She lay back again, her cheek against his chest. So trustingly. He stared at the canvas ceiling, entirely frustrated.
“Monsters,” she murmured, falling back asleep. Her fingers moved over the bare flesh of his chest. He bit back a groan.
They’d be home soon. Back to Mayfair. He’d be in complete control there. She’d be safe from Crow attacks.
He wondered why he had the feeling that monsters just might follow them anyway.
The actual meeting was to take place some distance from where they had camped.
The site had been chosen by two of the major Indian reservations, so that all traveled the same distance and none of the major chiefs would be insulted.
Seated upon Nutmeg, at a place somewhat back from where the action was to take place, Skylar watched as the meeting formed. She had seen the Indians, of course. Seen them all day. Walking and riding along the hills above the valley, some sitting as if they, too, had come to observe and awaited the spectacle of the day.
But then, as the United States commissioners and their army guard along with their Indian scouts set out and waited before their command tent, the warriors began to arrive in earnest.
The sun was high in the sky. It was noon.
They came out of the hills, and though they frightened her, they were a fantastic display. Their ponies raced, churning up dirt and dust and earth and grass. They galloped, reared, cantered, the first chief leading his men, perhaps a party of two hundred, down a sloping hill.
They whooped and cried out. Their voices rose in a tremolo. They burst down upon the waiting commissioners, circling them in a dramatic, awesome, terrifying display. They took their places before the commissioners. Their chief dismounted from his horse and came forward, taking his place.
Then the next group rode down from the hills. Then the next, and the next. The riders were magnificent. Some more heavily clothed, some nearly naked. They wore feathers in their long dark hair, some with one or a few feathers, some withbeautiful bedecked, long, glorious bonnets. They were incredibly disciplined in their display. And when they had all congregated before the commissioners, there were thousands of them.
They called out, shouted, raised their weapons, shook their fists.
“Think we may have trouble?” Hawk asked Sloan.
Sloan shrugged, his dark eyes slanting toward Skylar. He smiled. Shook his head.
“Not even two hundred whites. Thousands of Indians. Why would there be trouble?” she asked sweetly.
Hawk looked out over the assembly. “They know what will happen if they slaughter these commissioners and the army officers.”
“A lot of innocent men will die,” Skylar murmured.
“The whole army would come after them, with the complete blessing of every citizen in the United States. So far, there are still those back home who frown on the wholesale slaughter of native peoples in the pursuit of Manifest Destiny,” Hawk said coolly.
“Red Cloud is getting ready to speak,” Sloan said.
A warrior, dark and leathered from his life in the sun, yet with a strong, dignified bearing, stood before them all. Yet before he could begin to speak, it seemed that the crowd of Indians began to undulate, breaking apart, giving way. Skylar heard a screech rising high on the wind. She turned from Red Cloud to see that another man was racing into the crowd. She thought that she knew him. He was the one they had called Little-Big-Man—he had been one of the warriors who had ridden with her husband against the Crow when they had rescued her that night. He was completely naked upon his pony except for a small breechclout and the war bonnet he wore, created of feathers, streaming like a banner in the wind as he burst his waythrough the Indians, past Red Cloud, to the open space before the commissioners. He carried a rifle and lifted it high, shouting.
“What’s he saying?” Skylar asked anxiously. She could see that the Indians were growing restless. A low sound was building among the warriors as they talked among themselves.
They didn’t answer her. Hawk, Sloan, and Willow had grown very tense as they listened. Now they mounted their horses and flanked her.
“What—?”
Willow, at her husband’s side, gave her the answer. “He says that he has come to kill the white men who are stealing Indian lands.”
Skylar clamped her hand over her mouth, silencing a scream, as she saw the warrior take aim at one of the white commissioners. But he never fired a shot. Young-Man-Afraid, a warrior who had joined with the agency Indians, rode through the crowd with a small group of his Indian police behind him. He spoke very quickly, disarming Little-Big-Man before the indignant warrior could fire at anyone.
“Thank God!” Skylar breathed.
“Trouble,” Sloan said softly.
“But—”
Hawk had suddenly turned in the saddle to Willow. “Stay with Skylar,” he said.
