Tales of Western Romance

by Baker, Madeline

  Too soon, the big day arrived. Clad in only a clout and moccasins, Culhane stood beside the other warriors. He wondered if the other warriors, all younger than he, were as apprehensive as he was. They’d had years to prepare for this day, while he’d had only a few weeks.

  His mouth was dry, his palms damp with cold sweat, by the time Yellow Shield came to stand before him. Culhane’s gaze was drawn to the knife in the old man’s hand and he had a sudden, keen recollection of the pain the women had inflicted on him. How could he stand there and let Yellow Shield stick that knife into his flesh?

  He swallowed hard. Fighting the urge to run, he pulled his gaze from the knife and searched for Winter Star. She was easy to find. She stood beside her mother, her brow furrowed, her eyes dark with worry.

  Winter Star smiled faintly as she met Culhane’s gaze. Would he have the courage to endure the pain and the passion of the Sun Dance, or would be bring shame and disgrace to the People? Cheyenne men looked forward to this time in their lives with great anticipation, but Culhane was not Cheyenne; he had not grown up on brave tales of warriors who had seen mighty visions during the Sun Dance ritual. He had not gone through the hundreds of daily trials and tests that honed a man’s courage, preparing him for the ordeal of the Sun Dance.

  Culhane held his breath as Yellow Shield lifted the knife. His hands knotted into tight fists as the razor-sharp blade made a long slit in the muscle over his left nipple.

  The pain was worse than anything he had imagined. Blood dripped down his chest. The searing pain stole his breath. He gasped when Yellow Shield pierced his flesh the second time.

  Agony, white hot agony. He hardly felt the skewers being embedded in his chest, was hardly aware of Yellow Shield guiding him toward the Sun Dance Pole.

  In moments, the long rawhide thongs fastened to the skewers in his chest were attached to the pole, and now he was truly committed. There was only one way to escape the pole, and that was to pull against his tether until his flesh tore away and he was free.

  He stared blankly at the eagle bone whistle Yellow Shield thrust into his hand.

  “Blow on the whistle,” the medicine man advised. “Blow hard when the pain becomes more than you think you can bear.”

  It was already more than he could bear, Culhane mused bleakly, but he obediently put the whistle in his mouth.

  Through a red haze of pain, he glanced up at the pole, and then at the other warriors who were suffering with him. Surely their pain was as great as his. Surely there was no way to prepare for anything as excruciating as this.

  He saw three aged warriors move forward and take their places around a large drum. They began to beat on the drum, chanting in a minor key as they did so.

  One by one, the warriors attached to the pole began to shuffle forward and back, forward and back. The rawhide grew taut as the men reached the end of their tethers and they rocked back on their heels, putting pressure on the thongs that stretched between the Sun Dance Pole and bleeding flesh.

  Culhane drew a deep breath, and then moved forward with the others. His legs felt weighted and heavy, his feet clumsy, as he shuffled back and forth in time to the beat of the drum.

  He blew on the whistle as he rocked back on his heels, and the notes came out in a high-pitched whine, echoing the scream that was trapped in his throat. In time, he forgot about Winter Star, forgot that he considered this to be a heathen ritual, forgot that he had been raised as a Baptist by devout, God-fearing parents who would have been horrified to see their only child worshiping a heathen god.

  His chest was on fire, the drum beat was the beat of his own heart. He blew on his whistle, his face turned toward the unblinking eye of the sun.

  God of the Cheyenne, accept my pain. Help these good people to prosper in the coming year. Bring them peace from their enemies. Bless the woman I love. Help me to understand her ways, that we might live in harmony...

  The sun climbed high in the sky. Sweat poured from his body, his legs grew weak, his vision blurred. And still he moved forward and back, his face turned to the sun, until, at long last, his flesh surrendered to the relentless pressure and he fell to the ground.

  Suspended between awareness and oblivion, between the pain of the flesh and the peace of the soul, Culhane viewed his body lying on the ground. He saw himself change, until he was no longer solely a white man, but a man of two people, two hearts, two nations, and he knew he would never be the same again.

