Chapter One
There’s heaven above, and night by night,
I look right through its gorgeous roof;
No suns and moons though e’er so bright,
Avail to stop me; splendor-proof.
—Robert Browning
Kansas, l849
A slow fire burned in the fire pit of the large, cone-shaped council house, the smoke spiraling slowly upward through the smoke hole overhead. Two Eagles, a young chief of twenty-five winters, of the Eagle band of the Wichita tribe, sat in council with his warriors, making plans to go help his ailing uncle Short Robe escape from Fort Hope.
As his warriors obediently watched and listened, it was evident that their chief would tower in height over most of his band, as well as his enemies.
His bronzed, muscled body was clad today in only a breechclout. His face was sculpted, with a small slash of a scar beneath his lower lip. He had flashing dark eyes, and his long, sleek, black hair hung down to his waist.
Today he wore a beaded headband that held his hair in place; a lone eagle feather was hanging from a coil of his hair, at one side.
He sat comfortably on a thick cougar pelt.
“My warriors, as you know, several days ago my uncle Short Robe was abducted while praying alone at his private place of prayer,” he said tightly. His dark eyes glittered at his warriors, who were sitting cross-legged before him.
Two Eagles was attuned to all emotions around him. As a person of solitude may sense the feelings of others without their speaking, Two Eagles sensed his world, like the deer that lifts its head quickly from feeding on rich grass, sensing the invisible approach of danger from warnings that come clear and sharp as a clap of thunder.
“Only a short while ago did I discover who took my uncle, and why,” Two Eagles continued. “Our scout, Gray Wing, came to me with the sad news that it was pony soldiers who wrongly took my uncle.”
He paused as gasps of horror filled the council house, now that everyone finally knew the truth of Short Robe’s disappearance.
“Ho, yes, it is with much sadness that I report this to you today,” Two Eagles said solemnly. “The pony soldiers thought they were stealing away my father, our chief, for his brother looked so much like him. But in reality, my father, Chief Moon Thunder, was dying. Now that he has been buried, it is my plan to attack the fort today and bring my elderly uncle back to his home.”
The Wichita did not choose a chief through heredity alone. A chief’s son must show not only marked ability to lead, but must also win the love and respect of all members of his band by acts of generosity and kindness. Two Eagles had done both during his father’s time as chief.
It had not taken a second thought for the band to accept Two Eagles as their chief upon the death of his father.
A shout from outside the large tepee now caused Two Eagles to look quickly toward the closed entrance flap.
He stiffened when the person shouted that a small contingent of pony soldiers had been seen approaching in the distance. And someone was walking behind them, being led by a rope.
Two Eagles l
eapt to his feet and hurried outside to see his sentry, Running Wolf, dismounting from his steed a few feet away.
“My chief,” Running Wolf said breathlessly. “Pony soldiers from Fort Hope are approaching. Short Robe is with them. He is shackled and being led by a rope behind the soldiers. But we cannot attack them in order to rescue your uncle, for there are many more soldiers visible along the horizon, watching and waiting to see if you and our warriors will start a fight.”
Two Eagles’s heart raced, for it was hard to imagine his uncle being treated so inhumanely. Yet for now, Two Eagles could not do anything about it. The pony soldiers were apparently just waiting for him to make the wrong move, so they would have an excuse to attack his village and kill everyone.
He kneaded his brow, puzzled as to why the soldiers were returning his uncle at all.
There could be only one reason: Surely they hoped to antagonize Two Eagles into a fight.
So he must keep control of his anger until his uncle was safely home. Afterward, those at Fort Hope would be sorry for having done his people wrong. Up until now, to protect his people from attack by the pony soldiers, Two Eagles had practiced restraint, as had his chieftain father.
But this was too much.
The white eyes had gone too far!
They must pay. And . . . they . . . would.
In the meantime, Two Eagles was relieved to know that his uncle was still alive, for he had been afraid that once the soldiers discovered their error, they would kill him. They had already dishonored another Wichita band by beheading their chief . . . Chief Night Horse, whose son Proud Wind was now chief. Proud Wind was also Two Eagles’s best friend.