SPIRIT'S SONG is finished. My editor loved it. She said it's "spectacular, one of the best books I've ever done". It will be out in March of '99. Pino is working on the cover, and I hear it's beautiful.

SPIRIT'S SONG

The Spirit's Song was lost in me,
my heart was sinking low,
I drifted on the winds of change,
I had nowhere to go.
But, then you came and with your voice,
you spoke in tones so soft,
That in my heart, I found my choice,
you set this bird aloft.

The eagle soared above my head,
my spirit guide was free,
I felt the pull but could not reach,
he was too high for me.
But, then you came, and lifted me,
with love as pure as light,
My feet left ground, you gifted me,
again you gave me flight.

I could not say I'd ever reach
the goals I once had held,
I knew for me there was no use,
my spirit was impaled.
But, then you came, and freed my soul,
you righted what was wrong,
You are my dream, you made me whole,
you are the Spirit's Song.

---Spirit Walker

SPIRIT'S SONG
PROLOGUE

She was gone. Alan Summers stared out the window of his plush Nob Hill mansion, unable to believe she had actually left him. He'd made it too easy for her, he thought, given her too much
money, too much freedom.
He wouldn't make that mistake again. Turning away from the window, he sat down at his desk, pulled a sheet of embossed stationery from the drawer, dipped his pen in the ink well. He would find her. He had money, and connections. His hands curled into tight fists. He would find her, and when he did, he would remind her of her place.

SPIRIT'S SONG
Chapter 1

"Dead or alive, Barnett, it's up to you."
"I'm not going back to prison."
"Like I said, it's up to you."
Phil Barnett took a deep breath, wondering if the bounty hunter would really shoot him in the back.
"Get those hands up where I can see 'em. Now."
It was the sound of a gun being cocked that put all thought of flight from Barnett's mind. There was something final in the rasp of metal against metal, like the sound of dirt clods being shoveled into an open grave.
Raising his hands, Barnett turned and faced the bounty hunter.
There was no mercy in the half-breed's cold gray eyes, no emotion in his face at all, except maybe boredom. Barnett shivered. Everything he had ever heard about Jesse Yellow Thunder was true, he thought bleakly. The half-breed was as unfeeling as stone, and as ugly as sin, what with that jagged white scar that started at the edge of his left temple, cut across his left eye and cheek, and ended just below his jaw.
With a sigh, Barnett raised his arms. Moments later, he was mounted on his horse, his hands securely cuffed behind his back.
"Would you really have shot me in the back?" he asked as the half-breed took up the reins.
"Damn right."
"Just like that?"
The bounty hunter nodded. "Just like that. Poster says dead or alive. Dead's easier."
And Barnett had no doubt the bounty hunter meant every word.
* * *
Jesse closed and locked the door to the hotel room. Tossing his hat on a chair, he sat down on the edge of the bed and took of his boots. His prisoner had been delivered, safe and sound. The necessary papers had been signed. He had collected the reward.
He scooted back on the mattress, his back propped against the pillows, and began looking through the sheaf of wanted posters he had pulled from his saddlebags.
He grunted softly as he read the first one. Some fool back east was offering a ten thousand dollar reward for information regarding his runaway wife's whereabouts. He shook his head. Ten grand. That was a pile of money any way you looked at it.
He looked through the rest, then plucked one from the bunch.
Joseph Ravenhawk, wanted for bank robbery and assault. The price on his head was a thousand dollars. It would be the easiest thousand he ever made. Whenever Ravenhawk was on the run, he headed straight for Indian country to hole up with his Cheyenne relatives.
Jesse tossed the flyers on the floor. He hadn't been home in over a year, he mused as he leaned back against the headboard. As long as he was going to be in Dakota territory, he could stop and spend a day or two with the Lakota. It was the time of the Cherry Ripening Moon and his mother's people would be gathering near the Paha Sapa, the sacred Black Hills, to celebrate the Sun Dance with the Cheyenne. If he was lucky, Ravenhawk would be at the rendezvous by the time he got there.
He grinned ruefully. He was ready for a little tipi living; ready to hear the language of his childhood, to smell the fresh clean scent of pines and earth instead of air that reeked of smoke and booze, to eat cooking that wasn't his own.
He left early the following morning. Like a snake shedding its skin, he felt the layers of civilization fall away as he rode deeper into the land of the Lakota. Riding toward the only place that had ever felt like home, he wondered, as he always did, why he had stayed away for so long. This would be his last bounty, he decided. He'd find Ravenhawk, collect the reward, then return and settle down with his mother's people.
He had been away too long, done too many things he was ashamed of. Lost his sense of who he was. Perhaps he could find it again before it was too late.
It was beautiful country, all green and gold at this time of the year. The air seemed sweeter, the sky more blue. Even his horse seemed to know they were headed home. The mare tugged on the reins, eager to run, and he let her go, reveling in the speed and power of the big blue roan, in the feel of the wind stinging his cheeks and whipping through his hair.
He bent low over the mare's neck. The rhythmic sound of hoofbeats seem to be saying, home, home, home.

