“Yes.”
Willow shook her head. “How can you have sympathy for him? He is vehoe! They have no honor. Their words are like the wind, impossible to see, impossible to hold.”
“He is different.”
“Different,” Willow said scornfully. “How?”
“I do not know.”
“I do not understand you,” Willow said. “The whites bring nothing but trouble to our land, and now you say you care for this man. I think it is good that he will die soon.”
“I do not wish to speak of his death,” Winter Star said curtly. “There must be some good white men. They cannot all be bad.”
“I have never heard of a good white man, nor do I believe there is any such thing.” Willow glanced past Winter Star and smiled brightly. “I see Young Hawk coming this way. Do you want to be alone with him?”
“Not now.”
“I thought you cared for him.”
“I do, but Magpie Woman and her sister are also walking this way, and I do not want them to see me talking to Young Hawk alone.”
Willow nodded. Magpie Woman would tell the whole village that Winter Star and Young Hawk had been together, alone.
Young Hawk nodded at the two girls as he approached. Willow was a pretty girl, as slender as the tree for which she had been named, but it was Winter Star who drew his gaze. She was the most beautiful girl in the village and he was determined to have her for his wife.
“The Fox Soldiers are having a dance tonight,” he said, his gaze on Winter Star’s face. “Will I see you there?”
“I do not know,” Winter Star replied softly. “I must ask my mother.”
“And if she says it is all right?”
“Then I will be there,” Winter Star said. She glanced at the waterskin in her hand then smiled at Young Hawk. “I must go. My mother is waiting for me.”
Young Hawk watched her out of sight before turning to face Willow. “Does she speak of me?”
“Sometimes.”
“What does she say? Does she speak of marriage?”
Willow smiled impishly. “Sometimes. Of course, it is Black Otter she speaks of at such times.”
“Black Otter!” Rage filled the young warrior’s eyes. “He is old enough to be her father! And he already has two wives. I...” Young Hawk glared at Willow. She was kidding him, of course. It was the way of maidens.
He drew himself up to his full height as she began to laugh. With a curt nod, he turned and walked down river, the back of his neck burning with anger and embarrassment.
Willow laughed until she was breathless, and then, suddenly, her expression grew serious. It was not Black Otter that Young Hawk should worry about, but the white man.
Chapter 4
Two days later, Riley Culhane awoke clear-eyed, as hungry as a grizzly after a winter’s sleep. Feeling weak, he sat up, his hand going to his side as a twinge of pain darted through him.
Peeling back the bandage swathed around his middle, he examined the wound. It seemed to be healing. The skin around the mouth of the wound was no longer raw and red but a healthy shade of pink. The ominous red streaks had disappeared.
“Bless the girl,” he murmured fervently. “She’s saved my life.” And cut me loose, he mused, realizing for the first time that his hands and feet were no longer bound.
Hearing footsteps, Culhane pulled the buffalo robe over his nakedness, wondering, as he did so, what had become of his uniform pants and boots.
He smiled at the girl walking toward him, recognizing her as the one who had nursed him. She was a beautiful creature, lithe and lovely as a young doe.
She came to a halt when she saw that he was sitting up. Turning on her heel, she went back to her lodge.
Moments later, she returned, followed by the warrior who had taken Culhane prisoner.
Before Culhane could protest, the warrior yanked him to his feet, bound his hands behind his back with a strip of rawhide, and dragged him to a stout wooden post near the edge of the village. With a deft movement, the warrior dropped a noose around Culhane’s neck, secured the end to the top of the post, then strode briskly away.
Muttering an oath, Culhane sank down on his heels on the hard ground, his back resting against the rough-hewn post with his long legs drawn up to his chest to shield his nakedness. From here, he had a clear view of the Indian camp. There were about sixty lodges located in a wide circle. He noticed all the entrances faced east, toward the rising sun. All the lodge covers were decorated, some with animals, some with birds, others with suns or moons or stars.
A range of mountains loomed in the West, a forest of pine trees bordered the far side of the camp, a lazy river flowed along the southern boundary.
Glancing around, he saw drying racks heavy with meat. Shaggy, brown, buffalo robes were pegged to the ground, hairy side down, while women scraped away the meat and fat. Tripods stood outside most of the lodges. He surmised the women did most of their cooking outside when the weather permitted. The Indian horse herd grazed in the distance. He could see several young boys wandering among the horses, swinging aboard their bare backs, hanging from their necks with all the ease of circus performers.
Shortly, people began to emerge from their homes. Women made their way to the river for fresh water, or to the forest for wood. Young boys tumbled out of the lodges like puppies, eager to discover the adventures of a new day. Little girls tagged at their mother’s heels, learning early how to prepare a meal or tan a hide. Warriors emerged from their lodges stretching sleep-weary muscles as they made their way to the river to bathe.
Soon, the smell of roasting meat filled the air. From somewhere in the distance came the rich aroma of looted Army coffee. Culhane’s stomach began to growl loudly, reminding him he hadn’t eaten a full meal in several days.
Children played all around him, not daring to get too close to the strange white man, but curious just the same. Occasionally a man or a woman would walk past Culhane, their dark eyes filled with scorn when they looked at him.
