Behind me, someone snickered, and I heard one of the warriors remark, “This one has the heart of a prairie chicken.”
The prisoner stopped his useless muttering as I raised the knife. For a moment, he stared at me, and then he screamed, “You’re white! White, like me!”
The words, heavy with accusation and disbelief, echoed and re-echoed through the corridors of my mind.
“Let me go,” the boy begged piteously. “Please let me go. I’ve done nothing to you. Nothing!”
I stared at the prisoner trembling before me, the knife suddenly heavy in my hand. My nostrils filled with the cloying scent of blood and fear and death. As from far away, I heard the warriors murmuring, puzzling over my hesitation to draw blood.
With an effort, I tore my gaze from the prisoner’s terrified expression and took a long look around the camp. The hide lodges, the faces of my family and friends, the very earth beneath my feet suddenly seemed strange and unfamiliar.
“For the love of God, help me!”
The boy’s voice penetrated my mind. I heard Crooked Horn calling for Lame Dog to take my place since I didn’t have the guts to kill the vehoe. But before Lame Dog could take the knife from my hand, I helped the prisoner the only way I could. I drove the blood-stained knife deep into his heart.
He died instantly, and a low murmur of disapproval swept through the crowd. The killing had been too quick, too easy. I felt the censure of my people as I left the campfire and returned to my father’s lodge.
Sun Seeker followed me a few minutes later.
“I have shamed you before our people,” I said after a long silence. “I am sorry.”
“You have not shamed me,” my father replied, placing a consoling hand on my shoulder. “It was a good clean kill. Butchery is for women, not warriors.”
My father’s words took some of the reproach from my heart, but deep inside, I knew I had failed him. The prisoners had been scalp hunters. They had not deserved an easy death.
I could not sleep that night. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw the boy’s pale blue eyes pleading for mercy, heard his voice begging for help, felt the warm wet stickiness of his blood clinging to my hands. I told myself that I had helped him the only way possible by granting him a swift, merciful death, but I could not salve my conscience. Could not erase the memory of the fear and accusation that had flared in his eyes.
Could not shut out the sound of his voice crying, “You’re white, like me!”
* * *
Needing to be alone with my troubled thoughts, I left the village early the following morning. Heyoka was eager to run, but I held him to a walk, and after a moment, he settled down, as if he sensed that I was in no mood to go chasing across the prairie.
My reluctance to torment the prisoner the night before weighed heavily on my mind. I had felt no such guilt when I took the Pawnee’s life, though the killing had sickened me. Still, when I realized I had killed an enemy, I had delighted in taking his scalp. Why, then, had I been so reluctant to shed the blood of the white boy? Was it because I had not killed him in self-defense, or was it because of the vehoe blood that ran in my veins? There was Indian blood in my veins, too, yet I had not hesitated to kill the Pawnee.
Perhaps it had been the pleading tone in the prisoner’s voice as he begged for mercy. Perhaps it had been those two words that still echoed in my mind: “You’re white...you’re white.”
You’re white, like me, the boy had said, and though I had known since early childhood that I was a half-breed, the words had never been spoken by anyone other than my mother. In my mind, I was Cheyenne. The People never remarked on my mixed heritage, and neither did I. Was that why the words ‘you’re white’ had come as such a shock? Was that why I suddenly felt alien among my own people?
Lost in thought, I wandered far from home. And because I was not paying attention to my surroundings, I didn’t see the enemy warriors until I had ridden right into their trap. By then, it was too late. I was well and truly caught, like a wolf in a snare.
By nightfall, I was spread-eagled in the middle of a large Crow encampment, naked as the day I’d been born, my wrists and ankles tightly bound to four stout wooden stakes driven deep into the hard, cold ground.