Chapter 2

Kaylynn Summers grimaced as she picked up a piece of wood and added it to the pile in her arms. She would have sat down and cried, if she'd thought it would do any good, but there was no one to hear her, and no one to care. It was a moot point anyway, since she had run out of tears months ago.
Tired of walking, she dumped the wood on the ground and sat down in the shade. Old Mo'e'ha could wait a few minutes, and if she couldn't wait, she could darn well get the wood herself.
With a grimace, Kaylynn pulled a splinter from her finger. One look at her hands, and she really did want to cry. The nails were all broken and uneven; there was a blister on one palm, a cut on her thumb.
She stared at her hands, at the wide gold band on the third finger of her left hand. Her hands were a symbol of her life, she thought with wry amusement. The gold represented the wealth she had left behind, the callouses stood for the poverty she lived in now. Hard to believe her hands had once been smooth and lily white. Alan would be horrified if he could see them now.
She wondered how long he had searched for her, if he had told her parents she was missing. Strange, how life turned out. She had gone against her parents wishes to marry the man of her dreams. Like a fairy prince, he had carried her off to his castle, dressed her in expensive clothes, given her riches beyond compare. And then he had turned into a monster, a fiend who demanded perfection, who lashed out at her if she dared voice an opinion that contradicted his, who wanted her love, but only on his terms, who hit her when she failed to please him.
She glanced over her shoulder at the Indian village sprawled along the banks of the river. Never, in her wildest dreams, had she imagined she would find herself in such a place. The attack on the stage coach had been a nightmare of noise and fear. One minute, she had been safe and secure, albeit terribly uncomfortable, inside a coach headed for her parents home in New York, and the next she was cowering on the floor, certain she was about to be killed. She would never forget her terror as the battle raged around the coach, the sounds of gunfire, the dust, the smell of blood, the palpable fear of the three men who shared the coach with her.
When the fighting was over, the driver and guard and the three men inside the coach were all dead.
One of the warriors had yanked her from the coach and took her up on his horse while the other Indians stripped the dead of their clothing and weapons, took the horses from the traces, then set the coach on fire.
And now she was here, a slave in an Indian village. It was unthinkable, unbelievable, that the daughter of John Morton Duvall the Third should be in this place, forced to do menial labor for a bunch of savages, though, in all fairness, she had to admit they weren't really a savage people, even though their lifestyle was primitive and uneducated.
The warrior who had captured her had given her to his mother, making it perfectly clear that she was to do whatever the old lady said. He had warned her, using signs and a few words of English, that she would be punished if she tried to run away.
He didn't have to tell her twice. If she hadn't run away from home, she wouldn't be here. No telling what would happen to her if she tried again! At first, she had hated it here, hated everything - the food, the people, the land itself.
She hadn't known which was worse - the work she was made to do, the horrible skins she was forced to wear, the awful food they gave her to eat, or not being able to speak the language. She had tried to tell herself that she should have stayed with Alan, that being a punching bag in a big house was better than this. But after a few weeks, when the strangeness had worn off, when she realized no one was going to hurt her, she came to an amazing discovery. She was happier here, living in a hide lodge, than she had ever been living in luxury. She might be a slave, but she was a person here, of value to Mo'e-ha. True, she worked hard, but it satisfied a need deep within her.
Well, she had wasted enough time for one day, she thought with a grin. If she didn't hurry, old Mo'e'ha would scold her. Mo'e'ha meant magpie, and Kaylynn grinned, thinking the woman was aptly named. If she was late, old Mao'hoohe would take a stick to her, but that wasn't so bad. Unlike Alan, the woman was too frail to hit very hard. The humiliation of being punished like a child hurt more than the beating itself.
Picking up her load of wood, she headed back toward the village. There was some sort of big celebration underway. It had been going on for over a week now as the seven bands of the Sioux Nation gathered. There had been lots of feasting and singing and games as the Lakota renewed acquaintances with their allies, the Cheyenne. She wondered vaguely what all the fuss was about, but it didn't really matter. She wasn't really a part of it. All she knew was that it was some sort of religious celebration.
A large circular dance arbor had been established in the center of the camp. To the camp, a special lodge had been erected, though she wasn't sure what its purpose was. There had been a flurry of excitement one afternoon, followed by a Buffalo Dance. The next day, a procession of warriors and women had paraded into the village bearing a cottonwood tree. She had watched as several warriors counted coup on the tree. Then one of the medicine men had ordered the tree "killed" and it had been carried into the center of the Sun Dance lodge, where the trunk had been painted, the side to the west was painted red, the north blue, the east green, and the south yellow. Rawhide figures had been placed in the fork of the tree, along with sixteen cherry sticks, some tobacco, an arrow for killing buffalo, and a picket pin. Rawhide ropes had been attached to the pole. She could only wonder why.
There seemed to be an unusual amount of excitement when she reached the village. Several warriors were gathered into a tight group, all talking at once. The camp dogs were barking. Kaylynn blew out a sigh. She had never seen so many dogs in her whole life. Big ones, little ones, they all seemed to be half wild, always yapping, always under foot. It had made her sick to her stomach the first time she had seen one of the Indian women catch a young dog and club it over the head, and even sicker when she realized the poor animal was going to be dinner.
Now, she'd not only eaten dog meat, but cooked it, as well.
She kept her head lowered as passed by the clump of warriors. In all the months she had been here, she had avoided the men as much as possible. None of them seemed interested in her, for which she had been wonderfully grateful. She had heard stories, of course, of savage Indians lusting after white women, but either the stories weren't true, or they didn't find her attractive enough to lust over. Whatever the reason, she was glad none of them seemed to want her. She had learned the hard way what a man wanted from a woman, and she was glad to be done with it.
She glanced surreptitiously at the warriors as she passed by, wondering who the newcomer was. She didn't remember ever seeing him before. He was taller than the others. A deep red scar cut across the left side of his face, giving him a fierce angry look. She shivered as his gaze ran over her from head to foot.
Clutching the load of wood tighter, she hurried into Mo'e'ha's lodge and closed the door flap behind her.

