by Sharon Ihle
Dominique pushed out a heavy sigh. Jacob was gone, but he'd left a cloud of gloom in his wake, a feeling of despair she couldn't identity. With a disinterested palate, she ate her meal, then curled up on the rug to await his return.
A few feet away in the biggest lodge, Jacob spoke to the elders, his voice cracking with irritation. "The soldiers seek Sitting Bull and those who would follow him along the Little Missouri. Their intentions are to follow us all the way to the Rosebud Creek where Red Cloud's people wait. These are the weapons we have been issued for the fight." He held up his government-issue Springfield 1873 single-shot carbine and a Colt six-shot revolver. “I have yet to receive instruction on how to fire either of the guns."
The men laughed, slapping their knees. "Do they know of our great assortment of weapons?" asked Chatanna. "Do they guess we can kill them fifty ways before they can even reload?"
Jacob joined in the laughter, even though his heart was not entirely in it. Between the Lakota and the Cheyenne, they figured to have over forty different types of guns, ranging from sixteen-shot repeating Winchester and Henry rifles to pistols and other rifles. To a weapon, they were all obtained as a result of the United States government's generosity to the Indian traders. Now these guns would be turned on the men who had supplied them. Jacob thought of some of the friends he'd made in his short term in the cavalry—Barney in particular—and slowly shook his head. When the time came, would he be able to cut his friends down? Could he ever face Dominique again if he should be forced to bring down the general or one of his brothers?
"My son." Chief Gall's voice was warm with concern and understanding. "I can see your mind is elsewhere this night. Perhaps you think of your bride, alone and waiting in your wedding lodge? Go now. You have supplied us with much information."
And because there was no way he could tell his father why he was in no hurry to return to his tipi and the long lonely night ahead of him, Jacob gave him a counterfeit smile of thanks and rose. "Good night, my father. Tomorrow we march on toward the Rosebud. Maybe when the solders discover our numbers, they will use this wisdom to its fullest advantage and call for a retreat."
"The nincompups will never retreat." Chatanna exclaimed. "And neither shall the Lakota. We will fight until all the white eyes are nothing but pieces of flesh scattered across the plains."
This incited the other men to a rousing cheer. Jacob stepped from the lodge, his mind burdened by a glimpse of what the future might hold for them all. He entered his tipi quietly, relieved to see that Dominique had been lulled into a deep sleep by the steady rain tapping lightly against the buffalo-hide walls. He stood staring down at her for a long moment before joining her on the rug. She still wore the white buckskin dress, still possessed an almost ethereal radiance, even in slumber. Would they ever have an opportunity to know each other as husband and wife? he wondered. Would the differences between their people, the deep-seated hatred, tear them apart before they had a chance to explore the love he felt, the love he suspected she kept hidden inside for him? He lay down beside Dominique, keeping several inches between their bodies, and tried not to think of her warmth, her softness, and the fact that, as of tonight, she belonged to him.
When he finally fell asleep, Jacob had short vivid dreams of such intensity that they jackknifed him off his blanket with their violence. Each nightmare was equally vicious and bloody, each with its own theme of murder and mayhem. But most horrifying, the thing that brought sweat to his brow and tremors to his hands, was his body and the clothing he wore. In one dream, he would be streaked in war paint and covered with eagle feathers. In another, he was dressed in a full regulation cavalry uniform. In some of the nightmares, he would be a combination of both. Many of the images were obscure, muddied, but their impact on his mind was crystal clear: Jacob no longer knew who he was.
The following morning when Dominique awoke, Jacob was already gone. She spent the day helping the other women pack up camp in preparation for the march farther west. Not once during that entire period did she ever lay eyes on Jacob or his father, Chief Gall. That night after a meal of greasy, tasteless soup and buffalo jerky, Dominique sat in the tipi, wondering how long she would be alone this time, how long would she remain safe.
Then Jacob stepped through the flap. "I go now," he announced as he gathered his cavalry uniform.
