Trail of Darkness

By Carn Jensen

Ingrid Swanson is living at Fort Defiance, in the Arizona Territory, after her family was killed by Mexican bandits. The time is 1860. Chee Panther, a Navajo warrior is scouting this fort, newly built on Navajo land. He rescues lngrid from a brutal assault by a Ute Indian. Attracted to her golden haired beauty, he takes her to live with his clan in Canyon de Chelly. Fearful of becoming an Indian slave, Ingrid flees. Panther searches for and finds her severely injured by a flashflood. Although Panthers father, Headman Manuelito, is angry about the white woman being in the settlement again, he cannot fight his sons feelings for his Yucca Flower, Ingrids new name.
The gentleness and caring of this fierce warrior, the healing skills of his grandmother and two sisters, during her recovery, bonds Ingrid to a new family. Attraction blossoms into love, two cultures are united. Panther and Yucca Flower leave to live by themselves until a hunting injury to Panthers legs forces their return for help.
Kit Carson is ordered to lead the army to round up the Navajo. This is the only way to stop their interference with the expansion and settling of the Southwest. Panther leads the fight against Carson and his scorched earth policy with his wife at his side.
The odds are overwhelming. Carson invades Canyon de Chelly. The clan is captured, the settlement and crops burned. All are forced to join the mass of Navajo herded on the Long Walk to internment at Fort Sumner. lngrid is forced to rejoin the white world, but remains steadfast in her goal to find Panther. She connives to get to Fort Sumner where she searches among the several thousands of Navajo. His family is there, but Panther is not, Ingrid remains resolute that the love they shared will prevail. Somehow they will be reunited to live as Chee Panther and Yucca Flower.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Mar 27, 2009
• ISBN: 9781456724443

Carn Jensen

When Wisconsin born Carn Jensen went to Gallup, New Mexico to teach, it seemed as if she were in a new world. The beauty of the Southwestern vistas, the lure of ancient civilization sites and the proximity to a large area of the Navajo Nation was truly exciting. The need to express this developed a series of articles for her hometown newspaper. This was the beginning of her writing career. Her husband shared her enthusiasm, but after several years, family circumstances dictated their return to the Midwest. There, she continued writing as a publicist for an arts guild and as a girls sports reporter. Following the graduation of their third child from college, the remembered enchantment of the Southwest found an outlet in fiction writing. TRAIL OF DARKNESS is her first Native American historical and published work.

Book preview

Contents

AUTHOR’S NOTES

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 10

CHAPTER 11

CHAPTER 12

CHAPTER 13

CHAPTER 14

CHAPTER 15

CHAPTER 16

CHAPTER 17

CHAPTER 18

CHAPTER 19

CHAPTER 20

CHAPTER 21

CHAPTER 22

CHAPTER 23

CHAPTER 24

CHAPTER 25

CHAPTER 26

CHAPTER 27

CHAPTER 28

CHAPTER 29

CHAPTER 30

CHAPTER 31

CHAPTER 32

CHAPTER 33

CHAPTER 34

CHAPTER 35

CHAPTER 36

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

AUTHOR’S NOTES

Historically, the individualistic spirit of the Navajo or Dine` hindered any single person being chief to represent all of the tribe. Each clan or familial group had a headman. I have taken the liberty of using the renowned headman, Manuelito, as a central character. The other headmen mentioned in this book are recognized as wise and influential leaders.

During the four-year period of Fort Sumner’s use as an internment camp, there were several changes of personnel. Of them, Colonel George Sykes and Lieutenant William Calloway of the Army, the Indian Agents, Dodd and Labadie, have a part in this story. All of these men tried their best to structure the fort area for farming and procure adequate food and shelters. Their efforts were constantly thwarted by: political infighting, graft, a totally inadequate budget, callous Washington and territorial leaders, and very bad growing conditions. These problems were compounded by the unanticipated number of Navajos removed from their land through Kit Carson’s scorched earth methods

This book is a reprint of the 1998 edition of Trail of Darkness. This second publication has been done to reacquaint my readers with the Navajo history and the recurring characters of Chee Panther and Yucca Flower. In sequels to follow, their lives and experiences are portrayed against the backdrop of the tribe’s struggle to recover from the Long Walk and the progress to establish the present day sovereign Navajo Nation.

