Savage Horizons
Book One of the Blue Hawk Saga by the Award-winning Author of Destiny’s Dawn and Frontier Fires
Rosanne Bittner
Copyright © 1987 by Rosanne Bittner No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission from Don Congdon Associates, Inc; the agency can be reached at [email protected].
Cover design by Kimberly Killion of The Killion Group.
Contents
Introduction
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty One
Chapter Twenty Two
Chapter Twenty Three
Chapter Twenty Four
Chapter Twenty Five
Chapter Twenty Six
Chapter Twenty Seven
Chapter Twenty Eight
Chapter Twenty Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty One
Chapter Thirty Two
Chapter Thirty Three
Introduction
This novel contains references to historical characters and events that occurred during the time period covered. All such references are based on factual, printed matter available to the public. However, all primary characters in this novel are purely fictitious and a product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance of these characters to actual persons, living or dead, or of fictitious events to any events that may have occurred at the time of this story are purely coincidental.
This story takes place from the late 1700’s through 1832, that growing time in America that was the beginning of the end for the American Indian, a time when the western border along the Missouri River bulged at the seams, soon to give way, spilling emigrants onto the prairies and over the Rockies in search of intangible dreams, shouts of “Manifest Destiny” on their lips. Some even went into Mexican territory to a place called Texas.
Within these pages lies the story not just of one man and the loves and losses destiny brings him, it is also the story of the growth of a nation—the first of a continuing saga that will carry you, the reader, from lands where no white man walked through the Civil War years and beyond. The major historical events of this novel and its sequels are true events. This first book begins in present-day Minnesota and moves to Fort Dearborn, which today is Chicago, Illinois. Other settings include “Unorganized Territory,” which is most of the present-day Plains states, from Kansas all the way to North Dakota; “Indian Territory,” which is now Oklahoma; and “Mexican Possessions,” which include present-day Texas, New Mexico and Arizona, as well as California and parts of Utah and Colorado.
Prologue
There was a time in this land when the Indians west of the Mississippi knew little of the white man. They did not fear him then. They were much more curious than hostile, and most trusted the white man, for they had not been exposed to him long enough to understand that the white man could talk with two different tongues. This was a time when innocence prevailed among the native men of the deep forests and open plains, a time when game was abundant, the buffalo thick as a black sea, and the waters crystal clear. Those were glory days for the Indian, days of full stomachs and freedom.
But all of that would change, beginning with those first white men who came, the trappers and hunters. These first men were mostly French, and they befriended the Indian, some sincerely, some for personal gain. Through them were born sons and daughters of mixed blood, people who belonged to neither world; their lives were hard. This is the story of one such man, from his poignant birth through a life that moved in rythmic episodes between both worlds. The Indian called him Blue Hawk. To the white man he was Caleb Sax.
Chapter
One
THE day was unusually warm for the season of the Moon of the Falling Leaves, and thirteen-year-old Little Flower swatted at a fly that buzzed relentlessly around her head. The branches of beach, maple, oak and pine hung limp from the humid air, and the sun created an eerie orange glow as it filtered through the thick woods that surrounded the small Cheyenne village.
Little Flower pulled open the laces of her tunic. The buckskin dress was all she wore, but perspiration still wet her long, black hair, making it cling to her neck. The day had been so hot that the women had done little work and the men chose not to hunt, even though winter skulked just to the north, waiting to bring its bitter cold down from Canada into the lands of many lakes where Little Flower and her family dwelled in mud and thatch huts.
The year was 1793, although Little Flower did not think in such terms. She knew nothing at all about white man’s ways, his languages and cultures. In fact, at that very moment she stood staring at the first white man who had ever come to their village.
Little Flower was amazed by the man’s pale skin and eyes as blue as the sky, as well as the hair on his face as thick as a bush. Actually, she thought him quite ugly. His eyes were set too close together, and his nose was large and hooked. His clothing was soiled, though he wore only buckskin pants because of the heat, revealing a massive chest covered with black hairs. His skin did not look clean and shiny like the skin of Cheyenne men; he had a different odor about him that made Little Flower wrinkle her nose.
The man had first come to their village two sunrises before, offering tobacco, food and amazing trinkets as signs of friendship. Little Flower could not help but be intrigued by the beautiful beads, pretty ribbons, fine black cooking utensils and the wonderful, bright object in which she could see herself. Yet all the gifts the vehoe had passed around did not change Little Flower’s suspicion that there was something evil about him. It was not so much that he was ugly; it was more the way he looked at her. Several times she had caught him staring at her, licking his lips like a hungry wolf, and she wondered what he would do to her if he ever caught her alone.