"Go now?" Dominique jumped to her feet. "What do you mean, go now? You just got here, Jacob. Please don't leave me alone again. I'll go crazy if you do."
Jacob smiled as he stepped into his regulation trousers and buttoned them over his breechclout. "You mean you are not crazy already?" He tore off his breastplate and reached for his cavalry shirt, but Dominique stepped between him and the garment.
"I'm not laughing, Jacob. I don't see anything that's funny here. Take me with you. I simply cannot stay here without you another day.''
He stared into her defiant brown eyes, careful not to become lost in them, and grinned as he slid his index finger under her chin. "Will you miss me so much, wi witko?”
Dominique slapped his hand away and stomped her foot. "I'm serious. I'm not staying here."
"I'm afraid you have no choice." Jacob's expression sobered and he tugged her into his arms. "Neither do I. I must go now. I have to ride under cover of night and return to the army. You know that. I have explained the reasons to you. Why do you insist on making my life so difficult?"
"Your life difficult? Mine hasn't exactly been a stroll through the park since I met you, you know." She lifted her chin and stuck out her bottom lip.
Her expression was the end of his control. Jacob's mouth closed over that bottom lip, parting it from its mate as he searched for the delights he knew lay beyond. He indulged his hands, allowing them to roam over her back and down to her firm round bottom where he clasped, then crushed her to his hips. There, in spite of the promises he'd made to himself, he lingered, even as his need grew huge and hot, even though he knew she would realize how much he wanted her.
Concern for her fears finally coaxed him into releasing her hips, but only long enough for his hands to slide up and cup her face. His mouth only inches from hers, he murmured between nibbling kisses along her cheeks, "My love, my little one, I shall miss you."
Directed by sheer instinct, Dominique's head arched back, exposing her throat and the pulse hammering there. Jacob took her cue, letting his mouth cruise to the spot, teasing the sensitive flesh along the route with his talented lips. She moaned, "Mon Dieu, Jacob, mon amour, mon tresor."
His mouth still caressing her, he moved back up her throat, then nipped the tip of her ear. His breathing erratic, he whispered, "What names do you call me now, wi witko?”
"You first," she said lazily, her eyes feeling sleepy, drugged somehow. "Who is widko?"
"Wi witko. " He laughed. "Crazy one. You." He kissed the tip of her nose, then sought her mouth again. Pulling at her bottom lip with his teeth, Jacob nibbled and teased, flicked the upper with the tip of his tongue before ending the agony and plunging deep inside her sweet mouth. He wanted to plunge inside every soft damp part of her, feel her respond to him, want him as much as he wanted her, and forget about white men, red men, and war. But some measure of reason returned.
Jacob released her and stepped back. "I must go now, but first tell me—what names did you call me?"
Dominique stood alone, dazed and off balance. She looked into Jacob's eyes, knew the spell was over and that he really did plan to leave her. Her kisses, as much as he seemed to enjoy them, weren't enough to persuade him to stay. If anything, she'd only managed to delay his departure. How could she tell him she'd called him her love, her treasure? Why had she even thought of him in those terms?
Angry, sad, and frightened all at once, Dominique puckered her mouth and began to cry. "I called you an idiot, a stupid, mean dolt, and," she added, "a dirty rotten bastard for bringing me here."
"Stop that." He pointed at her cheeks, wet with tears by now, and repeated the order. "I mean it, Dom
inique. Stop that right now. You know I do not like this."
"I don't care what you like, you savage. I want to go home.'' She stomped her foot and squeezed her eyes, working to bring as much moisture to her cheeks as possible.
Perplexed, Jacob reached down and picked up his shirt, never taking his eyes off her. "Please, stop that," he said softly, trying a new tack. As he buttoned the shirt, he began to back away. "I must leave, please don't do this anymore."
"Don't leave—please don't leave," she begged, increasing the volume of her tears and raising the pitch of her voice.
