Shaman Part 131

"Yes, hurt much," said Redbird softly, watching the rutted dirt road pa.s.s under the wheels of the buggy.

But Yellow Hair pressed her. How could White Bear tear himself away from the Sauk?

"Pale eyes family now his people."

But his son--how could he give up his son?

Redbird struggled to find words and gestures to explain this. "Maybe some day White Bear come for Eagle Feather, like Star Arrow once come for White Bear." She remembered how White Bear had wept when Sun Woman told him he must go to live with the pale eyes. "That day, I not say Eagle Feather must go or must not go. Eagle Feather do what he want."

Yellow Hair shook her head, her braids las.h.i.+ng. She repeated over and over again an English word Redbird understood, but it asked a question she could never answer.

"_Why?_"

Again Redbird wrestled with the English words. "Land of his father and grandfather holds him. He not want to leave."

But what about the uncle who nearly killed him?

"That uncle no more trouble," said Redbird.

_And because of that, I must lose him._

Then when would Redbird see White Bear again? Yellow Hair's question buried itself in Redbird's heart like a steel arrowhead.

"Never!" she screamed.

Yellow Hair shrank back, her eyes wide with shock. Redbird sighed and let her body droop.

They drove on in silence. Redbird heard small sounds beside her that told her Yellow Hair was weeping.

Redbird reached over and took Yellow Hair's hand.

"Make him happy."

Yellow Hair uttered a sob and turned her head away.

But Redbird was no longer crying. Dry-eyed, she stared ahead at the road south. Her sorrow was too deep for tears.

26

Blood on the Land

Raoul Francois Philippe Charles de Marion woke trembling in damp blackness, wondering whether it was day or night outside. His heart was beating so hard that it ached. For a moment he couldn't think what had scared him so badly. Then he remembered the dream.

He struggled out of the old blanket he'd wrapped around himself and sat up, panting.

A white bear coming at him down here in the mine. Why in h.e.l.l would he dream about a creature like that? There were white bears up in Canada, he'd heard, but he'd never even seen one.

White Bear--that was Auguste's Indian name. Was he dreaming about Auguste coming after him?

_Well, Auguste is rotting in the ground now. I killed him._

He still hated Auguste even after his death. Because of Auguste he had to stay holed up here, blackness pressing on his eyeb.a.l.l.s. His eyes were wide open and he stared till they hurt, but he could see nothing, nothing at all. It was like being blind.

He wished he had told just one of his men where to find him. He badly wanted news of what was going on back at Victor. But if he'd told anyone it would have been Armand, and he couldn't trust the b.a.s.t.a.r.d. Armand might stupidly let himself be followed here. Or give way to threats, or even sell him out, if Papa offered a big enough reward.

_Armand would. Sure he would. I could see in his eyes how he resented me. He hated Pierre and he hated me too._

Raoul only had two candles left. Should he light one now? He could spare it, because he was going to get out of this mine today--or tonight. He'd waited long enough.

He wasn't sure anymore how long he'd been hiding down here in the dark.

When he slept, he had no idea how long he slept. A watch was one of the many things he had forgotten to bring with him, leaving in such a hurry.

And yet he'd stupidly brought the silver case with Pierre's spectacles in it. Stuck it in his pocket when he left the trading post to get the mongrel. He felt it now, a hard oval in his coat pocket.

How long?

The men pursuing him had searched the mine, as he figured they would.

Days had pa.s.sed, he was sure, since he'd heard their voices in the mine, footsteps echoing. He was certain he was the only man in Victor who knew about the tunnel he was hiding in, its entrance, just big enough to crawl through, covered by a pile of gravel that appeared to have nothing but wall behind it. He'd tried to disturb the gravel as little as possible while crawling in, and had carefully replaced what he'd pushed aside.

But he might have left some trace on the other side. He'd sat in the blackness, waiting to hear the sounds of digging, his back pressed against the damp rock wall, knees drawn up to his chin. His hands, cold as if they'd been plunged into a snowdrift, had rested on his loaded rifle and his pistol. And he'd drawn his Bowie knife and laid it beside him. They'd pay dearly to take him. If there were no more than four or five of them, he might manage to kill them all and get away.

But the sounds of the search party had faded away. He'd welcomed the black cotton silence that had followed. He would stay down here as long as he could. He'd found a place in his tunnel where underground water had seeped in, and was able to keep refilling his canteen from that. He found another small branch tunnel some distance from where he slept, where he could p.i.s.s and s.h.i.+t. But he'd come into the mine with only six candles, and he was afraid to use them up, so he spent most of the time sitting in the dark feeling as if he was going mad with alternating worry and boredom.

He had brought his canteen of whiskey down here with him, and it had made time pa.s.s easier for a while. But now it was all gone. Seemed like a h.e.l.l of a long time since he'd had a drink.

He made a flame with flint, steel and cotton wool, lit his next to last candle and set it in a pool of its own wax. The light hurt his eyes for a moment, and the sight of his own shadow moving on the dark gray rock walls frightened him.

His hollow belly kept squealing and grumbling, and visions of beef and turkey and duck and pork tormented him. Out of one of his saddlebags he took the bundle of corn biscuits and dried beef he'd thrown together at the trading post in his flight. He bit into a biscuit as hard and dry as a lump of wood and rolled it around in his mouth until his saliva softened it enough to chew and swallow.

Now he'd go up to the mine entrance, and if it was nighttime he'd leave.

The Flemings had their cabin about a mile from here. Their men had joined the Regulators, so they deserved to have him take a horse from them. Then he'd ride north to Galena.

He hefted the other saddlebag, loaded with gold and silver coins and Bank of Illinois paper. He'd had to leave a lot behind in his office safe, and they'd probably steal it from him. But he'd get it all back.

Because this was enough to buy him an army.

Galena would be crowded with the roughest men in the Northwest Territory right now. Surely more men than could make a living in the mines around there, boom or no boom. Rough and hungry, just what he needed.

_I'll yet see that high-and-mighty Cooper swinging from a tree. And I'll p.i.s.s on Auguste's grave._

He bit into a slice of dried beef. It was tough as rawhide, but he forced it down.

_When I'm running things in Smith County again, Nicole and Frank and that pack of squalling brats are leaving. I've put up with Frank and his d.a.m.ned newspaper long enough, just because he's married to my sister._

If Frank gave any trouble, his new press, the one Papa helped him buy, would end up at the bottom of the Mississippi. Or maybe he'd even be Cooper's dancing partner on that tree.