The Crow people treated me much as my people had treated the vehoe prisoners. The Crow women spit in my face as they passed by, their black eyes aglow with anticipation as they contemplated the pleasure they would derive from torturing me. Small boys kicked me as they ran by, or pelted me with stones. Little girls poked me with sharp sticks, shrieking with delight when they drew blood. Occasionally, a group of older girls would come by, whipping my naked flesh with willow branches, raising long red welts on my face and chest, laughing and giggling as they pointed at my shriveled manhood. The warriors left me alone, and I knew they were waiting for nightfall, waiting to test my courage with their knives.
As the moon came alive in the sky, the younger children were whisked off to bed, and I knew a few moments of blessed relief before the young braves began to gather around. One warrior kicked me between the legs, leaving me gasping with pain as waves of white-hot agony splintered through me.
Other hands and feet lashed out at me with equal animosity, and I began to shiver uncontrollably as fear’s clammy hand tied my insides in knots.
Belatedly, I felt a sudden compassion for the young vehoe I had killed only the night before, and with that compassion came a desperate hope that I would not die whimpering for mercy as he had, thereby bringing shame not only to myself, but to the whole Cheyenne Nation, as well. And with that hope came a prayer that some Crow man would take pity on me, as I had pitied the white boy, and kill me quickly and cleanly.
The moon was high in the sky when a young maiden knelt beside me. The other Indians had left me by then. I stared at the lone Crow woman for several moments, and then my gaze was drawn toward the knife in her hand. Moonlight glinted on the wicked-looking blade, and a silent prayer rose in my heart, a plea for strength and courage as she reviled me in the Crow tongue.
Abruptly, she drew back, her eyes growing wide with astonishment. Only then did I notice her braids were honey-brown and her eyes a clear bright blue.
“Stars above!” she exclaimed. “You’re white!”
Strange, I mused. No matter which side of the knife I was on, the words, You’re white, carried the same note of accusation and disbelief.
“So are you,” I said, though my throat was so dry, it was hard to speak.
Her chin went up and with a proud lilt in her voice, she exclaimed, “No. I am Crow.”
“And I am Cheyenne.”
For a moment, we stared at each other defiantly, and then, like two children sharing a secret, we began to laugh - a white girl and a half-breed boy, both denying the vehoe blood in our veins.
“Why didn’t your people kill me tonight?” I asked after a while.
“Are you in such a hurry to travel to the After World that you cannot wait one more day?”
“No. But the ground is hard. And so is the waiting. I would have it quickly over and done.”
“You will not have to wait much longer,” she assured me. “Our chief and some of the warriors are away just now, but they will return in the morning, and then you will die. Slowly, I think.”
Her expression grew thoughtful as she watched me. I tried, and failed, to stifle the long shuddering sigh of fear that ran through me.
“You are afraid!” she exclaimed softly. “I did not think warriors were ever afraid.”
“I’m not afraid of dying, if that’s what you mean.”
“Of what then?”
“I’m afraid I will die like a coward.”
“What difference does that make, once you’re dead?”
“I cannot explain it to you. Only another warrior would understand.”
“I have seen many men die at the stake,” she said quietly. “I have never yet seen one who met death defiantly. Sooner or later, they all cried for mercy, or wep
t like children afraid of the dark.”
“I have seen one white man die the way a warrior should,” I remarked, thinking of the gray-eyed vehoe. “He had great courage.”
“But he is still dead.”
“Yes.”
“I would help you if I could,” she whispered.
“You could kill me now,” I suggested. “No one would know you had done it.”
She shook her head. “I dare not, but perhaps...”
When a dour-faced old warrior walked toward us, she again began to revile me in the Crow tongue. Still cursing me, she raked her knife lightly across my chest. Blood flowed in the wake of the blade, but the cut was shallow and of no consequence.
The warrior smiled approvingly as he passed by and when he was gone, she began to saw through the rope binding my left wrist. The knife was dull, the rope thick, and her progress was slow, slower still because she had to stop cutting at the rope and slash at my flesh whenever one of the Crow came near us.
