women, and children—for no other reason than sport?”
His tongue slipped over the last word. “That is the way the white man described it when our chiefs protested the white man’s murder of a whole tribe of people last spring.”
“Sport? Surely you jest.”
He didn’t answer.
She tried again. “What you are telling me cannot be true. No man kills another man in sport. It isn’t done. It is too incredible. Murdering innocent women and children? Truly, I find that hard to believe.”
“I do not lie to you.”
“No, I wouldn’t think you would, but there is something wrong here. If this truly happened, there must have been some reason, mustn’t there?”
He didn’t respond. Several moments passed and all she heard was the wind rustling over the prairie, as well as their own footfalls. She picked up the conversation, saying, “The white man does not kill indiscriminately. His religion forbids it. And that’s the truth, as firm as the Rock of Cashel.”
Night Thunder stopped and turned around so suddenly and without warning that she bumped straight into him. And though she was more than aware of the contact made by his bare skin against her own, he seemed unaffected by her. He said, “There was no reason for the murders. The people those white men killed we call the fish people because their men are not warriors. They live by taking the fish from the lakes and rivers. They had no weapons to wield against the guns of the white man. They had not the means to defend their women and children. It was murder.”
She did not know what to say, what to do. Night Thunder rarely lost his temper with her such as this, speaking to her in such a decisive manner. She was uncertain she liked being on the receiving end of it.
He had never shown her anything but the utmost respect. But then, she’d never said or done anything to cause him to take exception to her, had she? She was supposed to defend her own people, wasn’t she?
But if what Night Thunder said was true? “I…” she began, the words coming more difficult to her than she would have thought possible. “I’m sorry. It is a terrible thing of which you speak. If it is true, then those people, no matter their race, are bad people. Maybe the white man had relatives that were killed by Indians. I have heard of some men going on a vengeance against Indians because of that. Mayhap that’s why he…”
Night Thunder gave her a triumphant smile over his shoulder. “Youthink that the white man was justified in his murders? Perhaps also, then, Strikes The Bear was justified in the same way for what he was doing to you?”
“What? How can you suggest such a thing?”
Night Thunder merely snorted at her and turned away, striding back toward their party.
She hurriedly followed him. “Night Thunder,” she said, touching him on the shoulder as she caught up with him, “how can you talk to me like that?”
He shrugged. “I do not agree that Strikes The Bear is right for what he did to you. You too are innocent,” he said, though he didn’t turn toward her as he spoke. “I only try to make you see that perhaps he had reason for what he tried to do. Perhaps.”
She swallowed hard. “What did the white man do to Strikes The Bear’s wife?” she asked, although she wasn’t certain she wanted to know.
Night Thunder strode on ahead of her without answering her for so long, she began to feel their conversation had abruptly ended. She slowed her pace, not seeing any purpose in rushing to keep up with him, when all at once he began to speak, as though she were still trailing him. “The white man tortured her. He stripped her, maimed her, and then took her as a man sometimes takes a woman in anger before he killed her. There were several white men who did it. Not one alone.”
Rebecca didn’t speak. What, after all, could she say? The thought did come to her, however: if she had been in Strikes The Bear’s place, would she not have felt the need to seek
His tongue slipped over the last word. “That is the way the white man described it when our chiefs protested the white man’s murder of a whole tribe of people last spring.”
“Sport? Surely you jest.”
He didn’t answer.
She tried again. “What you are telling me cannot be true. No man kills another man in sport. It isn’t done. It is too incredible. Murdering innocent women and children? Truly, I find that hard to believe.”
“I do not lie to you.”
“No, I wouldn’t think you would, but there is something wrong here. If this truly happened, there must have been some reason, mustn’t there?”
He didn’t respond. Several moments passed and all she heard was the wind rustling over the prairie, as well as their own footfalls. She picked up the conversation, saying, “The white man does not kill indiscriminately. His religion forbids it. And that’s the truth, as firm as the Rock of Cashel.”
Night Thunder stopped and turned around so suddenly and without warning that she bumped straight into him. And though she was more than aware of the contact made by his bare skin against her own, he seemed unaffected by her. He said, “There was no reason for the murders. The people those white men killed we call the fish people because their men are not warriors. They live by taking the fish from the lakes and rivers. They had no weapons to wield against the guns of the white man. They had not the means to defend their women and children. It was murder.”
She did not know what to say, what to do. Night Thunder rarely lost his temper with her such as this, speaking to her in such a decisive manner. She was uncertain she liked being on the receiving end of it.
He had never shown her anything but the utmost respect. But then, she’d never said or done anything to cause him to take exception to her, had she? She was supposed to defend her own people, wasn’t she?
But if what Night Thunder said was true? “I…” she began, the words coming more difficult to her than she would have thought possible. “I’m sorry. It is a terrible thing of which you speak. If it is true, then those people, no matter their race, are bad people. Maybe the white man had relatives that were killed by Indians. I have heard of some men going on a vengeance against Indians because of that. Mayhap that’s why he…”
Night Thunder gave her a triumphant smile over his shoulder. “Youthink that the white man was justified in his murders? Perhaps also, then, Strikes The Bear was justified in the same way for what he was doing to you?”
“What? How can you suggest such a thing?”
Night Thunder merely snorted at her and turned away, striding back toward their party.
She hurriedly followed him. “Night Thunder,” she said, touching him on the shoulder as she caught up with him, “how can you talk to me like that?”
He shrugged. “I do not agree that Strikes The Bear is right for what he did to you. You too are innocent,” he said, though he didn’t turn toward her as he spoke. “I only try to make you see that perhaps he had reason for what he tried to do. Perhaps.”
She swallowed hard. “What did the white man do to Strikes The Bear’s wife?” she asked, although she wasn’t certain she wanted to know.
Night Thunder strode on ahead of her without answering her for so long, she began to feel their conversation had abruptly ended. She slowed her pace, not seeing any purpose in rushing to keep up with him, when all at once he began to speak, as though she were still trailing him. “The white man tortured her. He stripped her, maimed her, and then took her as a man sometimes takes a woman in anger before he killed her. There were several white men who did it. Not one alone.”
Rebecca didn’t speak. What, after all, could she say? The thought did come to her, however: if she had been in Strikes The Bear’s place, would she not have felt the need to seek
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