CHAPTER 1

Ingrid Swanson smothered a yawn as she threaded her way among the rows of wooden washtubs in the narrow corridor. A faint breeze stirred the strong smell of lye soap to mingle with the freshness of the desert morning. Many women were already vigorously at work. Their high-pitched voices and raucous laughter overrode the clipped orders of the drills being held on the parade ground of Fort Defiance. She quickened her step into a half run toward her washtub that was crowded into an airless corner of the washing area.

Getting a late start, ain’t ya? The abrasive voice of this day’s wash neighbor broke through Ingrid’s early morning stupor. She looked into a friendly face and smiled shyly.

I didn’t hear the night sentry come off duty. He usually yells at his replacement, Ingrid replied as she dumped an armful of uniforms into the tub. Oh! she exclaimed in surprise.

Yea, I filled yur tub. I’m Hattie Mulligan.

Thank you! How nice of you, Ingrid said, grateful for this unexpected show of kindness. She took off her shirtwaist and reached to hang it on a peg.

I thought you’d want some hot water before it was all used up. Well, I suppose we’d better get to scrubbing. She nodded at the tub. That’s quite a pile you have. The large, raw-boned woman whacked a hunk of soap on a blue trouser leg to emphasize her point. Say, ain’t you the Swanson gal they brought in a month back?"

Yes. Ingrid’s my first name.

It’s terrible about your folks and all. If it ain’t the Indians stirrin’ up trouble, it’s them Mexicans. Was it redskins? Ingrid acknowledged the kind, but nosey, overture while she soaped and rubbed several garments up and down on the ridges of the washboard. She knew the desert frontier isolation of Fort Defiance made any happening the subject of much discussion.

No, bandits, she answered. Mexicans. The woman wagged her head in sympathy.

The way I heared it, nothing was left of the wagon train. Terrible.

They were set on fire. All during Hattie’s questioning, Ingrid was growing increasingly aware of the sly, appraising glances of the two young sentries posted at the back of the laundry enclosure. Mrs. Mulligan continued her discourse unmindful of Ingrid’s silence.

I never thought when I hitched up with Thaddeus, that crazy Irishman of mine, I’d end up practically between Mexico and Californi. Hattie pushed her sleeves up high on her reddened, meaty arms. I pictured myself as a young belle attending military balls all decked out in hoop skirts, ruffles and bows. Her deep belly laugh was so infectious that Ingrid had to join in. What a pipe dream that was. Say, them clowns sure keep their eyes on you, don’t they?

Ingrid nodded and whispered, They watch me all the time. I can’t say anything because they’re my only customers. I need their money because I have to buy material to make a dress. Everything I had was burned. With a rough jerk, she yanked the scrub board higher against the tub and wiped her forehead saying, It’s hot already and there’s not a cloud in the sky. Ingrid bent to pull a red garment out of the water and dunked it in the suds several times before bringing it to the top of the board. A snort of laughter followed.

One of the sentries yelled out, Hey now, lookie thar! Them’s my drawers in such delicate hands. It makes me warm where the weather don’t reach.

Trying to ignore their annoying, gawking presence, Ingrid said to Hattie, I guess there is no sense fretting about the heat or this barren spot. It won’t change anything or bring back my mother, father and sister.

’Tis best you keep thinking that way, Hattie counseled.

I don’t have a choice, Ingrid said in a resigned voice. She fell to viciously pushing the heavy woolen underwear up and down. Today, as she had done each lonely day in the few weeks she’d been at the fort, Ingrid wondered about her fate. If in fact, her duty of watering the family’s animals at the time of the attack on the wagon train was that fortunate. Because she hid under water, she survived the carnage, but now was without a family and very much alone.

The sun burned into the top of her head making it ache. She shoved her heavy, long braid over her shoulder. I wish I had on one of the ugly sunbonnets my mother always insisted my sister and I wear. How we used to complain about them. She so wanted us to be ladies. Ha! She gave a short, bitter laugh. Look at me now.

