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Miranda and the Warrior
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Jerking the girl to a halt when they reached the lodge he sought, Shadow Walker noted the trembling she attempted to conceal, and scorn for her faltering bravery returned. His attention was drawn back to the lodge when the flap lifted and Rattling Blanket appeared in the opening. He spoke to the old squaw gently in their native tongue. Major Charles Thurston looked at the soldier who stood at attention in front of his desk.
His bearded face tightly composed, he addressed the young man sharply. She said she was going to ride out a little way—down to the stream by the bluff. She said you had given her permission to go out to pick some wildflowers there. Major Thurston struggled to control his rising temper. This was just like Miranda. She had come to his office that morning, taking for granted—as usual—that he would not hesitate to assign her an escort so she could visit the Calhoun ranch for some reason that he could not now remember. What he did recall was that his reaction had been a spontaneous refusal.
He had been incredulous that she would even make such a request in light of recent Cheyenne war party activity reported in the area, and he had told her so. The major unconsciously shook his head. He had seen that look in her eyes countless times before. He should have known it would mean trouble.
Major Thurston glanced out the window at a brilliant sun that was well past the midpoint in the sky. I was relieved from duty at the gate after she left, sir. A knock on the door turned Major Thurston toward grim-faced Lieutenant Peter Hill, who entered upon his response. Straightening up to his full, compact height, the major ordered, Have a patrol saddled and ready to leave with me for the Calhoun ranch in fifteen minutes.
Miranda waited. During the endless time that had followed, a steady parade of Indian squaws had come to gawk and glare at her as she had sat helpless on the floor of the lodge, with her hands still bound.
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Lurid stories of the fates of Indian captives had rolled across her mind in vivid detail, forcing a difficult admission. Her father had been right about the Cheyenne danger.
Out of pure mulishness, she had chosen not to believe him and she had gotten only what she deserved. Her father, however, had not gotten what he deserved, and her regrets were many. Determined to reveal neither her regrets nor her fears—and uncertain if the old squaw even spoke her language—Miranda addressed Rattling Blanket. In a voice strong with false bravado, she said, I demand to be returned to Fort Walters. Turning toward her, the old woman responded in hesitant English, Such words are not wise. You will suffer at the vengeance they will stir. Relieved to be able to communicate with her, Miranda pressed, I warn you, if the soldiers come for me—.
The old squaw replied, I know what hardships the white horse soldiers bring. For that reason, Shadow Walker brought you to me. Stunned into silence, she realized for the first time that her captor was the notorious Shadow Walker who had so many times been the subject of discussion at the fort.
His chilling war paint identified him on sight to every soldier on the frontier and his ferocity in battle was legendary. His exploits were so renowned that his scalp was wagered for in whispers by many of the men. Her heart hammered in her throat as he entered and scowled down at her, the threat in his dark eyes deepened by the war paint he still wore. Shadow Walker turned toward Rattling Blanket and addressed her in the Cheyenne tongue.