Wild Rapture

“Injuns?” he said, panic rising inside him.

He ran down the steps to the lower floor, then from the house, frantically waving his hands. “My daughter’s gone!” he shouted, drawing men from their bunks. “Saddle up! We’ve got to find her!”

Chapter 5

More firm and sure the hand of courage strikes,

When it obeys the watchful eye of caution.

—Thomson

Autumn’s warming rays filtering down through the stands of hemlock and spruce were welcome as Mariah awakened from a night of bone-chilling temperatures. She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand as she slowly rose to a sitting position beside the creek, trying to organize, think logically, slowly recalling what had happened. She had braved the raging waters of the swollen creek, but had lost the battle, it seemed. She had been thrown from her horse, her beloved mustang having then been carried away in the current. She had been momentarily stunned, and then had discovered that she had been too tired to travel onward by foot. She had not meant to, but she had slept all night!

Her parched lips drew her eyes to the creek, its waters having receded. Crawling to the embankment, she cupped her hands and lowered them into the water for a drink, then winced when she caught her reflection in the shine of the water. She hardly recognized herself! Her face was covered with mud, also her hair was tangled with its muck and mire.

She glanced down at her clothes, seeing that they were no better off. They were stiff with dried mud.

The crunching of leaves behind Mariah made her turn her head in a jerk to see what had made the sound, again feeling her helplessness since she had no rifle for protection.

But she was soon relieved and rose slowly to her feet when she found only an Indian maiden standing there gazing down at her, instead of a fierce brave. And wasn’t the Indian maiden lovely with her eyes of a deep, deep brown, her braided waist-length hair even darker than her eyes?

Mariah’s gaze traveled over the maiden, seeing that she was attired in a long-sleeved buckskin dress, tightly drawn over her stomach, revealing that she might be with child. She also wore a lovely blue tunic beaded in a leaf-and-flower design, an

d knee-high moccasins.

Mariah did not even feel threatened when she realized that the maiden’s one hand was on a sheathed knife at her waist, her other hand clutching a basket filled with what appeared to be an assortment of wild herbs, apparently picked from the forest bed. There was too much kindness in the gentle features of the maiden’s face for her to use the knife against Mariah—a person quite visibly without weapons.

“I am nee-gee, a friend,” Mariah said softly, so glad that her father had taught her enough of the Chippewa language to get by.

She then tried to reach the beautiful maiden in her own tongue, knowing that most Indians in this region knew the English language well enough, since they traded with the white people at Fort Snelling. “I am a friend in need of help. Can you offer me assistance? I no longer have a way to travel to Fort Snelling, my destination. My horse lost its footing and threw me, then was swept away in the swift current.”

Still the maiden did not speak, seeming to be taking her time to come to a decision about Mariah, about whether she spoke the truth or lied.

Then Mariah became wary herself. “Are you Chippewa or Sioux?” she asked, her voice revealing her wariness. She feared the Sioux. They had not made peace with the white people as readily as had the Chippewa.

To Mariah’s relief, the maiden finally spoke.

“Nee-kah is Chippewa.” Her eyes roved over Mariah, then locked eyes with her. “Your name?”

Mariah stiffened, afraid to reveal her name to Nee-kah, unsure of whether or not the news had spread of her father’s attack on Echohawk’s village, and her part in it.

Nee-kah’s eyebrows lifted, finding it strange that this white lad who had been so talkative before now chose to be quiet.

But she could not delay returning to her village any longer by playing word games with the lad. She had left only long enough to find the herbs necessary for Echohawk’s healing. He had become fevered and now awaited her return.

Through the night she had become concerned about this temperature that had risen so quickly, seeming to rob him of his senses. She was frightened over this, for the white man’s attack had not only taken away most of his eyesight but also could perhaps eventually cost him his life.

“Mah-bee-szhon, come,” Nee-kah said. “White boy, you will go with me to my village. Chief Silver Wing will decide what then will become of you.”

Mariah fell into step beside Nee-kah, through woods mixed with meadow, the pine forest crowding up to the shore of the land. She was relieved that the maiden had not demanded a name, yet feared being taken to a powerful Chippewa chief, especially since she had been part of a Chippewa massacre only yesterday.

And she did not know if she should correct Nee-kah’s mistaking her for a boy and tell her that she was a young woman, like herself.

She quickly decided that revealing too many truths at this time could be dangerous.

Especially claiming the name “Temple” in these parts now could possibly be her death decree.

She set her jaw angrily when she thought of her father. He had not taken into consideration the outcome of his decision to slay many Chippewa yesterday, when there were other villages of Chippewa in the area who could avenge their fallen comrades!