Ingrid glanced down at the patches on her clothing and the scanty covering her chemise provided. She felt shame that she had to work without proper covering, but it was necessary to keep her blouse as fresh as possible. Her hands were puffed and red from the harsh soap. The silky, honey-blond hair, which had been brushed one hundred strokes each night from Missouri to Pointed Rock, was bleached almost white. Ingrid blinked back the swift tears that came unbidden at her present state.

Rinse water’s hot! The cry was shouted up and down the alley.

Come on, dearie. We’ll help each other. Hattie held out her hand. Ingrid had no more time to feel sorry for herself. She grabbed her wooden water pail and anchored her hand in Hattie’s rough, work-hardened one. To her amazement, this new acquaintance pulled her through the elbowing cluster of women around the huge, steaming, cast iron kettle to claim their water ration.

We got to set this batch out to dry before gunnery practice begins, Hattie said while she dipped their pails into the hot water. Thaddeus told me it will be a long session today. There’s been more complaints about the pesky Navajos.

That will mean I’ll be busy at the hospital. The new soldiers don’t know how to load or shoot yet.

You work there, too? My, ain’t you a busy one, Hattie clucked. Well, grab one side. The two of them shared the weight of the biggest pail between them while Hattie carried the second.

Captain Backus assigned me there a week after the troopers found me, Ingrid told her companion as they set down the brimming bucket.

He said I have to pull my weight because he has no way of budgeting for the free board and lodging of a civilian. He has to account for every mouth he feeds, even the horses and mules. At least that is what he said.

Sounds just like the army. How is it at the hospital? Thaddeus has never had occasion to be put there.

I was scared at first, Ingrid confided, finding it nice to have an interested listener. I just knew I’d faint at the sight of blood. I’m still all thumbs when I bandage a wound. She placed some of the scrubbed clothing in the rinse water.

Did you? Faint, I mean.

No. Ingrid gave a short laugh, but I close my eyes a lot. Ingrid worked slowly to twist the water from the heavy woolens. When all of the clothing was rinsed and the tub emptied, she said, I hope we can work next to each other tomorrow. I have to hang these outside on the bushes. Goodbye, Hattie. Thank you for your help.

Sure thing. I’ll see you bright and early.

Ingrid bent over and used the force of her strong body to drag the large tub full of wet clothing awkwardly through the sand to the back of the fort. This was the worst part. She was the only laundress who had to hang clean clothes on the bushes and scanty trees which surrounded the fort buildings. The others were soldiers’ wives, supplementing the family income, so were entitled to lines for drying. They also owned clothespins. The Swanson family’s were ashes.

Ingrid felt the sentries’ eyes riveted on her. This was embarrassing, yet she couldn’t put on the shirtwaist and take the chance of ripping it. Straightening slowly, grimacing at the pain in her back, Ingrid folded one arm to cover the fullness that drew their attention. With the other, she indicated a narrow barricade between two buildings and tapped her foot.

Unlock it. I don’t have any time to waste. With nasty laughs and a few lurid comments, the two men made a big performance out of giving their permission to exit. They prolonged the act just long enough to set off a quick rush of Ingrid’s temper. Do it or you’ll get a pail of dirty water in your ugly faces! This outburst merely added to their fun and laughter. When she was finally able to pull the tub outside, the first thing Ingrid did was to throw her head back and stretch her arms high. Then she hitched her skirt between her legs and tucked it up into the waistband in hopes of catching a cool waft of air. Taking several articles of clothing, she walked to a sparse growth of cedar and pinion trees that edged the meadow in back of the fort. Beyond this the land rolled on like infinity, an endless panorama broken only on the far horizon by a flat mesa and buttes colored purple by a distant haze.

While she spread the clothes on the bushes, she reflected on how pretty it would be at this time on the family farm in Missouri— the apple trees with bright pink blossoms, the round bed of tulips and daffodils in the front lawn nodding their colorful heads and the fields sprouting a fresh green. The air would be pungent with sweetness, not the smell of dust, leather oil and horses.

