Page 5 of Heart of the Storm (Hearts Over Wyoming #1)

Five

A golden hue bathed the expanse of the sage-covered landscape as the sun sank lower in the sky. Baa’koa stayed at the back of the group of ten men and four women as they rode single file or two abreast, following the faint deer path along the edge of the woods. The women had accompanied the hunting party to skin and butcher the animals, and now their horses each pulled a travois laden with meat. The group, led by Matso’onah, was expected to arrive back at the village before dark.

Baa’koa sat easily atop his colt, his legs dangling in a relaxed manner along the animal’s ribcage. His hands rested on his mount’s withers. The strong scent of sage and earthy summer grasses mixed with the faint smell of horse sweat and leather, and even blood from the hunt. In the distance, a coyote followed the group from a safe distance, no doubt hoping a scrap of meat would fall from one of the travois.

Baa’koa drew in a deep breath and raised his head to the sky. He closed his eyes to take it all in. These were the familiar scents and sounds of his years growing up with the A’aninin, and they represented peace and contentment.

The bison hunt had been more than successful, and after three days, everyone was eager to return home. There was a lightness in the air, and even the horses sensed they were heading back to their pastures outside the village.

The rhythmic cadence of the horses’ hooves, their occasional snorts, and the sound of birds and insects in the grasses were steady background noises as his mind wandered to the days prior to Matso’onah announcing they were going on a bison hunt.

Baa’koa had been eager to join to make up for his mistakes during his last outing. No longer filled with tension that had plagued him before meeting the trappers who had come to their camp more than a week ago, he’d been ready to prove to himself once again.

Not once in all the years he’d lived with the A’aninin had he experienced such feelings of uncertainty, until news of trappers had reached the village. He’d always been proud of his self-assurance and was confident in his abilities, even when confronting enemies of the A’aninin, but something about the news of whites had stirred something in him that had been difficult to shake. He’d taken down plenty of game over the seasons, but he’d felt like a failure when he and Nahko’tah had come back from their pronghorn hunt empty-handed.

This hunt had certainly vindicated him. There had been no mishaps, no missed shots, no distractions. Just focus, patience, and precision all coming together. He’d taken down a good-sized bull alone, thanks to the sure-footedness of his horse. The trappers no longer worried him, and his confidence in his abilities had been restored. After several days of the white men trading goods and food with the villagers, Baa’koa had realized they were not like the men he’d known as a boy.

Even though he hadn’t participated in the trading, he’d observed and listened, watching the interactions between the older trappers and their younger comrades. They shared a close kinship with each other, and most of them liked to laugh and joke. Josiah Butler, the leader of the group, had a gruffness to him, but it was more of a game than real annoyance. The way he teased the younger men – especially the two brothers who seemed inseparable despite their frequent bickering – spoke of a bond that wasn’t formed through fear but through shared hardship and respect.

The trappers Baa’koa had encountered as a boy had been nothing like this group. Those men had been rough, hardened by years of surviving in the wilderness and on the river. They’d shown him very little kindness, their hard eyes passing over him as if he were no more than a nuisance. They’d ignored him mostly, unless it was to make him the butt of some cruel joke. Their mocking laughter still echoed in his ears as they’d told him tales of wild animals and savages lurking in the darkness, trying to scare him and make him feel small and weak.

He was no longer a timid boy or fearful of the dark. He was a proud hunter and warrior among the A’aninin. Gone was the son of a farmer who had made the mistake of trusting someone with promises of riches in the wilderness. When one of the visiting trappers had approached him while he’d tended to his colt, he hadn’t retreated to hide.

“That’s a fine-looking horse,” the man had said, using both his English words and poor sign talk. “You’re the other son of the chief, aren’t you? Baa’koa? I met your brother earlier.” He’d chuckled. “He drives a hard bargain. Talked me out of a good set of skinning knives for a single antelope hide.”

Baa’koa had answered with a curt nod and faced the man, whose sharp gaze had narrowed after looking Baa’koa in the eyes.

“My name’s Todd Baronette,” he’d said, this time without using his hands. He’d scrutinized him like he’d assessed the horse.

Baa’koa had met the trapper’s questioning eyes with a sharp stare. Todd Baronette ran his fingers through his hair. He cast a quick glance toward the village, then back at Baa’koa. “I’m going to guess you have another name, and that you understand me just fine without the sign language.”

Disguising his identity from the white men was over. Baa’koa nodded and answered in English. “In my former life, I was known as Adrian Storm.”

Todd Baronette couldn’t hide the slight surprise that registered in his eyes, then the look of triumph for guessing correctly that Baa’koa wasn’t an A’aninin by blood.