The white man had won the friendship of the Indian men and the fascination of the women with his many wonderful gifts. Even today the women continued to pass around the bright object that reflected their images like the still waters. Sometimes they argued over it. A few, men and women alike, would have nothing to do with the white man and especially not with the magic object that could capture their image. Surely there was something evil about looking at one’s own spirit face to face. Perhaps the vehoe himself was an evil spirit in the shape of a man. Most of the men, including Little Flower’s father, White Bird, chose to accept him, for he had brought a gift more wonderful than any of the others, something in a brown bottle that brought happy feelings and great power when a man drank the fiery liquid inside.
The men were sitting in a circle, passing around the brown bottle and playing the hand game with the vehoe. Little Flower watched them in silence, peeking around the corner of her mud hut. Her brothers, Deer Man and Many Bears, along with four other Cheyenne, made bets as White Bird shuffled the walnut shells quickly. A bright red berry lay under one of them, and White Bird’s hands moved so quickly it was almost impossible to keep track of the shell that hid the berry. Little Flower saw her father laugh when he again tricked them all. Frenchy, as the pale eyes called himself, scowled in disgust, handing White Bird another wad of tobacco in payment for his bet.
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tle Flower wished she could make her father laugh the way he laughed now. But whenever he looked at her, she saw only scorn and dissatisfaction in his eyes. She seemed to be able to do nothing to please him. Old Grandmother, who also lived with them, had told her it was because White Bird’s heart had broken when his wife had died giving birth to Little Flower.
“If you had been a son,” the old woman explained, “it would have been easier for White Bird. Your mother had given him two sons. But then you were born, and she died. Ever since White Bird has been trying to decide why the Great Spirit cursed him by taking your mother and leaving behind a girl-child. A girl-child is just another mouth to feed, until she has her first flowing time and can bear sons. Then she becomes something of value to her father. You are very beautiful, and White Bird can get many gifts for you when a brave decides to make you his wife.”
Little Flower was uncertain why her first flowing time would make her instantly a woman. One moon before she had had her time, a frightening and confusing experience. Her father had rejoiced and celebrated while Little Flower sat in the menstrual lodge, weeping over things she did not understand and wondering what would be expected of her when she became some brave’s wife. She did not want to be a wife, not yet. She still liked to play with her stick dolls and help Old Grandmother, who was her only source of love and strength. Now that she had become a woman, she wore the chastity rope made of reeds, and she could not look upon her older brothers; nor could she look upon an unrelated boy who might become a suitor. It seemed that everything had suddenly become different and frightening since she had so abruptly changed from girl to woman.
The men playing the game suddenly laughed loudly, startling Little Flower out of her thoughts. Frenchy handed over three beads to White Bird, and Little Flower wondered if the vehoe had an endless supply of the colorful beads, the fiery water and the fists full of tobacco. The pale eyes had made the reasons for his generosity clear when he first arrived. He had shown the Cheyenne men his strange instruments called traps, made of a hard, cold material with cutting teeth that snapped when stepped on. In spite of the language barrier, Frenchy had managed to explain to the Cheyenne men that the traps were used to catch beaver, and that if the Cheyenne would help him catch many beaver, he would bring them even more gifts.
For some reason the vehoe liked beaver furs. Little Flower wondered what he could do with them, and she wondered, too, just how many more white men lived in that unknown world beyond the great woods. Did they all look like Frenchy, and did they all bear such splendid gifts?
Frenchy passed around the bottle again, and the Cheyenne men drank from it, their laughter growing louder. Before long, Frenchy’s gambling luck began to change. Suddenly Deer Man stood up and threw down the last of his beads in anger. He had lost them all. Little Flower’s eyes widened when her brother also removed the handsome blue quill necklace his wife had made for him only days earlier. He threw it at Frenchy and stalked away.
Little Flower’s eyes teared. Surely the vehoe was evil to have made Deer Man give up such a prize. The necklace had been a love gift from Sweet Seed Woman, Deer Man’s young wife. She had spent many hours making it for him, her hands pricked and bleeding badly from the sharp quills. Little Flower greatly admired the necklace, and envied Sweet Seed Woman her talent for making the most beautiful quill necklaces in the tribe. There were plenty of porcupine where they were camped, and Sweet Seed Woman could always make another necklace, but it was a painstaking chore that left a woman’s hands very sore. Little Flower suspected Deer Man would not even have used the necklace in a bet if not for the strange water in the brown bottle. It made the men act strangely and do wild things, made them slur their words and made their eyes red and frightening. She was sure the bottle contained evil spirits, and she hated Frenchy for giving the fiery liquid to Deer Man.
Looking back, she saw Frenchy drink some of it, wiping his lips on his arm and handing the bottle to White Bird. Little Flower’s father took another swallow and let out a war whoop, his eyes gleaming like a crazy man’s. Little Flower was sure the evil water was something that got right into a man’s blood and came out through his eyes and mouth, as though he was possessed by a demon.