Unaware of the watchfulness of another pair of eyes, Ingrid went about her task. Chee Panther, a Navajo warrior, lay very still, barely breathing. The voices had sent him diving flat onto his stomach into a clump of bunch grass. With his ear to the ground, he listened for further movement. Panther halted the advance of his young brother, Kit Fox, with a gesture. He did not want the two of them to be seen or worse, caught.

Things had changed since the early days of the fort’s construction when they, then youngsters, had brought peaches, run errands for the blacksmith and learned to speak the soldiers’ strange tongue. The building of the fort in the Green-Place-Between-Rocks on Navajo land had been very disturbing to the Dine`. The first commander realized this. He made friends with the Navajos. Now, there was a new leader.

Everything had changed. This one used Ute scouts and listened to their lies. Just recently, not wanting to share the grazing land behind the fort, the soldiers had shot sheep belonging to their mother and two sisters. The women of the family had always grazed their flocks on that meadow. Now, they were stinking, rotting carcasses. For many days, Panther and Kit Fox had hidden in the rocks around the fort watching the routine of the soldiers to determine a way to revenge the useless slaughter of the animals.

Hearing no sound, Panther cautiously parted the grass. He was not prepared for what he saw. A tall, young, white woman was arranging wet soldier shirts over the sage and hanging trousers from juniper branches. He beckoned Kit Fox closer.

She is a golden vision. Her hair appears to trap the sunlight, Panther murmured in Navajo. He stared, his breathing quickening.

The image of long, shapely legs flashing from under the abbreviated folds of her skirt, the high, rounded whiteness of her breasts spilling over the edges of their meager covering and the thick, blond braid hanging in the middle of her back burned in his mind. Kit Fox shrugged and squirmed in the grass. How long are you going to lie here? he asked. The sand fleas are biting. Why do you do this with the soldiers so near? he argued. Panther smiled.

When your breech clout jumps as you look at a woman you will understand. Only a dead brave quits looking. A wry smile relieved his concentration. He watched the woman spread a bright garment over three sage bushes.

Shimasani would be happy if we brought that piece home. I will run behind the rocks then into the bushes to get it. Panther focused on the woman once again. She was now sitting in the shade of an old, knarled juniper tree and had pulled her skirt far up on her legs to fan herself. He was so completely mesmerized, his senses so fully centered, he was not aware of the Ute until his smell reached Panther. He recognized the man immediately. He poked Kit Fox and indicated with a slight motion of his head.

Longknife, he hissed, anger welling up inside him. He is the one that is always stirring up trouble and blaming our people.

Look! Kit Fox exclaimed. He’s stalking the woman. Let us kill him.

We must wait until the time is right.

But he is a blood enemy. Kit Fox stirred, but Panther quickly stilled him. The man and the boy carefully watched each soundless move the Ute made; Panther with anticipation and a plan, Kit Fox with the relish of a kill.

Reaching the tree, the Ute exploded into action. He grabbed one of the woman’s arms, twisted it cruelly behind her then forced her to stand, jamming his headband into her mouth when she started to scream.

Let me go for him, Kit Fox said, not understanding why his brother did not leap right in to kill their enemy.

No, he is mine. The job must be done fast and quiet. Remember how many Utes are around the fort. We do not want him making any sound. Panther tensed, coldly calculating his move.

A quick arrow would end it, advised Kit Fox. Should I get our bows?

There is no time. I am sure he is going to have her before he takes her captive, Panther whispered. Slowly and with caution, he drew himself into a crouch, every muscle ready to spring when the opportunity was right. Panther could almost taste his longing to plunge his blade under the ribs of the filthy Ute. Look how she fights! he exclaimed. His eyes never left the struggling pair. But not for long, he muttered." He sucked in his breath and readied his weapon.

Go, he ordered Kit Fox in a whisper, find the horses and bring them into the wash. It soon will be time. He’s knocked her to the ground and is tearing at her clothing.

Do I have to, right now? Kit Fox whined.

Go! Panther hesitated only seconds to make sure Longknife was totally intent on entering the woman. He knew the Ute did not hear nor realize his presence until the man’s hair was caught in a cruel twist and he was wrenched backward, readied for the finely honed edge of the hunting blade. Panther relished this element of surprise.