An hour later, the girl who had tended his wounds approached him. Kneeling at his side, she offered him a drink of water from something that looked suspiciously like the bladder of a deer. Then she spooned a bowl of hot broth into him.
Culhane ate readily, though it was humiliating to be hand-fed as if he were an infant unable to feed himself. Even more disconcerting was the fact that he was stark naked.
When the bowl was empty, the girl rose to her feet.
“Natonoson, nahotoetan,” Culhane called. “Wait, please.”
Winter Star paused, a smile playing over her lips as he stumbled over the Cheyenne words.
“You saved my life,” Culhane said, speaking English. “I’m grateful. Hahohesetanoxtoz,” he said haltingly. “Grateful.”
Winter Star nodded.
“You understand me?” Culhane asked. “You understand English?”
“Taxce,” she replied. Not much. “Ne-tsehese-nestse-he?” Do you speak Cheyenne?
“Taxce,” Culhane answered, grinning. “What are your people going to do with me?”
She gazed at him for a long moment, debating whether she should tell him the truth, and then she shrugged. Perhaps he had a right to know. “You will be given to the women as soon as you have recovered from your wounds.”
Culhane stared up at her, one eyebrow raised. “Given to the women? For what?”
Winter Star frowned as she sought for the right words. “For their amusement, until you die.”
“You mean they’re gonna torture me?”
Winter Star nodded.
“And that’s why you saved my life? So they could take turns killing me an inch at a time?”
Winter Star’s cheeks flushed with guilt and she looked away, unable to face the accusation in his eyes.
“Thanks, anyway,” Culhane muttered under his breath.
He cocked his head to one side, studying the girl. Her skin was like smooth copper, her waist-length hair as black as polished ebony,
dark eyes luminous. Looking at her, he knew why the Cheyenne were known as the Beautiful People.
“Are you gonna help the women carve me up?” he asked, unable to mask the bitterness in his voice.
“No.”
“Just gonna watch?”
Winter Star bit down on her lip. His words were as sharp as her mother’s skinning knife. “No.”
“Why not?”
“I... I cannot.”
“Should be pretty entertaining,” Culhane remarked. “Lots of blood. Me pukin’ my guts out.”
“I do not think you will die badly,” Winter Star said quietly. “I think you will meet death bravely, as a warrior should.”
Culhane swallowed hard. He didn’t want to die, bravely or otherwise. “How long?” he asked, fighting down a wave of despair. “How long does it usually take for a man to die that way?”
Winter Star shrugged, wishing he would talk of something else. “Some men die quickly. Sometimes it takes many hours.”
“Is it gonna be soon?”
“No. They want you to be well and strong.”
“Figure I’ll last longer that way, I expect.”
The merest hint of a smile touched Winter Star’s lips. “Yes.”
“Ne-toneseve-he?” he asked, stumbling over the Cheyenne pronunciation. What’s your name?
“My people call me Winter Star.”
“That’s pretty. And so are you.”
Winter Star blushed becomingly at his praise. “I must go now.”
“Wait. Winter Star. Could you bring me my pants? I feel kinda silly, sitting here buck naked.”
“I cannot.”
Before he could ask her again, she hurried away.
* * * * *
The white man remained in her thoughts all day. His handsome face danced before her eyes as she helped her mother and the other women plant the corn, squash, and pumpkins that would be harvested in the spring when they returned to this place after the fall hunt.
When the planting was done, she went with Shy Buffalo Girl and Willow to collect nuts and berries. The captive white man was the main topic of conversation as they walked along. Shy Buffalo Girl and Willow pestered Winter Star, wanting to know if the white man was hairy all over, if his pale skin felt the same as theirs.
Winter Star refused to answer their questions, not wishing to talk about the man, or to think of the awful fate awaiting him. She kept hearing his voice telling her she was pretty. It pleased her beyond measure that he should think so.
Later, in her lodge, she helped her mother prepare the evening meal while Elk Hunter sat beside the fire mending his favorite bow.
After dinner, Young Hawk stopped by, ostensibly to speak to Elk Hunter, but he couldn’t keep his eyes off Winter Star. She was one of the prettiest girls in the village and he vowed to have her for his wife, although he knew it would not be easy. Already, she had refused three of the tribe’s best young men.
Young Hawk took his leave an hour later, and Winter Star quickly put together some food to take to the white man. Her heart pounded with eagerness as she walked toward him. She felt her knees go strangely weak when he smiled at her, his dark gray eyes sending her a warm welcome.
“I have brought you some food,” Winter Star said, kneeling beside him. “Roast buffalo meat and dried plums.”
“Hahoo,” he said, his stomach rumbling loudly at the promise of something to eat. “Thank you.”
She took her time feeding him, glad for an excuse to be near him. He was so handsome, she could not stop looking at him. His shoulders were wide and well-muscled, his skin very brown where the sun had touched him, lighter where his clothing covered him. She gazed with wonder at the thick brown hair matted on his chest, at the coarse brown stubble growing along his jaw line and upper lip. Indian men did not have much hair on their bodies; what little grew on their faces, they plucked out. To her surprise, she discovered she rather liked the hair on his face. Almost, she reached out to touch it.
