Winter's Touch by Janis Reams Hudson

the only answer. “It is on your head if Winter Fawn is dead. We should have killed the white man yesterday. But no, you wanted to smoke, you wanted to consider .” He whirled to face the warriors who had gathered. “I go after Winter Fawn. Do I ride alone?”
    “No,” Two Feather’s said vehemently. “I ride with you. We will get her back, my mother. We will not rest until we find her.”
    “But if her father is gone too,” said Deer Stalker, Winter Fawn’s grandfather, “she may have gone willingly.”
    “No.” Two Feathers shook his head. “She was unconscious and bloody. She was limp in the white man’s arms. Red Beard would never have hurt her, nor would he allow anyone else to hurt her. You know how fond he is of the girl.”
    Deer Stalker nodded gravely. “You speak the truth, my son. Maybe Red Beard woke in the night and discovered them gone. Perhaps even now he and Hunter—for he is gone, too—are trailing the white man to get Winter Fawn back.”
    Let them think that, Crooked Oak thought. When he caught them, there would be no one left alive to say differently. No one but Winter Fawn, but he knew how to guarantee her silence.
    “Let us ride,” he cried. “We will catch up with Red Beard and help him find his daughter.”
    “Let us ride,” shouted Long Chin.
    “Let us avenge this deed,” cried Spotted Calf.
    The cry went up, and dog soldiers gathered their weapons. The same six who had ridden out for revenge only the previous morning thundered out of camp within the hour. Crooked Oak led them, as he always did. The others, Two Feathers, Talks Loud, Long Chin, Red Bull, and Spotted Calf, would do his bidding. They would find Winter Fawn. They would kill the white man called Car-son. When Red Beard was accidentally killed in the process, it would be considered a tragedy by some. Crooked Oak would secretly celebrate.
    He would have to keep his intentions about Red Beard to himself, however. Two Feathers did not like the man, but would never countenance harming him. He was foolish that way, Two Feathers was, letting such a hindrance as honor get in the way of what needed to be done. But Crooked Oak had been getting around his friend’s inconvenient streak of honor for years. This time would be no different.
    Carson woke to realize that sleep in no way mitigated the pain in the back of his head. If anything, it was worse. Innes’s snoring nearby did not help. Good God, the man was so loud, he might as well be shouting from the rim of the canyon to announce their presence.
    Before Carson could roll to his feet, intent on getting to Innes to nudge him awake, Hunter rushed in from outside and rolled his father onto his side. The snoring stopped instantly.
    “He was supposed to wake me to stand watch,” Carson said.
    “There was no need.”
    “You took my turn?”
    “Aye, and I’d best be gettin’ back to it.”
    When Carson rose, the wound in his side reminded him painfully of its presence. Refusing to favor it, he followed Hunter out of the cave. It was just past noon, with a cool breeze stirring the air. Birds chirped and flitted, darting back and forth from tree to tree. The only other sound was the rush and tumble of water over rock.
    They should leave soon. They couldn’t afford to lay low until dark. The trail last night had been bad enough, and they were still in the foothills. If they had to head higher, the mountains would be suicide in the dark.
    “Will you ever be able to go back?” Carson asked Hunter.
    The boy looked away toward the far rim. “I don’t know. Probably. One day.”
    “I’m sorry.” Carson said.
    “There is no need. I do not do this for you. I do it because it is important to my father.”
    Carson noted that the boy’s Scottish burr was absent now. “And your father is important to you.”
    Hunter cocked his head and looked at Carson. “Was your father not important to you?”
    “He was the most important person in my life. I would have done anything