“How long have you lived with the Gros Ventre?” he asked. “And how? We’re a long way from any white settlements or outposts.”

Baa’koa explained in as few words as possible. “The A’aninin are my family now,” he’d concluded.

Todd Baronette had smiled and held out his hand. Baa’koa had looked at it, then clasped the man’s wrist with a firm shake.

“Your secret’s safe with me and my comrades, Adrian Storm.”

Baa’koa narrowed his eyes, then asked a question of his own. “Why do you call my people Gros Ventre?”

Todd Baronette shrugged. “Some French voyageurs told us about your tribe. They heard it from another band of Indians.” He laughed. “I reckon the name must have gotten lost in the sign language translation. Gros Ventre in French means big belly, but I don’t see any of you with big bellies.”

“We are known as the Falls People to some for a region to the north where our ancestors come from, or the White Clay, or Upright People. That is the translation of A’aninin.” While speaking, he made the sign for the people, which was a hand falling down.

Todd Baronette nodded. “I’ll pass it along to the others. Some thought you were Blackfoot. You share a lot of similarities.”

Baa’koa scoffed. “We have no alliance with the Blackfoot.”

Todd smiled easily. “Good to know.”

There had been a quiet understanding between them that day. It wasn’t exactly friendship, but a mutual respect that had the potential for friendship.

Baa’koa opened his eyes when his horse stumbled on a rock and bobbed its head in response. He gave the colt a pat on the neck for reassurance. The images of his encounter with Todd Baronette faded, but his thoughts lingered on the trappers and the conversation they’d shared that day. It had been his first with a white man in so many years.

“Adrian Storm,” Baa’koa whispered. He hadn’t uttered the name in a long time, yet it seemed to roll so easily off his tongue again, as if he’d never abandoned it. Would he have gone off on his own as he’d gotten older and joined a group of trappers like Todd had done, or would he have made his fortune with his father? He’d never know the answer to that question.

Voices near the front of the group caught his attention. Some distance ahead, Nahko’tah rode next to one of the older hunters, probably describing how he’d avoided getting trampled by a bison during the hunt. Matso’onah rode alone, ahead of the group by several horse lengths. He was probably reflecting on the hunt in his own, quiet way.

The excitement of the coming celebration in the village tonight bubbled in the pit of Baa’koa’s stomach. The village would gather for a feast, and the hunters would be honored. His lips curved into a faint smile. He’d participate in the exaggerated versions of the hunt, the heroic acts, and the moments of danger that turned into triumph as the hunters would re-enact the hunt through song and dance.

“Blackfeet!”

The serenity of the moment shattered in an instant with the shout of a single word.

The loud, panicked shout came out of nowhere. Baa’koa’s head snapped in the direction of the yelling that ensued, his hand already reaching for an arrow from his quiver. No A’aninin would have yelled out, and certainly not in English.

Everything happened within the span of a heartbeat. The shot from a trapper’s rifle rang out, slicing through the calmness of the early evening with a sickening crack. Matso’onah’s body jerked on the back of his horse just before he tumbled off the animal and landed hard on the ground. He didn’t move.

Baa’koa’s blood turned cold. The great chief of the A’aninin lay crumpled on the earth while his horse bolted away, no doubt startled by the noise of the gunfire. Chaos ensued in the confusion of the surprise attack and the swiftness of their leader’s fall.

"Father!" Baa’koa’s voice broke through the sudden silence, but it was drowned out by a second shot, then a third.

Nahko’tah fell from his horse, along with another hunter riding behind him.

For a moment, everything seemed to stand still, even as chaos broke out all around him. Baa’koa’s heart pounded in his chest, and the world around him faded as the terror of what had just happened settled into his bones. Not again. He couldn’t lose another father to a senseless act of violence.

“Get to the trees,” he shouted, kicking his horse into a run up the line of women and hunters who were attempting to control their panicked horses while scrambling for their bows and arrows to fend off a large group of approaching riders.

Trappers. They were scattered along a small rise and bearing down on them. Baa’koa’s eyes fell on his father and brother, who both lay motionless in the grass. He had to get to them. The women abandoned their horses and ran for the cover of the forest while the hunters, now thrust into the role of warriors, braced to meet the trappers.

The crack of gunfire and the yelling was deafening. Baa’koa ducked low over his colt’s neck, sending an arrow at one of the trappers, who fell from his horse with a loud scream. Several of his people – warriors and women alike – fell in the commotion, their bodies crumpling to the ground in a cloud of dust and panic.

No one had time to process what was happening. The trappers, with their guns and their numbers, pressed forward, firing relentlessly. It seemed that every shot that rang out brought another warrior to the ground

The air turned thick with the smell of gun powder, and the rhythm of the gunfire felt like the beat of war drums.

