{"id":1150,"date":"2019-02-13T12:53:47","date_gmt":"2019-02-13T17:53:47","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/read.whitefire-publishing.com\/?p=1150"},"modified":"2020-02-10T11:21:39","modified_gmt":"2020-02-10T16:21:39","slug":"walk-alone","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/whitefire-publishing.com\/read\/walk-alone\/","title":{"rendered":"Walks Alone"},"content":{"rendered":"\n
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Walks Alone<\/h3>\n\n\n\n

by Sandi Rog<\/p>\n\n\n\n

A Cheyenne warrior bent on vengeance.
A pioneer woman bent on fulfilling a dream.
Until their paths collide.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

After fleeing her abusive uncle, Anna is determined to reach the city of her dreams. But White Eagle and his fierce warriors take her prisoner. Anna attempts a harrowing escape, but her savage captor is determined to have her at all costs and forces her to be his wife. Has God forgotten her, or does He have plans of His own?<\/p>\n\n\n\n

A man with a boot in one world and a moccasin in the other, White Eagle is disillusioned with his faith after a minister leads a massacre on his peaceful tribe. Where is his God? He\u2019s definitely not with the white men who are slaughtering his people. But White Eagle also can\u2019t give in to the idolatry practiced by his fellow tribesmen. Only the Truth can set him free.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

And it\u2019s found in beautiful Anna\u2019s carpetbag.<\/p>\n<\/div><\/div>\n\n\n\n

\n\t\t\t\t\t

Prologue<\/span><\/span><\/h3>\n\t\t\t\t\t

November 29, 1864<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

Sand Creek, Colorado Territory <\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

A drop of blood warmed his finger, and\ncrimson stained the white snow as Jean-Marc bound three dead rabbits together.\n\u201cSorry to kill you, my friends, but Mother and Grandmother need to eat.\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n

He tied the knot fast and rubbed his hand\nalong the soft fur. The skins would make a good muff for Grandmother this winter.\nHe\u2019d seen many white women wear them; they looked warm, and his heve\u0161kemo<\/em>\ndeserved the best. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

He picked up the rabbits and added them to\nthe other two he\u2019d already tied together. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

Running Cloud trudged around a thick\ncottonwood with his latest kill, a prairie dog, hanging at his side. \u201cThe chief\nhas trained you well.\u201d He nudged with his chin toward the game Jean-Marc\ncaught. \u201cHe\u2019ll smile on your success.\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYou didn\u2019t do so badly yourself.\u201d Jean-Marc\ngave an exaggerated wave toward the fowl and two rabbits dangling over his\nfriend\u2019s back. They hadn\u2019t found any deer or antelope, but what they did find\nwas better than nothing. Jean-Marc\u2019s father would soon arrive from Denver City\nwith supplies. Until then, he had to find other means to survive.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Running Cloud stomped through the snow toward\nhim.\u201cDo you think Gray Feather will be impressed?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Jean-Marc chuckled and slapped his shoulder.\n\u201cTake them to her father\u2019s lodge and see.\u201d Of course, they both knew Running\nCloud\u2019s current offering was meager compared to the young buffalo he\u2019d\ndelivered to their lodge just four moons ago.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cAnd which woman do you plan to impress?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Jean-Marc smiled. \u201cMy mother.\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n

Black Bear stepped high through a powdery\nsnow bank, carrying game over his shoulder. Twenty winters out of his mother\u2019s\nwomb and a seasoned warrior, he wore the clothes of a brave with his tanned\nleggings, knee-high moccasins and silver armbands over his fringed buckskin\nshirt. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

If only Jean-Marc could wear the silver\narmbands of a warrior. That\u2019d make him a hero, a man. But to reach such a lofty\nposition of honor among his tribesmen was not to happen. Torn between the white\nman\u2019s world and that of his tribe, he could never bring himself to fight\nagainst his own, let alone kill another man. Still, pangs of jealousy twisted\nin his gut. How would he ever become a man among the tribe if he refused to\nfight?<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Bow and quiver strapped to his back, Black\nBear glanced up through the cottonwoods. \u201cWe should get back before the sun\nstands straight up in the sky.\u201d His eyes flickered toward Running Cloud. \u201cAnd\nbefore our mother starts to worry.\u201d He strode past them. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWe\u2019ve only been gone one sun.\u201d Running Cloud\nfell in step behind him. \u201cShe knows we\u2019re hunting.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Jean-Marc glanced at Running Cloud and\nsuppressed a smile. He knew Black Bear was merely attempting to annoy his\nyounger brother, and by the scowl on Running Cloud\u2019s face, it had worked. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWe\u2019re only three winters younger than you.\nBesides, we\u2019re bringing food.\u201d Running Cloud stomped through the snow. \u201cShe\u2019ll\nbe pleased.\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n

 Jean-Marc\njogged ahead and untied the large dog that pulled a small travois piled with\ngame and thick buffalo robes. They dropped their latest kills on the stretcher.\nHe tugged on the dog\u2019s ropes and urged the animal forward. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

Bending down, Jean-Marc grabbed a fistful of\nsnow. As he patted it firmly into a ball, he contemplated his target. Black\nBear was quite the brave, but would he be able to avoid a hit from Jean-Marc?\nHe whisked around, took aim, and tossed the snowball at Black Bear.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