Unable to stand it any longer, Jacob ducked outside the tipi and jerked the flap closed. He lowered his voice, speaking in his most authoritative tone: "Stop that at once, woman."
From inside the lodge, the wails increased followed by a resounding, “No!”
Jacob glanced around the campsite. Several warriors stood around, their heads cocked, their expressions a mixture of curiosity and disbelief. Jacob closed his ears to his bride's sobs and straightened his shoulders as he strode through the village. His voice gruff, he explained as he passed by his peers, "My woman has burned herself on the fire. She will be quiet in a short time. I have ordered her to do so." Then he continued on toward the horses, hoping to God he was right.
Inside the tipi, Dominique abruptly stopped crying and listened at the wall. Jacob was gone. "Bloody hell," she muttered, looking around for something to break. She spotted Jacob's lance resting against the wall and stomped over to it.
Grabbing both ends of the wooden handle, she slammed it downward and lifted her right leg. The lance split in half. Dominique dropped to the ground, howling in pain.
"Damn, damn, double bloody hell and damnation," she said, a flood of authentic tears pouring down her cheeks as she cradled her injured leg.
The following morning when Dominique awoke, she found a bright blue welt running across the width of her leg just above the knee. When she stood up, her pulse pounded against the engorged area. She bit her lip and moaned, "Damn your bloody eyes, Jacob Stoltz."
Hopping on one foot, she did a pirouette, but as she got halfway though the second circle, she stopped and her mouth dropped open. Spotted Feather stood at the entrance of the tipi, her lip curled with malice.
"You are a poor excuse for a dancer, white devil. Do not waste your feeble energy on such nonsense. There is much work to do in our camp."
Her eyes like cold flat stones, Dominique quietly said, "Get out and leave me alone."
Spotted Feather advanced a step, her fists clenched, but stopped when she realized the futility of such a move. This pale-faced woman was now the wife of Redfoot, her Redfoot. And while she could hardly wait to deal with this intruder, the deed would have to be done in a manner that would not cast suspicion her way. Attacking the white filth, killing her in broad daylight, in her own tipi, would be a very foolish act.
Spotted Feather grinned, knowing she would have her chance, hoping that chance would come along very, very soon. Not bothering to cover her hatred, she spat, "Even though Redfoot has stupidly chosen you for his woman, you still must do your share of the work around camp. Follow me. I will show you what you must do."
And because she knew ignoring the Indian's orders would only add to her considerable pile of troubles, Dominique set her jaw and trailed along behind the nasty-tempered squaw.
When they reached the tipi with many poles leaning against it and several pouches scattered along the ground, Spotted Feather stopped. She turned her head and shot a wad of spittle near one of the pouches. Pointing to the spot of damp earth, she said, "Stand there, dog face."
Hiding her disgust, Dominique lowered her head and obeyed. As she stood, the Indian balanced a long pole across her shoulders, then hung a pouch on either end. Again a beast of burden, feeling like an ox harnessed for a day's plowing, she meekly followed Spotted Feather as she wove her way through the lodges and out of the camp.
She limped along, sidestepping sagebrush and prickly pear cactus as the Indian led her down into a heavily wooded ravine, then on to the banks of the Little Missouri River.
Motioning for Dominique to approach the water's edge, Spotted Feather spouted her orders: "Take the pouches from your shoulders. Fill one with water and hang it from the branch of that tree. Fill the other; then put it on one end of your pole. After you have done that, hold it with one hand and take the other from the tree and put it on the pole. When you come back to camp, I will show you where to dump the water. Then you will come back and fill them again. Do you understand, stupid white dog?"
Through clenched teeth, Dominique said, "Yes, I think I can manage that," stupid red bitch.
Spotted Feather sneered and said, "We shall see. Fill the pouches. I will watch to see that you manage."
Dominique grabbed a pouch and dropped to her knees. Leaning forward tentatively, she balanced herself on a small boulder and reached into the rapidly flowing current.