Minutes later, Panther looked from the shaking form at his feet to the crumpled Ute and then casually leaped over both. He went to detach the red clothing from its branch and tie it around his waist. He glanced back at the woman. She was still crying. The quick rush of compassion which he felt puzzled him. Rather he should be feeling disdain. Navajo women did not carry on so. Possibly the Ute’s knife had cut her. He hoped not. Beauty was put on earth by the Holy Ones to enhance harmony. It was not to be desecrated. He bent down, untied her wrists, removed the gag and turned the shivering form toward him.

The strong, heavy hand on her shoulder froze the sobs in Ingrid’s throat. Through her tears, she saw the dark figure of an Indian looming over her and flung up her arms to ward off another attack.

No, no, nooooo! she screamed. Everything faded into darkness.

Seeing no bloody wound, Panther shrugged. He was about to step away when he heard curses and footsteps.

Where in the hell are you, Goldilocks? a voice bellowed. Hey there, Goldilocks, get yourself in here. We’ve got to report for drill. Quickly, without thought, Panther scooped the unconscious woman onto his shoulder and ran down the gully.

CHAPTER 2

A short time later, Panther caught up to Kit Fox. The young Navajo watched his brother dump the unconscious woman over the back of the horse.

Did you want a white slave that much? Manuelito is not going to like what you have done, said Kit Fox. Panther smiled. His brother had put into words precisely what he was thinking. Not only was their father stern and uncompromising, he was a Hatali, a headman. The consequences of the rash act of taking the woman occupied him as he pulled on the nose rope to help the horse follow the twists and turns of the concealed path leading away from the fort.

You speak the truth, he said. I will have to give Manuelito a good reason for bringing the woman with me. How many times has he told us not to act like a snake strikes?

Kit Fox glanced at the woman’s head bobbing against the side of the horse. She probably cannot work very hard. I thought you had decided on who was going to be your woman. No one in Tsiegi has two.

Panther hissed and spat. The Ute was a bad enemy.

Yes, but I think we should have stayed longer to figure out a way to harm the fort or steal the guns.

Panther nodded in agreement. You ride on ahead. I must think. After Kit Fox had galloped out of sight, Panther began to jog along the path. Since he was a little boy, running had brought about a way of solving a problem. He hoped it would help now. Pulling the horse to a trot, he considered a variety of arguments to justify his impulsiveness. Would Manuelito accept a sudden, driving desire to want the unknown, compassion for a helpless being or hatred at the wanton destruction of beauty as sufficient reasons? He was not sure. He ran faster.

The rapid gait bumped Ingrid back to consciousness. What happened? Where am I? Oh, I hurt all over, she moaned. The smell of horse was suffocating, yet the monotonous thudding which shot twinges of pain across her forehead and cheek made it difficult to lift her head. Dumbly she watched her long braid bob in time with the rapid pick and set of the horse’s front hooves. One by one, each bodily part screamed its torment. Because she was slung across the animal’s back, her arms dangled like lead weights. Her knees bounced and hit its side. The coarse, prickly hair chaffed the tender, bare skin of her chest. I remember now, she whispered, answering her own question. Another terrible thought followed the first. I’m being taken away from the fort!

Fear propelled her into action. Pushing hard against the horse’s side, Ingrid hoisted herself off its back. Forcing her numb and heavy feet to respond, she sprinted as fast as she was capable toward the rock cliffs which rimmed the sand until her legs, weak and trembling, would not carry her any further. She collapsed in a heap in the cool shade of a towering butte of jagged rock. Her breathing gradually slowed to normal and the pounding in her ears lessened. She opened her eyes, started to get up and found buckskin covered feet planted directly in front of her face. A rawhide container dangled over them. She groaned.

All that for nothing, she mumbled. The skin bag swung toward her several times, hitting her shoulder.

You are being foolish. Drink. It took several seconds for the distinct sound of English to register. Ingrid raised her head. The realization that this was a different man than her attacker cut through her fear. No scar marred the smooth, copper skin nor flattened the aquiline nose. There was no stink from the tautly, muscled body. Whether this would be better or worse, she did not know. An Indian captive was now her fate.

