The excitement she had experienced only moments ago quickly turned to dismay. What if they were all gone?
Unable to wait any longer, she urged her horse into a lope. She had to know if all those she loved were gone, though she didn’t know what she would do if her worst fears proved true. She couldn’t imagine her life without Mountain Sage and Eagle Lance, couldn’t imagine living anywhere but here, in the land of the Spotted Eagle.
Wolf Shadow called out to her to wait, but Winter Rain rode on, driven by her need to know. The filly tagged along behind, darting first one way and then the other.
Chance cursed softly as Winter Rain raced away. Didn’t she realize they had to proceed with caution? The Lakota were not the only people who sought shelter in the Black Hills. Too often of late, the Army had made its presence known. Miners were crossing the plains in search of gold and silver, settlers were looking for homesteads, missionaries were looking for converts, con men and easy women were chasing elusive dreams of easy money and easy living. He had met them all, saint and sinner alike.
He caught up with Winter Rain as she reached the base of the hills. Leaning out of the saddle, he grabbed hold of her horse’s bridle and eased the horse to a stop.
“Let me go!”
“Just slow down, dammit. You can’t go riding hell for leather like that. You don’t know what you’ll run into.”
She glared at him, her anger slowly dissipating as she realized the truth of his words.
When he was sure she wouldn’t take off like a jackrabbit with a fire under its tail, he urged his horse forward.
As always, he was immediately caught up in the grandeur and beauty of the Hills. Like all Lakota, he had a reverence for the land, especially this land. To the Lakota, the Hills were the heart of everything that is.
The terrain within the Hills was wild and rugged, a land of lush grass and deep verdant valleys, gentle foothills and jagged rock formations, sandstone canyons and gulches, deep blue lakes and winding streams. There were scattered stands of aspen, birch and oak. White-tailed deer, elk, and mule deer made their home in the Hills, as did mountain lions and bears. Coyotes could be heard yipping late at night. Goshawks and ospreys nested in the forest; bald eagles were often seen in the winter.
The Lakota moved with the seasons. April was the Moon of the Birth of Calves. It was during the spring months that men and women tapped the box elders for the sweet sap within. Women repaired their tipis or made new ones from the hides collected the winter before. Leggings and moccasins were made from the smoked tops of the old lodges. Young men went out to seek their visions. Warriors began to break the young horses. Stallions not fit for breeding were castrated. It was also foaling season. The Lakota paid little attention to the mares, letting nature take its course.
In May, the Moon of Ripening Strawberries, the tribe moved from its winter quarters to higher ground, sometimes out of necessity, sometimes simply for the joy of moving to a new place.
Chance had always loved the summer. It was perhaps the busiest time of the year. Families conducted hunts. Warriors went on raiding parties. Women were busy gathering early fruits and vegetables. Robes were painted while the weather was warm. Tribal hunts were organized whenever a herd of buffalo was found, but only a few animals were killed as this was the time of year when the buffalo grew fat.
Summer was also the time for ceremonial affairs, a time of vision seeking and female virtue feasts. The Sun Dance, that most sacred ceremony, was held during the Cherry Ripening Moon. One of Chance’s biggest regrets was that he had never participated in the Sun Dance, never sought a vision to guide him. At a time of life when he should have been pursuing a vision quest, he had been pursuing his mother’s murderers.
In the autumn, women gathered nuts and vegetables and dried meat in preparation for the coming winter. Men went hunting more often to make sure there would be meat in their lodges for the cold months ahead. Occasionally, the warriors burned the prairie grass to force the buffalo to come closer to the hunting camps.
Sometimes the young men planned war parties during hunting season. If the camp had to be moved before the hunters returned, a signpost, usually fashioned from the shoulder blade of a buffalo, was set up for them and pointed in the direction the tribe was moving. Hoof prints and a travois were drawn on the blade, along with the name of the chief. This not only told the hunters where the tribe was headed, but let other bands know where they had gone.
At the first sign of winter, the People headed for the wooded hills and hollows of the Paha Sapa where there was an abundance of firewood. It was not winter now, but Chance was certain that, if any of the People had survived the Crow attack, they would come here to lick their wounds.
