When they sighted the village, Hazard gave instructions to Rising Wolf, terse, succinct instructions regarding Blaze, then readied himself. He rode down alone on his war pony.
He was visible from a long distance, coming down the grassy rolling rise east of the village. And he was watched. He was painted ocher from his hair to just below his eyes, the rest of his face was black with green stripes, while his chest and arms and legs were streaked with bright vermilion. Stripped as he was for battle to breechcloth and moccasins, the colors on his lean body were like an angry message vividly explicit in the golden rays of the setting sun.
All the specters that had haunted him on the swift ride east were gone. He was a warrior at war, on the attack and with the imminence of action, his mind settled as a resolute determination took over. He was riding in for his son.
They watched him as he slowly rode down. Armed, painted for war, displaying the courage of a spirit-god, his war pony was as splendid as he, the single war bridle feathered and tasseled with silver. Hazard was entering the first circle of lodges when a rising murmur from the crowd made him turn.
A golden palomino glittering in the hot orange sunset was being whipped down the grassy knoll. Flaming hair, vivid as liquid copper, flowed out in the wind be-hind the reckless rider. Hazard stopped Peta with a faint pressure of one knee and waited for his wife.
It was rash, foolhardy, a blind, headstrong bargain with the devil. But it was the Blaze he understood far more than the trembling, clinging version he'd seen a day ago. She was his wife and he calmly waited for her, surrounded on all sides by his lifelong enemies.
When she neared him the crowd parted, and when she pulled to a stop a foot shy of Peta, he smiled his welcome. They rode into the inner circle side by side, one dark and warlike, the other a flash and gleam of saffron beauty. Neither was surprised to see Yancy beside the Lakota chiefs. They dismounted.
Hazard addressed the chiefs, ignoring Yancy. His strong arms, braceleted at wrist and biceps with painted black bands signifying his grief, moved in an easy sweep of salutation. And then his slender hands rapidly spoke in the sign language common to all the Plains tribes. He told them he'd come for his son. He told them Yancy Strahan was a thief and a murderer. He told them he didn't intend to leave camp without his son.
And in a dramatic gesture, bringing gasps from the assembled crowd, he whipped Peta off.
The war pony didn't move at first, but turned to look at Hazard. Hazard had spent much time alone with his war horse. Peta had fought with him and fasted with him and knew his heart. The white men didn't believe a horse had a soul, but the Absarokee knew it to be true. Many times Hazard had seen Peta's soul in his eyes. And this day in the midst of the Lakota, Hazard knew Peta understood. "Go," he said softly to him. "You must."
Peta hesitated a second more, then whirled and galloped away.
Everyone knew Hazard intended to stand and die if necessary. It was rarely used—this act of courage taking precedence over all others and seen on rare occasions in a lifetime. It earned him unqualified respect and admiration. Enemies they may be, but courage, remarkable courage, was highly esteemed by all warrior codes.
Yancy indignantly spoke through his interpreter. He wanted no luster ascribed to Hazard, wanted his signature on the mine sale and then wanted him dead.
Hazard understood the English, of course, and caught much of the Lakota interpretation as well. Although Yancy was vigorously insisting, the Lakota chiefs were talking among themselves, weighing Yancy's payment of rifles against Hazard's valor. They understood abduction, the use of hostages, they dismissed Yancy's greed for the mine as white man's foolishness, but felt obligated to uphold the contract for the rifles.
As they argued, Hazard's optimism was bolstered. He'd known only an extraordinary audacity would weigh in his favor, and he'd played all his cards on the first round. And the longer they argued, the better chance he had of accomplishing his mission. He considered outbidding Yancy for his son's life but decided not only couldn't Yancy be trusted to uphold a bargain, but that approach would have served him ill in the eyes of his enemies.
"If things go wrong," Hazard murmured to Blaze standing beside him, "jump on your pony and try to whip your way out of here. Rising Wolf is watching you with the field glass. He and the others will fight through to your aid."
"If. Don't say that."
"I have to. Look for Rising Wolf. Remember!"
She didn't answer, reluctant to consider leaving without Hazard. Instead she asked, "What are they going to do? Yancy seems furious."
"Things might not go his way. They're arguing about it now. I'm going to offer a challenge," he said, his eyes on the chiefs' conversation. "If they accept, I'll try to have Trey brought out to you. The Lakota don't care about the mine; only Yancy does. So Trey as a hostage has become superfluous now that I'm here. If—he looked down at her, a world of love and regret in his glance,—"if I shout for you to go, do it. Take Trey and whip the hell out of that pony."
"Jon, no—"
"Don't hesitate. Not for anything." Horror drained the color from her face. "I won't say it unless I have to." And he knew if he had to say it, for him it would be over.
"Now promise me," he insisted. "I have to know you and Trey have a chance. That you'll take that chance. No false heroics on your part; it won't save me. If I tell you to go, go. Now say yes, they're about done with the wrangling." He touched her hand, cupping her fingertips lightly for a moment.
"You're asking me to—"
"Good God, bia, do you think I'd ask if there was a choice? Please, think of Trey. He's the future. You can give me that." Sober, he watched her with bleak gravity.
Blaze nodded, curling her fingers around his and holding him fiercely. "Damn, it's not fair. Just shoot Yancy. He's the cause of every misery in our lives."
"The rules don't work that way here."
"I want you and I want Trey—both."
"I know, princess," Hazard said softly, "but if fortune turns, I don't want you and Trey dying without trying to get out. Just try—that's all I ask."
She couldn't speak, suffocating with an impotent sadness that silently questioned why people like Yancy existed.
"Now, say a prayer for my diplomacy," Hazard said, squeezing her hand. "Here goes." And he gently disengaged his fingers.