  He was only vaguely aware of Winter Star kneeling beside him, her eyes wet with tears. Yellow Shield was there, too, his weathered face filled with pride in his adopted son as he treated Culhane’s wounds.

  * * * * *

  Culhane felt as good as new in a few days. Closer, somehow, to Winter Star and her people, as if by enduring the Sun Dance he had truly become a warrior at last.

  A week later he came upon Winter Star near the river. She’d been washing her hair, and it hung like a damp, black cloud over her shoulders. For a long moment, he stood there, just watching her, wanting her more than anything. His body came alive, reminding him that he had not had a woman in a long time, reminding him that this woman would soon be his wife. In his heart, she was already his.

  His blood quickened when she saw him standing there. The yearning she read in his eyes stirred her own desire to life, and she felt it unfolding within her, like a sunflower opening to the sun. Without thought, without reservation, she walked into his arms and lifted her face for his kiss.

  He hesitated only a moment, then his arms went around her, holding her close, molding her body to his as he kissed her, gently at first, and then with greater urgency. There was no need for words. He wanted her, needed her as the air he breathed, and she was there, warm and willing. All thought of right and wrong fled his mind as his tongue dipped into her mouth and tasted the honey within.

  There was no shyness between them, no hesitation, no thought of what consequences might follow. She unfastened the ties of her tunic and removed the protective rope, then stood before him, naked and unashamed, her skin flushing with desire as his eyes caressed her.

  She watched as he removed his clout and leggings, and marveled at the beauty of the man, fascinated by the slight stretch of pale skin that his clout had covered. His legs were long, covered with fine dark hair. His chest tempted her fingertips, his mouth cried out for her kisses.

  They came together in beauty, his hard-muscled body a perfect mate to the slim softness of her own. She heard him whisper her name as he carried her to the ground, felt his body shudder with passion as his flesh melded with her own.

  She was alive, she thought dreamily, truly alive for the first time in her life. She was the air, the earth, the mother of all living, and he was the sun, giver of life. She cried his name as her body filled with light, and knew she would never be the same again.

  * * * * *

  Culhane took his offering to Elk Hunter the following morning, fifteen horses, all young, all stolen from the Crow. Elk Hunter had no reason to refuse Culhane’s offer, since Culhane had fulfilled every requirement, and so he accepted the horses with dignity. Eagle Woman declared the wedding would take place the following month.

  With a glad heart, Winter Star began the final preparations for her marriage.

  A week before the wedding, two dozen Crow warriors attacked the village, running off most of the Cheyenne horse herd, killing three of the herd boys, and capturing Beaver Woman.

  Within an hour, every warrior who still had a horse was mounted and ready to ride. Winter Star begged Culhane not to go.

  “I must,” he said. “Our people need every man who can ride. We cannot let the Crow get away with stealing our horses and killing our young boys. And what about Beaver Woman? Would you have us abandon her?”

  Winter Star shook her head, her heart torn with emotion. She was glad to hear Culhane refer to the Cheyenne as “our” people, glad he was concerned about Beaver Woman, but their wedding was only a few days away, and she was afraid,
so afraid.

  Her eyes were dark with anxiety as she watched him ride out of the village. Then, her hands pressed over her stomach, she returned to her lodge.

  * * * * *

  The Crow had not run for home. Instead, they split up, half going north, half going east. Elk Hunter took a group of Cheyenne and followed the northern trail. A warrior known as Walks Far followed the eastern trail. Culhane and Young Hawk went with him.

  That night, they stopped near a shallow stream. Culhane was spreading his bedroll when he heard a warning cry, followed by the shrill notes of a bugle.

  In a brief moment of clarity, he realized the Crow had led them into a trap. You could never trust the Crow, Culhane mused as he reached for his rifle. They sucked up to the white man, licking at his boot heels like a whipped cur. And then there was no time for thought. The soldiers, armed with repeating rifles, quickly killed or wounded most of the Cheyenne, who were armed with bows and a few ancient Spencer rifles.