As they climbed upward, Chance took the lead. Kills-Like-a-Hawk’s favorite campsite was located in a timbered hollow alongside a narrow winding river. As always, Chance felt a sense of homecoming as he rode deeper into the heart of the Hills. This was where he had been born. This was where he had come to mourn when his grandfather passed away. This was where he had hoped to come to seek a vision.
He gazed up at the top of the hills. Was he too old? Was it too late to follow that path, too late to seek out a vision to guide him? Had he been away from the People too long, spent too much time living in the white man’s world?
He was still lost in thought when they reached Cottonwood Hollow. At first, Chance didn’t see anything to indicate the hollow was occupied, and he feared that no one had survived or that, if they had, they had gone somewhere else, but then a trio of horses emerged from behind a stand of timber. Chance breathed a sigh of relief when he recognized Kills-Like-a-Hawk’s rangy gray stallion.
He urged Smoke onward. Rounding a bend in the river, he saw thirteen brush huts that had been erected in the shelter of the pines. A large dog barked, its hackles rising, as they drew nearer.
Warriors emerged from three of the huts, weapons in hand. They stared at Chance a moment, then lowered their weapons. Two of the men went back inside. The third stood, waiting, while Chance dismounted.
“Hou, cola,” Chance said, grasping Crooked Lance’s forearm.
Crooked Lance grasped Chance’s arm in return. “We thought you had been killed.”
“Not quite.” Chance glanced at the huts. “What of my cousin?”
“He is alive, but badly hurt,” Crooked Lance replied gravely. “His woman and son are dead, and so is his will to live.”
Chance swore softly as he looked over his shoulder to where Winter Rain waited. “What of Mountain Sage and Eagle Lance?”
“Mountain Sage lives.”
At this news, Winter Rain slipped off her horse. “Where is my mother?”
Crooked Lance pointed at the hut nearest them. “She is there. My woman is with her.”
“Pilamaya,” Winter Rain said, and hurried into the hut.
“How many survived?” Chance asked, staring after Winter Rain.
“I am not sure. Our number grows a few each day. After the battle, those who were not wounded went back and buried the dead.”
Chance nodded. He had figured as much.
He noticed several women peering out of the huts. Recognizing Chance as one of their own, the women emerged from their dwellings and resumed the tasks his arrival had interrupted.
“Do you have sentries posted?” Chance asked.
“Ai. You passed one of them on your way in. There is another across the river. And one at the far end of the valley.”
“How are you making out here?”
“The Crow took most of our horses and our stores for the winter. Our warriors take turns hunting while the women look after the injured. I fear Winter Rain’s mother will not live much longer.”
“And my cousin?”
Crooked Lance shrugged. “Perhaps knowing you survived will give him a reason to live.”
“Where is Kills-Like-a-Hawk?”
“There.” Crooked Lance pointed to the last hut. “I will look after your horse.�
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“Pilamaya,” Chance said, handing Smoke’s reins to the warrior.
Kills-Like-a-Hawk would live, Chance thought as he walked toward his cousin’s hut. Kills-Like-a-Hawk was the only family he had left, dammit. He wasn’t going to lose him, too.
Chapter Fourteen
The hut was dimly lit by a small fire that burned in a shallow pit in the back. Chance paused in the entrance, letting his eyes adjust to the interior. He could make out the dark shape of Kills-Like-a-Hawk lying on a deer hide near the fire. His cousin’s breathing sounded labored.
There wasn’t much in the lodge other than his cousin’s weapons, a water skin, and Kills-Like-a-Hawk, himself. The hut smelled of smoke, sweat, and sweet grass.
Crossing the short distance from the entrance to his cousin, Chance hunkered down on his heels. He took a deep breath when he saw the numerous small cuts on his cousin’s arms. He recognized them instantly for what they were: self-inflicted wounds of mourning.
“Hawk?” he called softly. “Are you awake?”
His cousin stirred. In the faint light of the fire, Chance saw Kills-Like-a-Hawk’s eyes open. “Hau, tahunsa,” he murmured. Hello, cousin.
“How are you feeling?” Chance asked.
