from his long, brown fingers. “Teachers, missionaries, dogooders of every damned kind! You’re as bad as the army—no, worse! They only kill our bodies! You kill our spirits, our traditions, our pride!” The wind caught the cloak, swirling it high just before he flung it into the dust at Miranda’s feet.
“Pride?” She made no move to bend and pick it up, even though the cold was cutting like a knife through the thin serge of her suit jacket. “Will pride keep an old woman from freezing? Will pride keep a young child with an empty belly from crying in the night?”
For the space of a long, tense breath he glared at her. Then, without a word, he reached up and worked the opening of his own thick woolen poncho over his head. Bending down from his imposing six-foot height, he wrapped the poncho around the old woman’s shivering body. When he spoke to her in Navajo his voice was low, almost melodious. Miranda found herself straining her ears to catch the odd, birdlike tones of a language she was hearing for the first time. But he spoke only a few phrases. Then he lifted his head and glared at her with hate-filled eyes.
“We take care of our own,” he said in an icy voice, “and we would rather steal than beg. We don’t need your kind here. Get in that wagon and go back to where you came from, bilagáana woman! If you want to help us, write to your president in Washington and tell him to let the Diné go home to their own land!”
Miranda’s attention had been fixed on the old woman and the tall Navajo. She did not realize, until the first one spoke, that two of the outriders had dismounted and come up behind her.
“I’d watch my mouth if I was you, Ahkeah,” one of the men drawled. “This here ain’t no Bible-thumpin’ missionary lady. This is the major’s own daughter, come to pay her pa a visit.”
The revelation seemed to make no difference to the man the soldier had called Ahkeah. He stood his ground, the wind whipping his faded cotton tunic against his lean, hard body. Only by chance did Miranda notice that his hand had moved to rest protectively on old Sally’s humped shoulders.
“I say this uppity Injun ought to apologize to Miz Howell here and now.” The second outrider gripped his rifle, his swaggering stance challenging the unarmed Navajo to defy him. “Go ahead, Ahkeah, we’re all waitin’.”
Tension hung dark and leaden on the wintry air. In the wagon, the corporal slipped his rifle bolt into fully cocked position. The faint click splintered the icy silence, but no one else moved. Even the mules seemed to be watching, waiting, their white breath steaming from their distended nostrils.
Miranda had forgotten the cold wind that knifed through her clothing. She had almost forgotten to breathe. Her eyes were on Ahkeah. He had stepped in front of the old woman, shielding her with his body as he faced the soldiers. Under different circumstances his size and strength would have been more than a match for any two of them. But here and now the odds were nine against one, and all the cavalrymen were armed.
The Navajo’s flinty eyes narrowed like a puma’s as he measured his enemies. The man was proud, but no fool, Miranda surmised. He would choose his battles, and this was neither the time nor the place to take a stand. His throat rippled lightly as he swallowed, then spoke.
“My apologies, Miss Howell.” His voice dripped contempt. “In the future, kindly save your charity for those who appreciate it. Please enjoy your visit to this fair country.”
Without another word he turned a defiant back on the soldiers, and, shepherding the old woman before him, strode toward his emaciated horse.
“Not so fast!” the first outrider snapped. “If that was an apology, I’m the king of France, you smart-mouthed redskin bastard. Come on back here and say it like you mean it, or somebody’s gonna be pickin’ lead out of your backside!”
Ahkeah turned only when the second man cocked his rifle. His eyes glittered like black ice in the twilight. “I’m unarmed and here under treaty,” he said, his cold, flat voice implying that any soldier’s firing on a defenseless Navajo would raise a cry that would be heard all the way to Washington.
“Piss on the treaty,” the soldier growled. “I’ve shot plenty of your kind, Ahkeah. Too many for a piece of paper to make a dime’s worth of difference. Now, do you want to apologize to the lady again or do I pull this trigger and blow your stubborn head off?”
“This is ridiculous!” Miranda flung herself between the two antagonists. “No one is going to shoot anybody, Private. Now get back on your horse and let this man take his poor old aunt home.”
Distracted by her outburst, Ahkeah did not see what was coming next—nor did Miranda, until she heard the sickening thunk of a rifle butt against flesh and bone. The tall Navajo crumpled to the earth, felled by a third soldier, who had crept up behind him. He lay sprawled on his face, the blood seeping from his shattered temple onto the frozen ground.
Chapter Two
The old woman was first to reach the fallen Navajo. She crouched over him, pawing at his face with her hands and making the frightened little mewling noises. As Miranda approached, she scuttled backward and, still wearing the poncho he’d flung around her shoulders, vanished into the swirling darkness.
“Son of a bitch!” the private swore, jerking his rifle bolt back into safety position. “What’d you go and clobber him for, McCoy? That Ahkeah’s been nothin’ but trouble since the day he come in! Always stirrin’ things up! I coulda shot the bastard and been rid of him once and for all!”
“I did it to save your fool hide,” the other man retorted. “Pull the trigger on a Navajo, with so many government bigwigs snoopin’ ’round here, and your ass would be in a sling for the next twenty years! You’ll thank me for it once you simmer down.”
“Maybe.” The private wiped his runny nose with the back of his hand. “Come on, let’s get outa here. With luck, the bastard won’t even remember what hit him when he wakes up.” He spun on his heel and strode back toward his horse.
“Wait!” Miranda had dropped to the ground beside Ahkeah. Her urgent fingers probed his neck, groping for signs of life. Beneath her touch the Navajo’s skin was as cool and smooth as ivory, stretching taut over ropy cords of muscle and sinew. Pressing deeper, she found his pulse. The beat was thready and erratic. She remembered the sound of the blow, the crack of bone. Dread tightened like a clenched fist around her heart.
She crouched lower, laying her ear against his back to catch the labored rise and fall of his breathing. The aroma of mesquite smoke rose from his threadbare tunic, lingering at the edge of her awareness. Why should she care about this man? she found herself wondering. He was a stranger, almost an enemy, and he had spoken to her as if she were a troublesome child.
The rifle butt had struck just above his temple. She fingered the wound, felt the swelling flesh and the wetness of blood. “We can’t leave him here,” she announced to the soldiers. “Help me get him into the wagon.”
None of the men moved. “He’s just an Injun, miss,” the wagon driver said. “Injuns got hard heads. Afore long, this ’un will wake up sore and stumble on home.”
“And what if he doesn’t wake up?” Miranda flared. “There’s a storm blowing in! If you refuse to take him and he freezes or dies of his injuries out here, I’ll hold every last one of you accountable! Every newspaper and congressman in the country will hear about how you struck down an unarmed Indian and left him to die!”
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