“Go Slow… It Hurts,” She Moaned—He Whispered, “I’ll Die Before I Hurt You” | Wild West Stories
Chapter 7
She saw him through the gap between two tepees. Samuel Wittman, his face red with drink and fury, sitting astride his plow horse. Beside him, Thomas Brennan, the blacksmith, his massive frame making his horse look small. Three other men from Redemption Creek. All armed. All wearing the righteous expressions of men who believed their cause was just.
Chief Stonehand emerged from his tepee, dignified despite the intrusion. Joseph Running Elk stood at his right hand, translating.
*Why do white men come armed to our peaceful camp?*
Samuel Wittman spat tobacco juice deliberately close to where the chief stood. “We come for stolen property. That woman there — ” he pointed directly at Sarah, who had emerged despite Joseph’s warning. “Is my daughter. She was taken by that savage.”
“I was not taken.”
Sarah stepped forward. Her voice was stronger than she felt.
“I ran. I chose to leave.”
Thomas Brennan’s laugh was ugly. “Women don’t choose, girl. You belong to your father until you belong to me. That’s the law.”
“White man’s law,” Joseph Running Elk said coldly, “has no power here.”
Samuel’s hand moved toward his pistol. “Boy, you’ll hand her over. Or we’ll — ”
He never finished the threat.
Joseph had drawn his knife in one fluid motion, the blade glinting in the evening sun. Around them, warriors knocked arrows to bowstrings with practiced ease.
“You are five,” Joseph said. “We are many. And you threaten those under our protection.”
“Protection?” Thomas Brennan sneered. “She’s a white woman living with savages. Good Christians have a duty to save her from defilement.”
Sarah felt something crack open inside her. Anger. Clean and bright and long-buried.
“The only defilement I’ve known was in your Christian town,” she said, her voice rising. “These people have shown me more kindness and respect than I ever knew among my own.”
Her father’s face purpled. “You ungrateful bitch. After everything I did — ”
“You beat me.” The words exploded from her. “You sold me to him like I was cattle. I’ve seen the bruises he leaves on his horses. I know what he would have done to me.”
“Discipline,” her father growled. “It’s what you need. What you’ve always needed.”
Chief Stonehand raised his hand, and silence fell. When he spoke, Joseph’s voice carried his translation:
“The woman came to us seeking sanctuary. She has worked alongside our people. Learned our ways. Shown respect. She stays by her choice, not by force. This is the Lakota way.”
“I don’t give a damn about your ways,” Samuel Wittman snarled. He dismounted, striding toward Sarah.
Joseph moved to intercept. But Sarah surprised everyone, including herself, by stepping forward.
“No.”
Her father stopped, blinking.
“No,” she repeated, louder now. “I will not go. You have no power over me here.”
“I’m your father.”
“A father protects. A father cherishes. You did neither.”
Samuel’s face contorted. He lunged forward, hand raised to strike.
Joseph caught his wrist.
Held it immobile with what looked like effortless strength.
“You will not touch her,” Joseph said, each word precise as a blade. “Not here. Not ever again.”
For a moment, the two men stood frozen. Then Thomas Brennan made a fatal error.
He drew his pistol.
The twang of bowstrings filled the air. Thomas’s hat flew off — an arrow having passed close enough to part his hair. His horse reared, nearly unseating him. More arrows thudded into the ground at the horse’s feet, making the animal dance nervously.
“The next ones do not miss,” Chief Stonehand said calmly, as Joseph translated. “Leave now. Do not return.”
Sarah’s father wrenched free of Joseph’s grip, backing toward his horse.
“This isn’t over. I’ll be back with the cavalry. They’ll burn this whole camp to get her back.”
“Then they will find nothing,” Joseph replied. “We move like the wind. Your soldiers are slow and loud. We hear them coming for miles.”
“You’re making war on the United States,” one of the other men shouted.
Morning Star stepped forward. Her English was careful but clear.
“We make war on no one. We protect a woman who asked for help. If this is a crime in your world, then your world is broken.”
The standoff stretched taut as a bowstring. Sarah could see her father calculating odds — five men against thirty warriors, all with arrows drawn.
Thomas Brennan holstered his pistol with obvious reluctance. “We’ll handle this proper through the law.”
As the men mounted, Sarah’s father locked eyes with her one last time.
“You’re dead to me, girl. You hear? Dead. You’ve chosen these heathens over your own blood.”
Sarah met his gaze without flinching.
“I’ve chosen freedom over slavery. I’ve chosen respect over fear. If that makes me dead to you, then I’ve been dead a long time already.”
The five men wheeled their horses and galloped away.