Kills-Like-a-Hawk grunted. “I think I will soon join my woman and my son.”
“Like hell! Where are you hurt?”
Kills-Like-a-Hawk pulled a corner of the blanket back. A crude bandage was wrapped around his leg.
Moving carefully, Chance removed the bandage, revealing an ugly scabbed-over gash that ran from his cousin’s knee to mid-thigh. The skin around the wound was discolored and swollen.
“It’s infected,” Chance remarked. Rising, he tossed a few sticks on the fire. “It needs to be lanced and drained.”
“Leave it.”
Chance stared at his cousin. “If that infection gets any worse, you’ll lose that leg. Is that what you want?”
Kills-Like-a-Hawk shrugged. “I am ready to follow Wanagi Tacaka to Wanagi Yatu.”
Chance withdrew his knife from the sheath at his side and held the blade over the flames.
“Well, you may be ready to follow the Spirit Path to the Place of Souls,” he muttered, turning the blade over, “but I’m not ready to let you go. Here,” he said, picking up a stout stick, “bite down on this.”
Kills-Like-a-Hawk stared at him a moment, his expression mutinous, making Chance wonder if he’d have to get a couple of the warriors in here to hold his cousin down but, in the end, Kills-Like-a-Hawk clamped his teeth over the stick and closed his eyes.
Taking a deep breath, Chance slid the tip of the blade into the mass of swollen flesh. A horrible smell filled the hut as dark greenish-yellow pus and blood so dark a red as to be almost black spurted from the wound.
Chance swore softly as he grabbed a bit of cloth and wiped the pus from his cousin’s leg. Kills-Like-a-Hawk groaned softly as Chance pressed gently on the wound, forcing out more pus and dark red blood.
After several minutes, only bright red blood oozed from the wound.
Chance sat back, wiping the perspiration from his brow.
Kills-Like-a-Hawk opened his eyes and spat the stick from between his teeth. “I am happy to see you, tahunsa.”
“I am happy to see you, too,” Chance replied with a grin. Reaching for another bit of cloth, he dampened it with water from the waterskin and began to wash the blood and pus from his cousin’s leg.
Kills-Like-a-Hawk winced as Chance began to re-bandage his wound.
Chance sat back on his heels when he was done. “I am sorry about your loss, tahunsa.”
Kills-Like-a-Hawk looked away. “It is always hardest on those who are left behind.”
Chance nodded. Slipping his arm under his cousin’s shoulders, he lifted him up a little, then offered him a drink of water. Kills-Like-a-Hawk took a few swallows, then turned his head away and Chance lowered him down on the hide once more.
“Get some rest now,” Chance said, putting the waterskin aside. “I have some meat packed on my horse.”
“I am not hungry.”
“Maybe not,” Chance replied with a wry grin. “But you’re going to eat.”
* * * * *
Silent tears trickled down Winter Rain cheeks as she knelt at her mother’s side. Mountain Sage was barely breathing. Her skin was cool, almost cold, to the touch.
Winter Rain looked up at Corn Woman. “How long has she been like this?”
“Since last night,” Corn Woman shook her head sadly. “I am afraid she is dying.”
“Hiya! Ina? Ina, can you hear me?” Winter Rain squeezed her mother’s hand. “Ina, it is Winter Rain.”
Her mother’s eyelids fluttered open. “Cunski?” Daughter?
“Yes, I am here.”
Mountain Sage blinked several times, then lifted a trembling hand to brush the tears from Winter Rain’s cheek. “Ceye sni yo,” she murmured. Do not cry.
Winter Rain forced herself to smile. “Ina…”
“Kokepe sni yo,” Mountain Sage whispered. Do not be afraid.
“Ina,” she wailed softly. “Please, do not leave me!”
But her mother was looking past her, a faint smile curving her lips. The lines of pain seemed to fade from around her eyes and mouth. She held out her hand, as if reaching for someone. “Wapaha Wanbli,” she murmured. She nodded, as if in reply to a question, then said, very clearly, “Han, winyeya mankelo.” Yes, I am ready to go.
She sighed and the light faded from her eyes. A moment later, her body went limp.