  Culhane felt his anger turn to rage as he saw men he had come to admire shot down. He was fighting hand-to-hand with a bearded Corporal when something smashed into the back of his head, separating him from the rest of the world...

  * * * * *

  The warriors returned to the village by twos and threes, carrying their dead and wounded with them. The women poured out their grief in a long, keening wail as the bodies were prepared for burial. The men who had remained in the village listened with growing outrage as Young Hawk told of how the Crow had split up and lead them into an ambush where the soldier-coats waited to attack them.

  Many of the young braves wanted to ride out and take revenge immediately, but Elk Hunter called for patience. They were few in number. Runners would be sent to their allies, the Lakota. When Crazy Horse learned of the treachery of the Crow, he would join with them. Together, the Lakota and the Cheyenne would ride against the Crow.

  The young men nodded. Elk Hunter spoke wisely. Waiting would lull the Crow into thinking the Cheyenne were too scared to retaliate.

  Winter Star refused to accept the fact that Culhane had been killed in battle. She questioned Young Hawk, who said that Braves the Fire had last been seen fighting one of the bluecoats. His body had not been found, and it was assumed that the soldiers had discovered he was a white man and carried his body back to his own people.

  Winter Star was inconsolable. She did not cut her hair or slash her flesh, for she clearly remembered how Culhane had begged her not to disfigure herself if he died. Instead, she covered her face and hair with ashes, refusing food and water, refusing to be comforted.

  And then, after weeks of grieving, a new problem presented itself. She feared she was pregnant, and when she knew for certain, she began to wonder how she would confront her parents with the news that she was carrying Culhane’s child.

  It was Young Hawk who solved her dilemma. Strolling by the river late one afternoon, he found her weeping uncontrollably. Going to her, he laid his hand on her shoulder and whispered her name.

  Winter Star glanced up, startled. Hastily, she wiped the tears from her eyes.

  “What is it?” Young Hawk asked kindly. “Why do you weep here alone?”

  “I cannot tell you,” Winter Star sobbed. “I cannot tell anyone.”

  Young Hawk dropped to his knees, facing her. “You can tell me,” he urged. “I will keep your secret.”

  Winter Star met his gaze. Could she trust him? What if he laughed at her? What if the tender concern in his eyes turned to scorn? But surely he would not hate her. They had been friends for so long.

  “I am pregnant,” she murmured, her voice so low he could hardly hear her.

  Young Hawk gasped, as if someone had knocked the breath from his body. “Is Braves the Fire the father?”

  “Yes.”

  “It is well he was killed by the bluecoats,” Young Hawk exclaimed angrily. “If he were here, I would cut out his heart.”

  “It was not his fault.”

  Young Hawk sat back on his heels, his eyes moving over Winter Star’s tear-stained face. She was lovely, so lovely, and he had loved her for so long.

  “What am I to do?” Winter Star lamented softly. “Soon everyone will know. My parents will be ashamed.” A fresh wave of tears coursed down her cheeks. “Perhaps I will be banished from our people.”

  “No!” Young Hawk took a deep breath. He loved her, had always loved her, and now, at last, there might be a way to make her his. “If you would agree to be my wife, no one would ever know you shamed our people by lying with that vehoe.”

  Winter Star stared at Young Hawk in astonishment. “Marry you!” she exclaimed softly. “Why would you want me now?”

  “I love you. I do not care that you do not love me. Perhaps you will learn to care for me, in time.”

  Winter Star gazed into the distance. How could she marry Young Hawk when her heart belonged to Culhane? And yet, with Culhane dead, what other choice did she have? If she refused to marry Young Hawk, she would be humiliated when her pregnancy became known. Her parents would be ashamed; her child would have no father.

  “I will not expect anything from you until after the child is born,” Young Hawk said, not meeting her eyes. “After that, I will want a child of my own.”

  “You are being most kind,” she murmured. “I accept your offer.”