Jesse stared after the girl, wondering who she was. She hadn't been in camp the last time he had been here, he'd bet his last dollar on that. Her hair alone made her stand out. In a village where most everyone had straight black hair, that rich deep curly red stood out like a candle on a cloudy night.
With a shake of his head, he turned his attention back to what his cousin, Grey Wolf, was saying. Hardly aware of what he was doing, he touched the scar on his face. He didn't care how pretty the girl was, he was through with white women. They had no appreciation for a real man.
When the first rush of excitement at his return had died down, Jesse took Grey Wolf aside. "There's a white woman in camp," he said. "Who is she?"
"Two Dogs captured her in a raid. She belongs to his mother."
Jesse nodded. He'd figured it was something like that, and then cursed himself for asking. It didn't matter who she was. He had no need for a woman other than the quick physical release that any whore could provide.
He put all thought of the woman from his mind as he followed Grey Wolf to his lodge. The Sun Dance was tomorrow and he had preparations to make.
* * *
Kaylynn stood on the edge of crowd, her curiosity stronger than her revulsion as she watched the shaman move among those who were going to participate in the Sun Dance ceremony. She had been intrigued my much that she had seen during her stay with the Lakota, repulsed by some, but this was by far the most gruesome thing she had seen. A dozen men stood together, their expressions solemn, as the medicine man moved among, slashing the skin on their chests or backs, inserting wooden skewers into the muscle, attaching the skewers to the rawhide thongs which were attached to the Sun Dance pole, or to heavy buffalo skulls.
The sound of drumming filled the air and the men began to move. Those who were attached to the Sun Dance pole began to dance back and forth, their faces turned up to the sky as they tugged against the thongs that bound them to the pole. The other men danced in a wide circle, dragging the heavy skulls behind them. From time to time, the dancers blew on eagle bone whistles which hung from cords around their necks.
Fascinated and repulsed, her gaze drifted from one man to another as she watched them dance, until she saw the tall stranger she had noticed the day before. She didn't know who he was, but he looked as fierce and untamed as all the others, maybe more so, with that hideous scar on his cheek.
Face turned to the sun, he moved with cat-like grace, his feet hardly seeming to touch the ground as he danced. She stared at the blood and perspiration trickling down his chest, at the rapt expression on his face, and knew if she lived with the Lakota for the rest of her life, she would never understand them. And yet, for the first time since her captivity, she felt herself wanting to know more. What did he hope to gain by submitting himself to such torture?
She noticed that his hands and feet had been painted red and blue; stripes were painted across his broad shoulders. He wore a long red kilt. There were bands of rabbit fur on his arms and ankles.
The drumming engulfed her. It made the hair rise along her arms. She felt it surround her, felt it go deep into the earth, felt the beat of it in the soles of her feet.
The sun rose higher. Oblivious to the perspiration trickling down her back, oblivious to all but the scar-faced man, she watched him dance. Body sheened with sweat, muscles taut with pain, he moved forward and back, tugging against the rawhide umbilical cord that bound him to the sacred tree. It was barbaric. It was beautiful.
The dancing lasted for hours. She left the circle for a time, but no matter where she went, the drumming followed her, as did the image of the scar-faced man, until she was again drawn back to the sacred circle.
Night had fallen by the time all the dancers had freed themselves. One of the men needed assistance from relatives before he could tear himself free; another fainted so that a friend had to come forward and remove the skewers from his chest.
The scar-faced man required no help. Head high, chest bloodied, body sheened with sweat, he gave one final pull against the thongs and freed himself from the Sun Dance pole.
For what reason, she felt like cheering and crying at the same time.