Drink." This time the bag hit her on the side of the face so she did as directed. The water tasted wonderful. She consumed it in greedy gulps.

Stop! Do not drink so much. You will be sick. With that gruff statement, the bag was jerked away and her cry for more ignored. She was hoisted, not too gently, to her feet.

Let go of me! Let me go! Ingrid shouted. She tried to pull away from the fingers that burned into her arm. Don’t! Don’t! Don’t touch me! Ingrid cried, making a feeble effort to resist.

There is no one to hear you screaming. We are far from the fort.

Please let me go, please, she begged. Then, aware of his stare, she found the strength to wrench her arm free and fumble her torn chemise together.

You had no reason to run, the Indian scolded and shoved her not too gently ahead of him. I saved you from the Ute. Do not try to get away again or I will tie you over the horse like a fallen deer.

There was no energy left for a struggle. Ingrid took two steps and sagged back onto the ground in defeat. I need to rest.

You’ll rest on the horse. Get up. Walk! Ingrid shook her head. Learn to obey. This was a definite order. She was pulled to her feet and quickly slung over the Indian’s back like a rag doll.

Ohhh! Ingrid wailed and began to pound and kick. Put me down. I’m not a sack of potatoes! That defiance earned her several hard whacks.

Panther anchored his arm tightly over the woman’s firm bottom. He gave a slight jump to settle her comfortably on his right shoulder. Soon, he thought, I’ll be gripping these rounded curves from a much different position. A smile of anticipation lifted the corners of his mouth.

When they reached his horse, he set her on her feet. Mindful of her quickness, Panther maintained a hold on her braid. Again, Ingrid quickly clutched her bodice together. The man’s eyes raked over her. She gave a soft cry of distress, blushed and stooped to bring up the tattered edge of her long skirt to hold it tightly against her chest.

Panther didn’t understand why she was trying to hide her loveliness. Such beauty should not be hidden, he stated. As he continued his appraisal, her pale loveliness was once more enhanced by the delicate effusion of pink. Her eyes suddenly became gray with fear. She jerked forward in a crouch. Panther frowned. She was acting like a cornered animal. He reached to pull down the horse blanket.

Use this, he said gruffly and threw it over her back. Even though the strong, rancid odor took her breath away, Ingrid was grateful. She drew the blanket tightly around her and anchored it under her armpits, watching the Indian carefully. In a commanding manner, he slapped the horse’s back then motioned his head toward it.

Get on, he ordered. Her hesitation annoyed him. Panther pushed her nearer. Did the Ute knock your ears closed? Get on the horse. Ingrid continued to stall. Giving an impatient head shake, he shifted his grasp to her wrists, took hold of the horse’s thick, black mane and in a leap, mounted. Seconds later, a wrenching, spinning tug of Ingrid’s arm placed her sideways in front of him. Before she could move, he swung one of her legs over its neck so she was astride the horse.

Oh! Ouch! Ingrid cried out involuntarily at the pain this caused. I could have mounted the horse by myself, she told him with a toss of her head.

Do things my way and do as I say. Panther had heard the distress in the woman’s voice as she sat down hard on the horse’s back. Also, she was sitting very upright and still. It made him wonder if he had waited too long to get to the Ute. He hoped not. Considering the beating her legs had been given, Panther curbed the horse’s impatience to set off at a gallop. The only sound was the thud of hooves and an occasional rattle of loosened stones. The sun was direct and hot. It scorched Ingrid’s skin, yet this was only a minor discomfort. Her whole being ached from riding erect to avoid contact with the man at her back. There was no doubt she was to be his slave. She’d overheard the troopers talk about white women who’d been Indian slaves, heard the nasty laughs and lurid details they recited. Knowing drudgery and subjugation lay before her increased her pain and humiliation.

As they plodded along, she struggled against wave after wave of fatigue and hurt. Only by winding her hand through the mane did she remain upright. Tears filled her eyes, hovered on the edge of her eyelids and blurred her vision. Slowly they spilled over, dropped steadily off her quivering chin to fall precisely on the zigzag design of the horse blanket she held closed over her chest. The wetness darkened it from gray to black.