  Young Hawk could scarce contain his joy. Leaping to his feet, he shouted the Cheyenne war cry. “I will speak to your father at once,” he announced jubilantly, and raced up the path toward the village as though his feet had sprouted wings.

  * * * * *

  Elk Hunter readily gave his permission for Winter Star to marry Young Hawk, and the marriage date was set for the following week.

  Winter Star moved through the next few days as if in a trance. With her mother’s help, she erected the lodge she once dreamed of sharing with Culhane. She laid out the sleeping robes, made with loving hands, made from skins he had brought her. She dug a fire pit in the center of the lodge, arranged the cooking pots and utensils.

  On the day of the wedding, she dressed slowly, her eyes filling with tears as she smoothed the soft doeskin over her slightly rounded belly. It didn’t seem real. None of it seemed real.

  She stood before her grandfather while he said the words that made her Young Hawk’s wife, her gaze focused on the distant mountains. And none of it seemed real.

  Chapter 11

  “So, you’ve finally decided to rejoin the land of the living!” the doctor boomed. “How do you feel? Head still hurt?”

  Culhane blinked against the light, his eyes focusing on the face of the man standing beside his bed. “Where am I?”

  “The stockade at Fort Hays.”

  “What happened? How’d I get here?”

  “You don’t remember?”

  Culhane frowned as he rubbed his forehead. “There was a fight. I don’t remember much else. How long have I been here?”

  “A little over a week. You took a nasty blow on the back of your head. You’re lucky to be alive.”

  “Yeah,” Culhane muttered. “Lucky.” He glanced at the iron-barred window. “Why am I in the stockade?”

  The doctor gestured at Culhane’s buckskin leggings. “I’d say those Injun duds might have something to do with it. How’d you come to be dressed like that?”

  “It’s a long story, Doc. Do you mind if we save it for another time?”

  The doctor grinned as he headed for the door. “No, get all the rest you can.”

  Culhane swore softly as he glanced around the narrow cell. From outside came the familiar baritone of Sergeant Mulligan’s voice as he drilled the troops. He heard the sound of a hammer striking steel as the blacksmith forged a new set of shoes for one of the cavalry horses, the obscene holler of a muleskinner as he loaded an ornery mule.

  With a sigh, Culhane closed his eyes against the dull ache in the back of his head. So, he mused, he was back at Fort Hays, back with his own people. Back where he belonged. The thought d
id not please him as it should have.

  Two days later, the doctor pronounced him well enough to get out of bed. The supply sergeant brought him a new uniform and boots, and the following morning Culhane stood at attention before the company commander.

  “I’m surprised to see you, Culhane,” Major Harvey remarked. “We thought you’d been killed with Frye’s patrol last year.”

  “No, sir.”

  “What happened to the rest of Frye’s men?”

  Succinctly, Culhane related the details of the ill-fated skirmish between Frye’s command and the Cheyenne.

  “And you were the only survivor?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Harvey nodded. Placing his elbows on his desk, he made a steeple of his fingers and rested his chin on it. His sharp green eyes studied the man standing before him.

  “Why were you dressed as an Indian when you were found?”

  “I’d been living with them, sir. My uniform was confiscated.”

  “I see. Perhaps you could tell me why you were riding with them?”

  “The Crow had attacked our horse herd, and I rode out with some of the men to try and get them back.”

  Major Harvey lifted one eyebrow. “Our horse herd, Sergeant?”

  “I meant the Cheyenne horses, sir.”

  “I see.” Harvey raked his hand through his hair. “Renegade is an ugly word, Sergeant.”

  “I’m no renegade, Major. I was taken prisoner by the Cheyenne, tortured by their women. I was lucky enough to be spared death at their hands. For a time, I was a slave.”

  “Slaves don’t ride with the warriors.”

  “No, sir. I saved the life of a child, and the medicine man adopted me.”

  “And you made no attempt to escape?”

  Winter Star’s imaged flashed quickly across Culhane’s mind. “No, sir. I was closely watched to make sure I didn’t try to escape.”