The rope around my left wrist was nearly severed when a tall, good-looking young man hunkered down bedside the girl.
He smiled at her, his black eyes warm with affection and desire as he said, “White Dove, you do not cut deep enough. Here, let me show you a better way.”
And so saying, he plucked the knife from her hand and drove it through my right shoulder.
I clenched my teeth to keep from crying out as the blade sank into my flesh, praying that the warrior would not notice that the rope binding my left wrist had been cut.
“Do not waste your time on this dog of a Cheyenne,” the Crow brave admonished with a smile. “Come, let us walk together.”
White Dove rose to her feet and they walked away into the shadows, leaving the knife embedded in my shoulder.
No one else came near me after that. Pain unlike anything I had ever known throbbed through my shoulder and down my arm. Blood dripped from the wound. The evening breeze carried the scent of roasting meat. Hunger clawed at my belly, my mouth was dry.
The cook fires burned low and the village grew quiet. Shivering with cold and wracked with pain, I pulled against the rope binding my left wrist. Each movement unleashed a fresh torrent of agony, but I dared not stop. I had to get away, now, tonight. Again and again, I tugged against the rope until the last few strands parted and my left arm was free.
Gathering what strength I had left, I took a firm hold on the knife in my shoulder, took a deep breath, and jerked the blade from my flesh. Blood flowed from the wound and the world spun out of focus. I closed my eyes as nausea roiled through me. Fighting to stay conscious, I took a handful of dirt and pressed it against my shoulder to stop the bleeding.
I lay there for a long time after that, too weak and light-headed to move, wondering if I would ever see my father or Snow Flower again.
When the world stopped spinning, I cut the ropes from my other wrist and my ankles, ignoring the sharp pains that tore through me with each movement.
Too weak to stand, I crawled out of the village toward the vast Crow horse herd.
When I was well away from the camp, I forced myself to stand. Swaying unsteadily, I surveyed the herd, hoping to locate a docile gelding to carry me home. Instead, I found ugly old Heyoka, his great Roman nose buried in a clump of thick yellow grass.
At my soft whistle, his ears went up. And then he was shambling toward me in that shuffling, awkward-looking lope that could cover miles of ground in practically no time at all.
Murmuring a silent prayer of gratitude to Man Above, I tapped Heyoka’s right foreleg and he dropped to his knees. Gritting my teeth, I grasped a handful of his scrawny mane and pulled myself onto his broad back.
I don’t know how I managed to hang on as he lurched to his feet. I held him to a walk until we were far from the village and then, lying low across his neck, my left hand tangled in his mane, my right arm dangling uselessly over his side, I gave him his head and he carried me home.
I don’t remember much about the long ride back to the village, or anything else that happened that night.
The next thing I knew, it was afternoon and I way lying on a buffalo robe in my father’s lodge.
The days that followed ran together in one long nightmare of pain and fever. Quiet Antelope hovered over me, plying me with weak broth, willow bark tea, and kind words.
My father spent long hours at my side, sometimes just sitting quietly, sometimes telling me stories of wars and warriors from days past.
The medicine man came often, applying healing poultices to my shoulder, chanting the sacred healing songs, praying to the Great Spirit for my recovery.
Once I saw my mother kneeling beside me, her golden head bowed in prayer to the vehoe god.
The white boy I had killed haunted my fever dreams. Again and again I heard his voice pleading for mercy, felt the knife pierce his flesh as I took his life, smelled his blood and his fear. Sometimes it was the vehoe boy crying for mercy, and sometimes I saw myself standing in his place, heard the voices of my own people raised in accusation crying, “You’re white...you’re white...”
Gradually, the fever left me. As I grew stronger, I frequently went outside to sit in the sun. Often, Snow Flower came to sit beside me, occasionally bringing me berries or wild plums to tempt my appetite. Once she gave me a pair of exquisitely quilled moccasins; another time she brought me a headband beaded in red and black. Sometimes we talked of the future, of the day when I would tie the required number of ponies in front of her father’s lodge and take her for my wife.