She was sorry when he finished the meal.
“Don’t go,” Culhane said when she started to rise.
“I must.”
“Can’t you stay for a few minutes?”
“I should not...”
“Please?”
“Very well.”
“Good. Tell me about yourself. Are you married?”
“No.”
“How old are you?”
“I have seen seventeen summers.”
“I thought most Indian girls married young.”
“Some do.”
“But not you?”
“I have not found a man who pleases me,” she answered, and knew immediately it was a lie. She had found a man who pleased her. A white man. She lifted her head proudly. “Do not think I have not been asked.”
“I didn’t think that,” Culhane assured her. “Any man, red or white, would be lucky to have you for his wife.”
“Why do you say that? You do not even know me.”
“I know you’re lovely,” Culhane said sincerely. “You have a kind heart, and gentle hands, and when I look in your eyes, I see compassion for a stranger. Such women make good wives.”
His words filled her heart with warmth and happiness. She swallowed hard, not wanting him to know how deeply his words touched her. “Do you wish anything before I go?”
“I don’t suppose you could bring me a blanket?”
“No. I am sorry.”
“It’s okay. It isn’t your fault.”
Culhane felt a rush of loneliness when she was gone. All around him, he saw families getting ready to turn in for the night. Women took their toddlers outside to relieve themselves before bed. The warriors strolled leisurely toward their lodges, pausing now and then to speak to a friend. The maidens folded their courting blankets and returned to the protection of their homes; the young men walked proudly through the camp, strutting like peacocks if they had been successful with the maiden of their choice, making light of it if they had been rejected.
Soon, everyone disappeared inside, leaving Culhane outside, alone. With a sigh, he curled up on the ground, wishing his hands weren’t bound. It made getting comfortable downright impossible. The ground was hard and cold, the wound in his side ached dully.
Closing his eyes, he summoned Winter Star’s image to mind in an effort to block out the pain and the knowledge of what the future held. She was easily the most stunningly beautiful girl he had ever seen and he held her image close as he drifted to sleep.
Chapter 5
A week passed, and it was the longest seven days of Culhane’s life. As his strength returned, he began to walk around the post, stretching his legs, flexing his muscles, wanting to be in good shape should he find a chance to escape. His nudity had ceased to be an embarrassment to him. If the Indians wouldn’t let him cover himself, then they’d just have to put up with his bare butt sticking out. If the little girls learned a lesson in male anatomy, so be it. Only when Winter Star was near did his nakedness bother him.
But she was not here. Bored beyond belief, he paced back and forth, fretting over his lack of freedom, cussing the rope encircling his neck, the rawhide thong that bound his hands. His wrists, chafed by the rough bindings, were red and sore.
It was an eerie feeling, being ignored by one and all. It made him feel as if he were less than human, a non-person.
Nights, he lay curled upon the cold ground, huddled into a tight ball, damning the Indians for refusing him the dignity of clothing, the warmth of a blanket.
The only bright spot in his existence was the twice-daily appearance of Winter Star. She brought him food and water, her dark eyes always a little sad, her smile a little frayed around the edges. Sometimes he persuaded her to stay and talk with him, but most days she stayed only long enough to feed him.
“I feel like a Christmas turkey,” Culhane muttered one evening as she fed him a bowl of rabbit stew flavored with sage and wild onions.
Winter Star looked at him askance, her
head tilted to one side.
“Being fattened up for the kill,” Culhane explained ruefully. “How much longer have I got?”
“Three days,” Winter Star said quietly.
“Damn.”
Wordlessly, Winter Star offered him another spoonful of stew.
But his appetite was gone.
“You must eat,” Winter Star said.
“I don’t have to do a damn thing,” Culhane rasped angrily. “Get the hell away from me!”
She left without a word, leaving him to sit in lonely isolation.
* * * * *
Winter Star could not get the white man out of her thoughts that night. It seemed suddenly cruel, healing a man just to kill him. It had been done before, on rare occasions, but never had she felt such sorrow and compassion for the condemned man. Never had she felt so guilty for what her people were going to do.
It was long after midnight when she wrapped a blanket around her shoulders and slipped out of the lodge. On silent feet, she made her way through the sleeping village to the white man’s side.
She had thought to find him asleep, but he was sitting up, his back against the post, his legs drawn close to his body.
“What the hell are you doing here?” he asked, his voice thick with anger and bitter frustration.
“You did not finish your dinner tonight. I thought... I thought you might be hungry.”
“I’m not.”
She nodded, her dark eyes filled with sadness, and then she turned to go.
“Winter Star, wait!”
“Do you want something?”
“Just your company. Sit with me awhile.”
Gracefully, she dropped to the ground beside him. Noting his shivers, she drew the blanket from her shoulders and placed it over them both.
“Thanks,” Culhane murmured. “I didn’t mean to growl at you today.”
“It does not matter. I understand what you must be feeling. I cannot blame you for being angry.”
Culhane nodded. He was angry, but not at her.
“Among my people, it is not proper to ask someone for their name, but you have never told me yours, and I would like to know it, if it would not offend you to tell me.”
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