 Black\nBear stopped. He looked at his chest, and then his eyes narrowed at Jean-Marc.\nHe gathered his own snowball and threw it. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

Jean-Marc ducked, and the white mass sailed\nover his head, missing him. A smirk of satisfaction tugged his lips into a\ngrin, and he laughed.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

All three tossed snowballs at each other.\nEventually, they tested their strength to see who could throw the farthest.\nSnowballs sailed over the travois as the dog plodded ahead of them, until their\nfingers went numb from the cold. Drying his hands on his leggings, Jean-Marc\nwalked backwards. His moccasins stamped a trail on endless acres of untouched\nsnow. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

Heavy breathing broke the stillness as they\ntrudged through the wooded valley. When they left the cottonwoods behind, a\ncold wind stung Jean-Marc\u2019s cheeks, carrying an unfamiliar scent on the air. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

He stopped, taking in his surroundings.\nPatches of snow dotted the stark landscape, and white flakes drifted over the\nground like a wave foaming at his feet. He held out his hand to catch the\nfalling snow. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

Not snow. Ashes. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

Dread crawled up Jean-Marc\u2019s spine. He lifted\nhis face to the sky. A dark cloud swelled over the horizon, casting a shadow\nacross the land. The black mass reached into the blue sky like a hand choking\nout the sun. He stared at the strange horizon. The village wasn\u2019t in sight, but\nthe smoke came from that direction. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

Fire. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

He sprinted toward his home. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

Mother. Grandmother.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWhat caused it?\u201d Running Cloud shouted.\n\u201cIt\u2019s too cold!\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cIt\u2019s soldiers!\u201d Black Bear raced ahead of\nthem.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The answer made Jean-Marc\u2019s feet move faster.\nHe charged over thick patches of snow and dead bushes. Cold slithered into his\nlungs, stretching icy fingers across his chest. But he kept running.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Gunshots sounded in the distance. He tripped.\nThe frozen dirt bit into his fingers and knees. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

Running Cloud yanked him to his feet. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

Again,\nhe sprinted toward home. His chest heaved painfully from the cold, heaved with\nevery intake of breath.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Heaved.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Gunshots exploded louder over the plains,\nforcing his legs to pick up their pace. Several tribesmen ran toward them.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cTurn back!\u201d someone shouted, and screams\ncarried through the air.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Others took cover with their children in\nhalf-dug trenches. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

Jean-Marc scanned the desperate people,\nsearching for his mother. He looked for the colorful leather that dangled from\nher dark braids. The silver ring shining against her hand. Her buckskin dress\nwith the blue and green pattern along its fringed hem. He didn\u2019t see her among\nthe people escaping.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Voices shouted and screamed.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Jean-Marc jogged ahead. Song Bird stumbled\ntoward him, her clothes torn, her arms sagging in anguish.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWhere\u2019s my mother?\u201d He grabbed Song Bird by\nthe shoulders and shook her. \u201cWhere is she?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI don\u2019t know!\u201d Song Bird wailed. \u201cThey\nkilled Gray Feather.\u201d She crumpled in his arms. \u201cMy girl, my little girl!\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

 Running\nCloud appeared next to them, his almond eyes round with shock. \u201cGray Feather?\nGray Feather is dead?\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n

Jean Marc watched as Running Cloud\u2019s shock\nturned to rage, a rage that matched his own. How could the soldiers attack?\nThey knew this was a peaceful camp.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Shots sounded through the air, and sand\nexploded nearby.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cTake cover!\u201d Jean-Marc pushed Song Bird\ntoward safety and raced for the village. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

He had to help the innocent. He had to find\nhis mother. This village was filled with women and children and very few\nbraves.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He stumbled toward the bank. A black cloud\ncloaked hundreds of distant lodges. Their burning scent invaded his nostrils.\nHe dropped behind a snowdrift and rolled between thick underbrush, trying to\nfind a safe place to hide and catch his breath. Running Cloud joined him. The\nacrid smoke hung in the air, and shots cracked above their heads.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The cry of a young child rushed to\nJean-Marc\u2019s ears. He crawled on his belly and peered over the snowdrift between\nthe dead brush. A small child stumbled along the other side of the bank, crying\nfor his mother.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Another shot fired. Sand and snow near the\ntoddler\u2019s feet spattered up from the ground.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The baby screamed.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cLet me try,\u201d a white soldier said, coming up\non his horse. He dismounted, knelt down and aimed his revolver at the toddler,\nthen shot. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

Shrubbery against the bank split apart behind\nthe baby. His black hair clung to the tears on his cheeks as he continued to\nwail for his mother.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Jean-Marc watched the soldier. Nothing was\nreal. He was in a dream, like when he\u2019d try to run after the buffalo but his\nlegs wouldn\u2019t go fast enough. He forced himself to move and pulled an arrow\nfrom his quiver. His numb hands set the arrow against his bow.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He pulled the bowstring so tight it cut into\nhis fingers. The muscles in his arms hurt as he aimed at the soldier\u2019s blue\ncoat.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He\u2019d never killed a man before.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He released the string.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The arrow sliced through the air.<\/p>\n\n\n