The shell game grew more serious, and the vehoe was winning more than losing. Soon the other Cheyenne men had nothing left to bet, and the game was down to Frenchy and White Bird, who had lost most of the gifts Frenchy had given him, as well as a fine parfleche and a stone hatchet. He continued to drink the fiery water, becoming more daring and determined, for White Bird was known among the Cheyenne as the most skilled at the shell game. He gestured that he wanted to play again, but Frenchy threw up his hands to indicate White Bird had nothing of value left with which to gamble. The vehoe shook his head and started to rise, and White Bird growled at him to sit back down, motioning with his hand angrily.
Frenchy shook his head, frowning. He removed his hat and scratched his head, as though thinking a moment, and Little Flower made a face at the sight of his long, matted hair. It was not clean and combed like the Cheyenne men kept theirs. She frowned with curiosity as he held out his hand, indicating a small person, then pointed at White Bird. He held out both hands, making a motion to indicate the shape of a woman, then pointed to his private parts, making a copulating gesture. He held out his hand again to indicate someone short, and White Bird grinned. He turned to Many Bears, Little Flower’s oldest brother, who had remained to watch.
“He wants me to use your sister as payment if I lose the next game,” White Bird told his son, his words slurred.
Little Flower’s heart pounded in horror. She cringed farther around the corner of the hut, wondering if she should run away. Her eyes filled with tears. Did her father hate her so much that he would give her away to the strange white man? Old Grandmother had said she was worthy of the finest brave, and now she could hear her brother arguing that very point.
“You know Black Antelope has eyes for her,” Many Bears shouted angrily at her father. “He will give many blankets and horses for her.”
But White Bird was full of the evil water and was thinking and acting foolishly. “If I win, the vehoe will give back all the things I have lost, plus corn and tobacco, as well as his fine hunting knife, in return for Little Flower. I would get gifts, and I would get a husband for my daughter.”
“She is too young,” Many Bears argued. “Cheyenne men should have a chance to ask for her, as well as Black Antelope. You know he is already preparing many gifts to offer for her. He will be very angry if you do this, Father.”
Frenchy watched with a sly grin, unable to understand all that was said so heatedly in drunken Cheyenne, but aware of what the argument was about. But he wanted the pretty little Cheyenne virgin, and he would risk the Indians’ anger to get her. White Bird waved his son off and spit, and Little Flower choked back tears. Not only was her father considering giving her to the white stranger, but this was the first time she had heard Black Antelope wanted her. Black Antelope was Sioux, an honored warrior, strong and handsome. She barely knew him, yet she knew he would make a much better and more honorable husband than the smelly white man with the narrow eyes and a hooked nose, whose language she did not even understand.
“I believe the pale eyes has magic powers,” White Bird argued. “He is a man of wealth, with many gifts, and with fire sticks. He has the magic water that makes us happy. It would be good for my daughter to be married to him. He can bring us many more gifts than Black Antelope. He knows of another world, where there are great houses on water and where many white men gather together in stone buildings. He has told us this. He has brought us traps to catch beaver and will give us food and gifts for the furs. It is good that he has come here. We can learn many things from this man with pale skin.” White Bird stood up, sticking out his chest proudly. “I, White Bird, will be the first Cheyenne to give a daughter in marriage to this man of great powers! It is a good bet. If he loses, I get everything back and more, and if he still wants Little Fl
ower, I will demand much from him and get many good gifts in return.”
“It is a foolish bet,” Many Bears replied cautiously.
White Bird pushed at him. “Get away from me, my son. Do not argue with your father. It is a good bet.”
Little Flower hurriedly snuck around the hut and darted inside, her wide, frightened eyes meeting Old Grandmother’s. The old woman looked at her sadly. “My ears have heard,” she told her granddaughter. “It is a bad thing your father does, but if you must go to the vehoe, you must go proudly. Do not shame your father by refusing to do his bidding. You wear the chastity rope, Little Flower. Do not be afraid. The vehoe must honor it and wait until you are ready to take a man, as any honorable Cheyenne would do.”
Little Flower hurried to her side, huddling down beside the old woman who had been the only mother she had ever known. “But he is not Cheyenne,” she whimpered. “He is not anything Indian. Maybe it is different with white men. I am afraid of him, grandmother.”
The old woman put an arm around her. “I should chase your father out of this hut for what he is doing, but with my daughter dead, and your brothers having their own wives, your father is all I have to provide for me. I cannot help you, grandchild, except that I am here when you need me. I cannot undo your father’s decision.”
She rocked the girl gently, while outside the final game was played. An eerie silence hung in the air, broken suddenly by Frenchy’s victorious laughter. Little Flower looked at her grandmother, and tears ran down her childlike cheeks. The old woman’s heart ached for her grandchild, such a small girl expected to behave like a woman. Suddenly White Bird walked into the hut, his eyes wild from the whiskey. He looked at Old Grandmother boldly, as though to challenge her to argue with him. The old woman stiffened, holding her chin high.
“I have heard.” She gave Little Flower a hug. “Your daughter is ready. She will make you proud. But the day will come when you, White Bird, feel no pride. You will regret this day, and you will know shame. My daughter would have cast you out for what you are doing.”
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