Reckless Heart by Madeline Baker Page B

down and then beat him with their guns and fists.
    I could not comprehend such wanton cruelty, I had never hated anyone in my life, but I was hating now, fiercely—hating not only the white men who had assaulted Shadow, but the Indians who had murdered the Berdeens, and all the other intolerant people in the world as well.
    I was wasting time, too. Clucking to the stallion, I urged him down the bank and across the river. Once we cleared the woods, Red Wind lengthened his stride and the miles flew by until, away in the distance, I saw the conical hide lodges of the Northern Cheyenne.
    Apprehensive—now that I was so close—I reined the stallion to a walk and then to a halt, as the courage I had flaunted at home deserted me and fear took its place. Indians! Perhaps the very Indians that had killed the Berdeens. The same ones that had killed John Sanders and kidnapped Kathy. The same ones that had burned the Henrys out. I remembered the first day Shadow had brought me home, remembered my father’s words, “Don’t you realize you might have been killed? Or worse?” And my innocent reply, “What could be worse than being killed?”
    Well, I was older now, and I knew there were many things worse than death. There was hunger and pain and remorse. And surely death was a blessing compared to endless suffering, or the needless loss of a loved one. Wouldn’t I rather be dead than live without Shadow?
    Red Wind pulled impatiently against the reins, as if to remind me we had urgent business ahead. With an effort, I put my morbid thoughts aside and thought of Shadow. He was in pain, might be dying, and I was the only one who could help him. Squaring my shoulders, I touched Red Wind’s lathered flanks with my heels and the stallion moved out smartly, proud neck arched, ears pricked forward. He was a magnificent animal. Though we had come a long way in a short time, he moved tirelessly, his stride still long and powerful, his gait as smooth as a rocking chair. Shadow had told me once that it took months of patient training to produce a war horse like Red Wind. Indian men set a great store by their fighting horses, knowing that, in the heat of battle, the loyalty and stamina of their mounts often meant the difference between life and death. Prized horses like Red Wind were never turned out with the herd but were tethered in front of the warrior’s lodge, always handy in case of emergency. It was considered a great coup, Shadow said, to sneak into an enemy camp late at night and steal such a horse.
    Red Wind snorted and shook his head, ears twitching nervously from side to side, as we rode through a narrow swath of trees. Abruptly, two warriors materialized out of nowhere, and I screamed as they grabbed the stallion’s bridle. Too frightened to speak, I sat stiffly, trying to hide my fear, as they led us into the village.
    My first impression of the Indian camp was one of noise and confusion. Countless dogs barked and snarled at our approach. Half-naked children with straight black hair and shiny black eyes chased each other around the lodges, whooping shrilly as they darted in and out of the lanes. There was the soft cooing of a mother nursing her papoose, and the happy clatter of squaws as they stirred huge iron pots filled with strong-smelling soup. I saw long racks of meat drying in the sun, and an old woman beating the dust from a buffalo robe. I saw several hides stretched between cottonwood poles, and others pegged on the ground. Beyond the village proper a horse race was in progress.
    There was a sudden hush as we entered the village, and I felt every eye swing in my direction as the two warriors leading Red Wind halted before one of the largest and most elaborately decorated tepees.
    The Indian on my left gestured at the lodge. “This is the lodge of Two Hawks Flying,” he said in Cheyenne, prompting me to wonder how he knew I was interested in this particular lodge, but then I realized they had recognized Shadow’s