Hazard offered to challenge any man in their tribe for the life of his son—with any weapons, and with an added codicil. If he won, he wanted Yancy. Not handed over to him, not unfairly. He'd fight him as well, one on one.
He heard Yancy reject the offer when the interpreter explained. Hazard saw the papers Yancy drew out, the ones he wanted Hazard to sign. But papers were worthless as arguments with a direct challenge in the air tossed like a gauntlet waiting to be picked up. It was a matter of honor. And if Yancy didn't accept the challenge, his credibility would be wiped away.
So it was agreed.
Then Hazard began the delicate negotiations to have his son brought out. Thirty nerveracking, cautious, sensitive, cool, and tactful minutes later, Trey was placed in his mother's arms. He took a moment to greet his son and silently say his goodbye should the spirits choose this day to desert him. Laying his large palm gently on the baby's downy head, he spoke in a soft whisper to his child. Silver eyes looked up at the familiar touch and recognized his father through the ocher paint and green stripes slashing the symmetry of his face. Feather lashes fluttered and his tiny mouth curved into a lingering smile. His father smiled back at him and whispered one last word, then his muscled arm, streaked with vermilion and braceleted with black, fell. He murmured to the flame-haired woman as tears sprang to her eyes, and then he walked out into the center of the space cleared for combat.
Hazard knew, as he stood there, that before him lay the ultimate test of all his accomplishments as a warrior: his skill and courage and cultivated knowledge of killing. But first, the Lakota champion. Holding no personal grudge like Yancy, the chiefs had decided on a wrestling match between Hazard and their favorite. It was enough to test him, and who won or lost mattered less to them than the prospect of entertainment. They had no vested interest in the child or the enmity between the white man and the Absarokee chief. Their concern was the wagonload of rifles, and with casual disinterest in the outcome, they had honorably respected the limits of their contract with Yancy Strahan.
Opposite Hazard waited the Lakota warrior chosen to represent the tribe. He stood, loosely bent, a man bigger and more solid than Hazard, his braided hair tied back, his muscular body oiled.
The circling began slowly, both men narrow-eyed, crouching, advancing in progressively smaller arcs. Then, like a snake striking, the Lakota lunged and caught Hazard in a death vise. The steel embrace locked and then pressed, and Hazard was lifted into the air like a trapped animal. Blaze looked away, her face gone white.
Hazard was fresh yet and before his breath was choked from his lungs launched his knee upward with all his strength. You could hear the impact of the blow. A smaller man would have fallen, but the Lakota grunted and stumbled, easing his grasp enough for Hazard to break free. Or half-free, for as he twisted away the Lakota's splayed right hand dug into Hazard's shoulder and managed to slow him enough to gain a hold. As he slammed into him, they both fell flat on the ground, Hazard underneath. The crowd murmured its approval; a hubbub of talk circled the area.
Hazard's legs were free and, drawing in a breath, he heaved his weight up, taking all the force of the drive on his thrusting legs. The dead weight atop him barely moved, but twisting under the slight lift, Hazard's hand flung out and wrenched hard on the coiled braids. The Lakota emitted a thick roar, and Hazard flung himself free. One fall. No pin.
In utter silence they faced each other again and this time the Lakota came at him with great speed, an out-thrust thumb aiming straight for Hazard's eye. Hazard's head jerked aside to protect himself, and this time the Lakota filled his hand with Hazard's hair and pulled him to the ground. Hazard landed on his knees, his outstretched hands catching his face only a hairbreadth from the dirt, and the Lakota was on top of him, trapping him in a classic hold. Hazard knelt on the packed dirt, breathing in fast, gasping breaths, setting his muscles in an attempt to hold off the grinding effort to press him into the ground. The pressure mounted breath by breath, the heavy body atop him crushing him downward, the Lakota's sweat dripping past his face. As the leverage increased, Hazard began slowly inching his hand toward the moccasined foot planted like a post near his knee.
He touched it, wrenched his body toward it with his last ounce of strength, and with a grunt, grasped, twisted, and heaved so the Lakota rose, turning in the air, and fell crashing to the ground. His head bounced once hard and a second time lightly, and then he was still.
With well-bred passivity, the crowd absorbed the shock.
Blaze turned her eyes around at the stifled silence and saw Hazard swaying slightly, coming to his feet… but alive… and, her spirits quaking, she managed a tentative breath of relief. His eyes searched the crowd for her and, finding her, he favored her with a flickering smile.
Now for Yancy. More intent on murder, he had chosen knives as their weapon. Silently, Hazard welcomed the choice.
Hazard's body was glistening with sweat, and now he held a knife in his hands. It felt slippery in his grasp, but solid and comforting on this, his day of reckoning. He glanced at Blaze, a hurried half-glance to see that she and Trey were still safe. Flexing his knees on a deep inhalation of breath, he relaxed for a moment and thought: Now he'd test Yancy's spine, if he had one. Balancing the knife, a reassuringly familiar gesture, he swept the sweat from his eyes with his free hand and moved into the offensive.
It was as though he'd waited for this moment all his life, as if the time had come to claim some small share of satisfaction from those who would take his land, his wife, his child and future. As if Yancy represented all the greed and stupidity that was forever altering his and his people's world.
But Yancy hadn't survived so long in the aggressive world without developing some properties of self-defense; he was fit, hardy, and a shade more ruthless than most. His massive sandy head sat squarely on broad shoulders, and he was braced on legs sturdy as tree trunks. "I'll take her home with me after you're dead," he snarled, "to share a bed with her mother and me." His eyes were filled with hate, but they met only a chill, dark glance and open contempt.