When he reached the spot where his father lay, Baa’koa pulled his horse to a halt and leapt to the ground. His pulse hammered in his ears as be bent over the body. Everything around him seemed to slow as his mind struggled to make sense of the brutality of what was happening, but there was no time to think. One by one, the hunters of the A’aninin fell from their horses until only two men remained. They quickly retreated into the woods. The horses bolted across the landscape, splitting the travois they’d dragged and scattering fresh bison hides and meat into the dirt.

Baa’koa pulled another arrow from his quiver, but his hands shook with rage and grief. He aimed and let an arrow fly. The projectile hit the man he’d targeted, but it wasn’t a fatal wound. It did, however, prevent the trapper from firing off another shot from his pistol.

Baa’koa’s pulse raced as he grabbed one of the spears from a fallen warrior and hurled it toward the closest trapper. The spear flew true, hitting its target. The man let out a scream as he fell from his horse. A bullet grazed Baa’koa’s arm, sending hot pain shooting through him. Gritting his teeth, Baa’koa left his father lying on the ground and sought the safety of the trees with the few survivors. He had no choice…for now. Their attackers were too great in number, and those damn guns gave the trappers an advantage that Baa’koa and his people couldn’t overcome.

Smoke from the gunfire hung in the air, mingling with the thick scent of blood even after the remaining trappers stopped shooting. His eyes darted to the bodies of his fallen people. Matso’onah, his father by choice, lay lifeless in the dirt, along with his brother, Nahko’tah.

“We got ‘em on the run, boys,” one of the men shouted. “There won’t be any trouble from that bunch.” He laughed triumphantly, raising his rifle in the air. He was clearly the leader of the group.

“Are ya sure, Rattler? We oughta go after the rest of ‘em.”

“No need,” the leader shouted. “They can lick their wounds and tell their people that no one messes with Victor Rattler and his brigade.”

Cold rage gripped Baa’koa’s chest as the men retreated, galloping away just as quickly as they had appeared. He glanced around. The two remaining hunters emerged from their hiding spots. The two women who had survived huddled together behind some shrubs.

The men stared at him. They remained rooted to the spot. Disbelief of what had happened in the span of a few minutes was clearly displayed on their faces.

Each man was a capable hunter and warrior, but none had been prepared for this new enemy with their superior weapons. Baa’koa left the safety of the trees and ran to where his father lay in the dirt. He dropped to his knees.

“Father,” he whispered, placing a hand on the man who had taught him more about life than his real father had ever done. Blood pooled in the dirt beneath Matso’onah, and his lifeless eyes stared up at the golden sky.

A faint moan took Baa’koa’s attention away from his father, the chief. He scrambled to his feet and stumbled to where Nahko’tah lay in the dirt.

“Brother,” Baa’koa breathed. A small sense of relief washed over him. Nahko’tah was alive, but his pain-filled groan sent a shiver through Baa’koa. He was barely conscious, his face pale and drawn, and his eyes stared up at him with a plea for help.

“I’ll get you home,” Baa’koa said. “The medicine man will know what to do.”

Nahko’tah reached for his arm and gripped it. “Our father,” he whispered through strained lips.

Baa’koa gave a slight shake of his head. He glanced over his shoulder at the sound of approaching footsteps.

“Catch any of our horses you can find,” Baa’koa said, his voice firm. It sounded distant in his own ears. “We have to take our chief and the others home.”

Baa’koa knelt beside his brother. He wrapped a strip of leather around Nahko’tah’s abdomen to slow the flow of blood from the wound created by a trapper’s bullet. He lowered his head and squeezed his eyes shut, sitting over his brother.

“Brother,” Nahko’tah’s voice was barely audible. “I’m sorry...I can’t keep fighting...”

Baa’koa’s heart twisted as he knelt beside his brother.

“You’re the best brother anyone could have,” he whispered through clenched teeth. His voice was raw with emotion. “You’re a strong fighter.”

Nahko’tah blinked slowly, his gaze unfocused. “Tell our mother…” His voice trailed off into a soft cough then a final breath.

“Don’t go,” Baa’koa whispered in a broken voice. But Nahko’tah was already gone.

Something tore inside Baa’koa in that instant, a raw ache that was deeper than grief. Something dark twisted and grew within him. His hands trembled as he gripped his brother’s limp arm. It wasn’t sorrow that consumed him now, it was fury. A deep, growing anger threatened to consume him whole.

His brother. His father. Taken from him in the same senseless manner, and by the same kind of men who had taken his real father all those years ago.

Baa’koa stood slowly. His body trembled with rage as he clenched his fists at his sides. This time would be different, however. This time, the men who had taken everything from him had no idea what was coming for them.