breast and panic nearly paralyzed her.
Mad Wolf was so immersed in his fantasies of Shannon and how he would subdue and possess her that he failed to hear the commotion outside the tipi or the sound of voices raised in excitement. Even Crow Woman seemed unaware of the disturbance, her jealousy making her oblivious to all but Mad Wolf’s obsession with the white woman.
“Leave us!” Mad Wolf snarled at Crow Woman, making a chopping motion toward the door. Slanting Shannon a malevolent glare, Crow Woman turned abruptly and left the tipi.
“No! Don’t go!” Shannon cried, stiff with terror. She didn’t understand what Mad Wolf said but when Crow Woman left, she knew. Oh yes, she knew, but she wasn’t going to submit meekly.
Eyeing the entrance of the tent in a speculative manner, Shannon came to a sudden decision. Gathering her courage, she bolted from the tipi, not caring where she went as long as it was far away from Mad Wolf. In her heart she knew she hadn’t a prayer of escaping Mad Wolf or leaving the village alive, yet Shannon ran—and ran—and ran straight into a massive bronze chest and a pair of arms that trapped her as effectively as steel bands. A ragged scream ripped from her throat.
Blade rode into the village a few hours behind Mad Wolf and Shannon. He knew exactly where Mad Wolf was headed. Having spent many happy years there with his mother and father, he knew the precise location of the village. The last rays of the waning sun reflected off the broad expanse of his pale bronze chest and his buckskin clad legs clung firmly to the back of his saddleless gray pony. His face was set in grim lines, his eyes dark and potent with determination.
The people watched curiously as Blade rode through the village, some hostile but most merely inquisitive. It had been ten years since anyone in the village had seen Swift Blade, and during those years his youthful form, though strong and powerful even then had matured into a finely tuned machine of muscle and brawn. He rode with the superb horsemanship of the Sioux, his body a part of the animal, his movements fluid and graceful. His carriage was proud, yet that part of him that was white was easily discernible in the light hue of his skin and slight wave to his thick black hair.
Suddenly a tall young man burst forth from the throng of people, his face wreathed in smiles. “Swift Blade!”
A wide grin parted Blade’s full lips as he brought one long leg over Warrior’s neck and slid from his broad back. Immediately one of the children sprinted forward to take the reins and lead the big gray away.
“It is good to see you again, Jumping Buffalo,” Blade greeted warmly. “It has been many moons.” The two men embraced, clasping forearms and pounding each other on the back.
“Your mother and grandfather have awaited your return.”
“How are they?”
Jumping Buffalo beamed. “Judge for yourself, they approach now.”
Leaving Chief Yellow Dog behind, Singing Rain’s face was radiantly alive and happy as she rushed toward her tall son. She had prayed daily to Wakan Takan for his safe return, and at long last her prayers had been answered. Blade held out his arms and Singing Rain was swept into her son’s brawny embrace.
“Mother,” he said with quiet dignity. “I am sorry about Father.”
With stoic Indian fatalism, Singing Rain said, “He died bravely, my son. He killed the grizzly, but his wounds proved fatal. He survived but a few hours.”
Yellow Dog reached Blade now, his faded eyes alight with fierce pride. “Welcome home, my grandson.
“Thank you, Grandfather,” Blade answered with warm regard. He loved this wise old man dearly.
“Have you come home to stay?”
“Is Mad Wolf here?” Blade asked, deliberately disregarding Yellow Dog’s question.
Yellow Dog and Singing Rain exchanged worried looks. “Why do you seek Mad Wolf?” Singing Rain asked cautiously.
“Mad Wolf has stolen my woman.”
“Your woman!” Singing Rain
Mad Wolf was so immersed in his fantasies of Shannon and how he would subdue and possess her that he failed to hear the commotion outside the tipi or the sound of voices raised in excitement. Even Crow Woman seemed unaware of the disturbance, her jealousy making her oblivious to all but Mad Wolf’s obsession with the white woman.
“Leave us!” Mad Wolf snarled at Crow Woman, making a chopping motion toward the door. Slanting Shannon a malevolent glare, Crow Woman turned abruptly and left the tipi.
“No! Don’t go!” Shannon cried, stiff with terror. She didn’t understand what Mad Wolf said but when Crow Woman left, she knew. Oh yes, she knew, but she wasn’t going to submit meekly.
Eyeing the entrance of the tent in a speculative manner, Shannon came to a sudden decision. Gathering her courage, she bolted from the tipi, not caring where she went as long as it was far away from Mad Wolf. In her heart she knew she hadn’t a prayer of escaping Mad Wolf or leaving the village alive, yet Shannon ran—and ran—and ran straight into a massive bronze chest and a pair of arms that trapped her as effectively as steel bands. A ragged scream ripped from her throat.
Blade rode into the village a few hours behind Mad Wolf and Shannon. He knew exactly where Mad Wolf was headed. Having spent many happy years there with his mother and father, he knew the precise location of the village. The last rays of the waning sun reflected off the broad expanse of his pale bronze chest and his buckskin clad legs clung firmly to the back of his saddleless gray pony. His face was set in grim lines, his eyes dark and potent with determination.
The people watched curiously as Blade rode through the village, some hostile but most merely inquisitive. It had been ten years since anyone in the village had seen Swift Blade, and during those years his youthful form, though strong and powerful even then had matured into a finely tuned machine of muscle and brawn. He rode with the superb horsemanship of the Sioux, his body a part of the animal, his movements fluid and graceful. His carriage was proud, yet that part of him that was white was easily discernible in the light hue of his skin and slight wave to his thick black hair.
Suddenly a tall young man burst forth from the throng of people, his face wreathed in smiles. “Swift Blade!”
A wide grin parted Blade’s full lips as he brought one long leg over Warrior’s neck and slid from his broad back. Immediately one of the children sprinted forward to take the reins and lead the big gray away.
“It is good to see you again, Jumping Buffalo,” Blade greeted warmly. “It has been many moons.” The two men embraced, clasping forearms and pounding each other on the back.
“Your mother and grandfather have awaited your return.”
“How are they?”
Jumping Buffalo beamed. “Judge for yourself, they approach now.”
Leaving Chief Yellow Dog behind, Singing Rain’s face was radiantly alive and happy as she rushed toward her tall son. She had prayed daily to Wakan Takan for his safe return, and at long last her prayers had been answered. Blade held out his arms and Singing Rain was swept into her son’s brawny embrace.
“Mother,” he said with quiet dignity. “I am sorry about Father.”
With stoic Indian fatalism, Singing Rain said, “He died bravely, my son. He killed the grizzly, but his wounds proved fatal. He survived but a few hours.”
Yellow Dog reached Blade now, his faded eyes alight with fierce pride. “Welcome home, my grandson.
“Thank you, Grandfather,” Blade answered with warm regard. He loved this wise old man dearly.
“Have you come home to stay?”
“Is Mad Wolf here?” Blade asked, deliberately disregarding Yellow Dog’s question.
Yellow Dog and Singing Rain exchanged worried looks. “Why do you seek Mad Wolf?” Singing Rain asked cautiously.
“Mad Wolf has stolen my woman.”
“Your woman!” Singing Rain
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