"Put the pouch into the water, stupid dog." Spotted Feather gave her a shove. "You will take all day like that."
Dominique cried out and pushed away from the current. "Don't do that," she demanded.
"What is wrong?" The Indian woman laughed. "Are you afraid of a little water?"
Dominique averted her gaze, returning it to the river, then stared down at the grass-covered banks.
"You are afraid," Spotted Feather said. "So white women do not swim, is that it? Are you afraid of getting your precious white skin wet, dog?" Again she laughed, but stopped abruptly as a solution to her problem bloomed in her mind. The white she-dog could not swim. Nature would be her ally and help her to kill this woman who had blinded Redfoot with her golden hair.
Through another burst of laughter, Spotted Feather said, "Fill the pouches and bring them back to me quickly. Do not make me wait too long." Then she whirled, laughing into the wind, and hurried back to the village.
More hesitant and unsure than before, Dominique inched back to the water's edge. As she lowered the pouch, she stared into the muddy water and trembled at the memory of another muddy river—wider, faster, deadlier. She turned away and filled the pouches as quickly as she could, then limped on back to camp. As she promised, Spotted Feather was waiting by a large cooking pouch made from the lining of a buffalo stomach.
"Dump them in here," she ordered loud enough for the other women to hear. When Dominique finished, the squaw gave another order as loud as the first. "Now go back to the river and fill them again. When you return, I will show you where to dump them."
Still the obedient prisoner, Dominique returned the pouches to the pole and stumbled off toward the river again.
Waiting until the white woman was out of sight, Spotted Feather glanced around the village. Everyone was busy with chores. None looked in her direction. This time holding in her laughter, she dashed behind a tipi, then quietly made her way through the trees on a path that ran parallel to Dominique's,
Silent and anxious, the Indian crouched a few feet from her quarry, waiting for the perfect moment. When Dominique finally crawled to the edge of the bank and leaned over, Spotted Feather leapt from her hiding spot and sprinted toward her victim.
Dominique heard the footsteps at the same time she felt a tremendous blow between her shoulderblades. She flew up and over the bank so fast that her scream was still lodged in her throat when she hit the water.
Chapter Fifteen
The turbulent waters of the Little Missouri raged onward, cutting a zigzag gouge in the Dakota countryside as it raced to merge with the Missouri. Bobbing along in the fast-moving current, a cloud of golden-red hair stood out like the first crocus of spring.
Frantic and wild-eyed, Dominique kicked against the water. She flapped her arms up and down in a vain attempt to save herself, but the river kept pulling her under. Her lungs screaming for oxygen, she finally opened her mouth and gulped for air, but the banquet she brought her starving lungs was nothing more than a cupful of muddy water.
Beyond panic
, she opened her mouth and blew, hoping to push the liquid from her system. It was no use. She was dying. Tiny spots, flickering on and off like a thousand fireflies, appeared behind her eyelids. Her arms and legs grew heavy despite the buoyancy of the water. She was becoming numb, unable to feel the sharp sting of rocks and twigs scraping against her thrashing limbs. Then the current slammed her against a boulder protruding from the river's edge.
The impact caught her just below her breastbone, forcing the water from her lungs, sending a veritable fountain spewing out through her nose and mouth. Stunned, still unable to draw the breath she so badly needed, Dominique clung to the boulder, even as the river tried valiantly to snatch her away again. When she was finally able, she took in air, a teaspoon at a time, until she could breathe in large gulps.
Once her appetite for oxygen was sated, Dominique grabbed at anything she could find—twigs, clumps of grass, half-buried rocks—and used them as tools to help her crawl up onto the bank and out of the water. She lay panting in mud and grass still damp from an earlier downpour. Clinging to the last thread of sanity, Dominique tried to get her bearings, to understand what had happened to her, to determine if she was still in danger. Then she heard it.