That day, though still far in the future, was always in my mind, and I yearned for the time when I could take Snow Flower to my bed and love her in all the ways a man loved a woman.
* * *
On a day in late summer, I went for a walk along the river. Walking even a short distance quickly tired me, and I found a shaded place beneath a tall tree where I could sit down and rest.
I had been there only a few minutes when Snow Flower joined me. I stared up at her, shocked by her unexpected appearance. It was entirely unheard of for an unmarried woman to be alone with a warrior, and a quick thrill of excitement stirred by blood.
“What are you doing here?” I asked, my surprise making my voice gruff.
“I brought you water,” she answered. “I knew you would tire quickly and be in need of rest and something cool to drink.”
I glanced pointedly at the river only a few feet away. “What makes you think I’m tired?” I asked crossly.
“Aren’t you?”
My pride would not let me admit I was, so I avoided the question. “You shouldn’t be here.”
“Do you want me to go?”
Slowly, I shook my head. “No.”
With a grin that could only be called smug, she sat beside me. Her doeskin dress stretched tight across her breasts, and a sudden pulsing hunger turned my blood to fire as I imagined her lying naked on the grass beneath me.
Snow Flower laughed softly as she saw the evidence of my rising desire, and I felt my face flame with embarrassment. Suddenly angry, I grabbed her arms and pinned her to the ground.
She was not laughing now. She stared up at me, her large dark eyes wide with fear and a curious sense of anticipation. With a low groan, I lowered my body over hers. There was a dull roaring in my ears as my aroused senses urged me to take her, there, upon the ground.
Snow Flower remained passive beneath me. My heart was pounding like a buffalo in a stampede as I pressed my lips to hers. Of its own accord, my hand moved to her breast. It felt full and soft beneath my palm. I heard her gasp of pleasure, felt a heaviness in my loins as her arms wrapped around my waist, pulling me closer. A quick excitement took hold of me as I realized that she wanted me as much as I wanted her.
We gazed at each other for stretched seconds and then I let her go. Wordlessly, we rose and shed our clothes, only to stand staring at one another. Truly, she was beautiful. Her neck was slender, her shoulders softly rounded, her breasts were high and proud and
perfect. She had a flat belly, nice hips, and well-shaped legs. Her long black hair glistened in the sunlight.
I swallowed hard as her luminous black eyes roamed over my nakedness, felt my ears burn as my manhood began to swell beneath her inquiring gaze. No woman had ever looked at me with desire before, and I found the experience exhilarating, and a little frightening. My body was big and strong, well-muscled from years of running and wrestling. Like most Cheyenne men, I was tall. My shoulders were broader than most, my legs were long.
Excited by Snow Flower’s nearness and nakedness, I took a step forward, my hand reaching for her.
Only then did I notice the protective rope that wound around her waist and thighs. It was a thing all Cheyenne women wore once they had reached womanhood. Blinded by desire, and by my first glance at Snow Flower’s feminine perfection, I had not noticed it before.
Looking at it now shamed me as nothing else could. All warriors worthy of the name honored the protective rope. In an instant, my passion cooled, and I took a step backward.
“Forgive me,” I said. “Almost, I brought shame to your lodge and mine.”
Snow Flower blushed and turned away. “You must forgive me,” she murmured contritely. “I knew it was wrong to follow you. My foolishness might have brought you much trouble.”
Trouble was a mild word for it, I thought. Had I violated her virginity, her father would most certainly have killed me.
We dressed in silence, not looking at each other. My hand tingled with the memory of caressing her breast. Touching her had awakened a hunger that, until now, had lain dormant within me.
We walked toward the village without speaking, separating long before we were within sight of the camp. It would never do for us to be seen walking together. Couples did sometimes manage to sneak away to be alone in the evening, but they had to be very careful.
In the Shadow of the Hills Page 5