“Ina!” Winter Rain grabbed her mother’s hand and held it to her breast. “Ina, do not leave me!”
But it was too late. Winter Rain stared at her mother’s body, her breath catching in her throat as she saw her mother’s spirit float upward and disappear in a sliver of sunlight.
“I love you,” she whispered and ever so faintly, she heard her mother’s voice repeat the words.
Still holding her mother’s hand, Winter Rain bowed her head and let the tears flow.
Chance stood outside the hut where Winter Rain’s mother was being cared for. He could hear Winter Rain crying, knew from the depths of grief evident in her sobs that her mother had passed away. It was a sound that tore at his heart. He knew all too well what she was feeling.
He heard Corn Woman trying to comfort Winter Rain and suddenly he needed to be the one holding her. Ignoring tribal custom, Chance ducked inside without announcing his presence.
Corn Woman glanced over her shoulder. She frowned at him in silent reproach, then turned back to Winter Rain, who was rocking back and forth beside her mother’s body.
Chance crossed the distance between them in two long strides. “Rain.”
She looked up at him through red-rimmed eyes.
Reaching down, he lifted her to her feet; then, holding her hand in his, he led her out of the hut and away from the camp.
Winter Rain followed Wolf Shadow blindly, her heart numb. Mountain Sage was dead and all the security in Winter Rain’s world had died with her.
She was hardly aware that Wolf Shadow had stopped walking until he drew her into his arms.
“I’m sorry, Rain,” he said quietly. “I know how you loved her.”
She nodded. “She was so good to me. She was always so gentle, so loving, no matter what I did, no matter how much I…” She stared up at him, her eyes wide. “No matter how many times I told her I hated her when I first came here…it’s true, isn’t it? She wasn’t my real mother.”
It hurt to say the words aloud. She had known Mountain Sage wasn’t her natural mother. Mountain Sage and Wolf Shadow had both told her that she had not been born Lakota, but she had refused to believe it, refused to accept it as the truth. But now, suddenly, she remembered everything she had blocked from her mind and heart.
“I remember,” she whispered. “Eagle Lance and some of the other warriors attacked our coach. Iron Arrow wounded my…my wasichu father. Iron Arrow pulled me out
of the coach and gave me to Eagle Lance, who took me home with him. Mountain Sage had lost a little girl and she was grieving. They adopted me as their own. They were so good to me, and now…” A fresh torrent of tears swept down her cheeks. “Now they’re gone.” She buried her face in Chance’s shoulder.
Chance brushed his lips across the crown of her head. He wished he had some sage advice to offer her, some words of comfort that would ease her pain, but he knew only too well that, at a time like this, words were meaningless. All he could do was hold her while she cried. Time was the best healer of all.
He held her until her tears subsided, then led her over to a large flat rock. Sitting down, he drew her down beside him.
She sniffed, then wiped the last of her tears from her eyes with her fingertips before asking, “How is your cousin?”
“He’s hurt pretty bad, but I…I think he’ll recover.”
“I’m glad.”
“Rain.”
“Oh, Wolf, I’m going to miss her so!” she exclaimed softly, and dissolved into tears once more.
They buried Mountain Sage early the next morning. Winter Rain painted her mother’s face for her journey into the Land of Many Lodges. It was there, in the Land of Many Lodges, where she would be reunited with Eagle Lance and her lost daughter, a place where there was no sorrow, a verdant land filled with all the good things of the earth.
At any other time, Mountain Sage would have been dressed in her best tunic. Her awl case and her sewing kit would have been placed at her side, and she would have been wrapped her in a fine buffalo robe. Her favorite horse would have been killed and its tail placed on a pole. But her best tunic and all her belongings had been destroyed by the Crow. And the Lakota had no horses to spare.
Winter Rain, Corn Woman, Yellow Fawn and Leaf carried Mountain Sage’s body out of the hut and placed it on the travois Chance had built. Followed by Chance and the others, Winter Rain led the travois pony away from the camp to a hill where Chance had erected a scaffold. They tied ropes around the body and then, as was custom, Winter Rain and Corn Woman climbed up on the scaffold and pulled the body up, while Yellow Fawn and Leaf pushed from below.
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