in my arms again.”
“If only it were I lying there wounded,” Echohawk said, his voice filled with regret.
“You are young. You have a lifetime ahead of you. I have had a full, rich life.” Silver Wing paused, closed his eyes for a moment while taking some quick breaths, then looked up into Echohawk’s eyes again. “And soon, Echohawk, a child will be born to Nee-kah. My child. And . . .” He managed a peaceful smile. “And it will be a son, Echohawk. I know that to be so.”
“Ay-uh,” Echohawk said, filled with remorse. It was as though he was holding his father in his arms, watching his life ebb away, all over again. In so short a time, two men of his heart had been robbed of him! What in life was fair?
He looked slowly around him, seeing that not one Sioux had lived through the fight, and his heart swelled with pride. Never again would this band of renegade Sioux be able to take loved ones from him!
His heart skipped a beat, a thought springing to his consciousness, making him groan with a frustrated anger. In the confusion and concern over Silver Wing’s welfare, he had forgotten about White Wolf!
“He is not among the dead!” he whispered between gritted teeth. “He escaped. Even now I do not get my full vengeance!”
Turning his attention back to Silver Wing, Echohawk placed his arm gently beneath him and lifted him from the snow and carried him to his horse. Tears filled his eyes when he saw how Silver Wing found that last ounce of strength to hold himself upright in the saddle. He would enter his village one last time as the great proud chief of his people. They would see him as the noble man that he was.
Echohawk eased onto the horse behind Chief Silver Wing and placed an arm around him and held him in place before him. Leaving behind enough braves to tend to the wounded, the others followed humbly behind their two chiefs.
Chapter 29
There is nothing held so dear as love,
if only it be hard to win.
—Ingelow
Mariah was cozy warm beside the fire, many pelts drawn up to her chin, but yet she could not sleep. She was feeling guilty for being safe and warm while Nee-kah was out there somewhere, perhaps dying in the snow, or at the hands of unmerciful abductors.
And Echohawk and Silver Wing!
Both were riding into the face of danger, perhaps instant death, should they find Nee-kah’s captors.
Unable to bear just lying there, so troubled by her fears for those she loved, Mariah smoothed the blankets and pelts aside and moved to her knees before the fire, wishing that she were with Echohawk, riding as boldly as his braves at his side.
Then she placed a hand to her abdomen, knowing that now, as never before, it was best to behave responsibly. If she were with child, she had to protect it at all cost. And she tended to think of the child as a boy—Echohawk’s son, the future leader of his people.
Her thoughts were catapulted back to the present when she heard the sound of an arriving horse outside, sounding as though it were nearer to Silver Wing’s wigwam then Echohawk’s. She grew tense when she heard people shouting Nee-kah’s name.
“Nee-kah?” Mariah said, rising quickly to her feet. “Have they found her? Has Echohawk returned safely?”
Having not taken off her dress before lying down, Mariah scrambled into her knee-high moccasins and snatched up her fur cloak, then rushed toward the entrance flap. Once she was outside, she fled over the short distance dividing Echohawk’s and Silver Wing’s villages, and was soon torn with feelings. She was joyous over seeing Nee-kah just being helped from a horse by a brave, yet troubled over not seeing Echohawk with her.