The color symbolized her life; she thought. The tears flowed faster. Each step of the horse through the unchanging, desert landscape deepened the impossibility of her situation. She knew there was no one anywhere to inquire about her whereabouts. She could picture the fort commander’s shrug of dismissal over her disappearance. He had more important things to be concerned with than a missing, orphaned, young woman. No caring person would demand an investigation. The kindly old doctor might miss her assistance since she was an efficient, though inexperienced, nurse. Even so, Ingrid knew with a dull, resigned certainty, that no soldiers would be mounted in a search party, no scouts dispatched to pick up a trail nor an accounting posted of her disappearance.

No one. No one. Alone, Ingrid whispered. The desolation became too hard to fight. She let out a long, keening wail. It was so sharp and mournful, that the horse shied, tumbling her onto its neck. The Indian’s arm shot out to circle her waist and draw her back. It whipped her upright so fast her head bounced on something hard that lay against his chest.

Be quiet. You frighten the horse. She writhed at the unyielding solidness of his body which brushed against her back and the hard muscles of his thighs cradling her hips. Despite the shooting pain, she tried to wiggle forward.

Sit still. The arm tightened, stopping her breath, as if in warning. Ingrid looked down at its corded length holding her so firmly. It was a cinch; binding and imprisoning. The wonder of what she’d done to deserve such a cruel rendering of fate assailed her. First, the death of all those she held most dear and now a life of an Indian’s chattel. Feeling singled out and marked, Ingrid looked up at the sky. The cloudless azure expanse, made more blue by the unrelenting white heat of the sun, held no answers. Her mouth twitched in a scornful smirk. What did she expect? The heavens weren’t going to part nor was God’s voice going to call messages of assurance. She was alone.

Into the void of utter despair, a scene of home returned to Ingrid’s memory. Each detail came into vivid focus. It was the day the family left Missouri with the wagon train. Grandfather Swanson’s good-bye came back to her, pedantic with meaning. His words rang in her head so loud it was as if he were sitting next to her.

Remember, always, your heritage. Vikings are strong, fierce, undaunted. She repeated the words over and over. Ingrid thought back to the Viking sagas he used to relate. Each was a tale of exploration, battles, hardship and the valor of the great leaders of men. They had sailed the seas for Viking honor, riches and to conquer. These also were stories of the glory and courage of the Swanson forefathers.

Vikings are undaunted, Ingrid whispered to herself. She jerked away, unclenched her stiff hands from the mane and sat up straight. The blood of brave men runs in my veins, she told herself. I will find the courage to endure and escape. Ingrid’s spirit rallied. She looked at the sky again, but this time not for spiritual help. It was to find the sun’s position to determine in what direction they were traveling. Then she began to search for any distinguishing landmark just as she had been taught while traveling along the wagon trail.

Panther heard the mumbles and noticed the shift in posture. The woman’s peculiar actions were beginning to be annoying. He considered having her follow behind, bound and tied, when he trotted into the settlement. Something in the set of her head made him reject the thought. Energy seemed to be surging through her. It wasn’t long before he sensed what was happening and respected it. He’d seen it many times in the puma, his totem, when he engaged the animal in a chase. He’d felt it himself as a warrior. It was the summoning of inner strength, the will to persevere despite pain and injury.

Looking at the ramrod stiff back, the long legs, scraped and bruised, tightly gripping the sides of the horse, he whispered in the delicate ear very close to his mouth, So, I have gathered up a golden fighter and wrapped her in a Navajo horse blanket, mine for the taming.

Ingrid’s concentration was so intense she did not hear.

CHAPTER 3

They had been riding steadily for hours. Ingrid figured it must be late afternoon by the position of the sun. Longing for respite to ease the tiredness and pain, she begged in a forlorn voice tinged with the return of tears, Can’t we walk for awhile? My legs are numb.

No. Do not move. The curt answer made Ingrid stiffen. She recalled that Indians did not like any show of weakness. Moments later, they passed a large, isolated rock. Because it was unusually marked in blended striations of red, grey, white and brown, Ingrid turned back to look at it. She sensed by the prancing eagerness of the horse and a subtle shift in the Indian’s posture, that it must be significant. They left the plateau to begin traversing a steep cliff in a series of switchbacks leading downward. Staying alert to the possibility of escape grew more futile. She slumped in resignation sighing deeply.

Half to himself, Panther murmured, The land of the Navajo has much beauty. Everything is part of the whole. The earth is our mother. He lifted his head and breathed deeply of the fragrance of burning pinion wood. We are nearing Tsiegi.

It was twilight by the time they reached the canyon floor to arrive at what Ingrid assumed was the Indian encampment. They plodded slowly past a corral filled with milling horses then halted some distance from a small isolated fire.

Stay here, Panther said. He slid off the horse over its haunches and removed the arrow quiver from around its neck. Ingrid looked around and saw only steep, jagged cliffs on three sides. She had to tip her head far back to find the faint strip of rays of the setting sun. The feeling of entrapment was total now. Her breath came in short gasps. Despite the drafts of cool air wafting from the dark recesses of the immense canyon, her palms were sweating. She swallowed nervously and began to tremble.

A wild, piercing screech filled the air. Ingrid screamed, ducked and covered her head with her hands. When she looked up, a young man stood in front of her. His dark eyes sparkled with mischief as they roved over her, inch by inch. He grinned when he saw her compulsive attempt to hitch the blanket higher around her chest.

I was with my brother at the fort. I am Kit Fox. Ingrid uttered a sharp cry of surprise at hearing English spoken again. Embarrassed that another had witnessed her struggle and humiliation, she turned away feigning an interest in her surroundings. She saw fires flickering among the trees and shadowy figures moving around them. The smell of food made Ingrid’s stomach growl.

Yes, the disconcerting young man said, this is your new home. Grabbing the horse’s nose rope, he moved it so she was facing him. I think I am glad Panther chose you as a slave. He led the horse forward into the light. Ingrid saw a short, elderly woman swathed in a colorful shawl adding wood to the fire.

This is our Old Mother Edsitty. My brother is on the other side of the fire awaiting a sign. It will tell him if it is all right to go to her. He does not want the bad spirits which are all over the land to follow him to her hogan. As Ingrid watched, the old woman finished her task. She straightened slowly, and seeing Ingrid’s captor, smiled in gladness. He was motioned forward. From concealment behind his back, he produced the red union suit from the quiver. Ingrid recognized the underwear as her wash item.

My brother is wise, Kit Fox told Ingrid. See how much she likes it. It will be used in a blanket she is weaving for him. Old Mother was Panther’s… Kit Fox paused. Ingrid looked at him questioningly. He grinned again. This is why I am glad Panther carried you away from the fort. Some of your words, I can not remember. He started to explain again. Old Mother helped Panther learn when he was growing up.

Unconsciously wanting to be part of this warm, affectionate scene, Ingrid urged the horse to go to stand at the side of its master. She wasn’t prepared for the hard, quick shove that dumped her in an indecorous heap on the ground. The blanket loosened. She grabbed it in frantic haste. The gleeful laugh of Kit Fox echoed in back of her.

Ingrid’s blush was as red as the dancing flames of the fire. The old woman’s eyes, dark and bird-like, settled upon her. A timeless moment locked them together until Viking pride came to Ingrid’s rescue. She straightened up and lifted her head with a defiant toss to glare at the man looming over her in a stance of mastery, arms folded across his chest.

You didn’t have to push me! she said angrily.

Learn to obey, woman! And, keep silent, he said harshly and turned to Kit Fox lurking behind the horse. Well, Little Brother, did you tell Manuelito about my killing Long Knife?

No, I thought it best for you to do, Kit Fox replied with a half smile.

And so it will be done, Panther said and walked to the fire.

Ingrid stared at the tall Indian, really seeing him for the first time. There was an air of haughty, fierce nobility about him. He wore skin breeches that reached just below his knees. They fit tightly, molding his hips like a second skin. Blue stockings covered the lower part of his legs. His shoulder length black hair was held back from high cheekbones by a red