by Karen Kay
From the Indian point of view, these warrior-whites appeared as little more than cowards. These “soldiers” hid behind the walls of their forts like scared rabbits. And when they did venture out to do battle, they concentrated their attacks upon villages of women and children, not upon their equals, the warriors. It was something no Indian mind could comprehend.
That his own people, the Cheyennes, were retaliating in the same brutal manner as these whites, attacking outposts and settlements along the frontier, War Cloud refused to consider. An eye for an eye. This was how it was.
A shuffling noise sounded from below him, and War Cloud peered down to see one of the children turn over in sleep. The rustle of their clothing beneath the blankets reminded him of the events that had brought him to his present situation, and without pause, frustration surged through him once more, causing him to mutter a quiet, “Eaaa,” in response.
Although War Cloud was not the sort of man to long dwell on things that could not be changed, he could not help indulging himself in a moment of self-contempt. He, who had refused to engage in any more worthless peace talks with the whites; he, who had led several of the conflicts between the warrior-whites and the Cheyenne Dog Soldiers; he, certainly no friend to these whites, now found himself aiding and abetting not just one or two of these people, but thirteen.
He tightened his mouth, while a muscle twitched furiously in his cheek.
And yet, he thought, if he were honest, he would admit that a part of him was glad to have the company of the white woman… She certainly possessed a sharp tongue, he considered, a half grin pulling at the edge of his lips.
Nahkohe-tseske, Little Bear. It was an apt name for her.
Reluctantly, War Cloud recognized hers as an indomitable spirit; plus, he acknowledged, it was possible that without her interference, his brother might be lying dead, a sacrifice to the hostilities of war.
There was more, although he refused to consider the tangled emotions that had sprung up between himself and the white woman.
Lust. That had to be the explanation for his actions. Yet, if that were true, how did he account for his urge to comfort the woman, to take her in his arms and hold her until her cares melted away?
An image flitted across his mind, the likeness that of the white woman. And despite his own trepidations, he caught himself recalling the way the wind had whisked her hair against her face; the manner in which that unflattering dress had moved against her body. It caused a stirring within his blood and made his heart beat a little faster, and War Cloud again acknowledged this for what it must certainly be: lust, pure and carnal.
It was odd, too, because she was not what he considered pretty, yet…
He shook his head, quietly admonishing himself, and with silent determination, set his mind to other things. He brought his attention back to his surroundings, keeping a look out for any sign of an enemy. There would be little rest for him this night—for the next few weeks, in fact, since it would be some time before he could lead these people to the relative safety of the north country. Until then, neither he nor his brother would be able to relax their vigil. Both his own and his brother’s safety, as well as that of the woman and children, rested upon his competence.
War Cloud heaved a deep sigh. And although he knew it did no good to ponder the mistakes of the past, he could not help but wonder what he could have done differently to avoid his current predicament. In truth, he could find no error on his part, except perhaps earlier when the whites had stolen his brother from him.
That he had left Lame Bird with a cousin in a Kiowa camp had been a mistake. The Kiowa and the whites had been at peace and it had seemed the best thing to do at the time. But the camp had been raided anyway, his brother taken captive and recognized.
The ultimate miscalculation, War Cloud had come to realize, was not being aware of how notorious his own person had become. That the white man considered War Cloud an outlaw seemed ridiculous to him. His was a spirit at war; his purpose that of a warrior, not an outlaw.
But no matter, War Cloud had made a mistake in not giving credit to the white people’s intelligence, never dreaming they would make the connection between himself and his brother.
It would be the last time War Cloud ever repeated that error. He would keep the boy close to him in the future and he would remember, too, that so long as these wars raged over the plains, no one was safe from attack.
“E-na’estse-ve!” The wind rushing by him seemed to speak to him in Cheyenne.
War Cloud paid it little attention.
“E-na’estse-ve!” She is the one. The whispered words came again.
War Cloud frowned. Was he hallucinating, or was he having a vision?
He glanced around him, in every direction, but he could see nothing except storm clouds. He waited, frowning. If it were a vision, something else would make itself known to him.
War Cloud lingered, belly down on the ground, his senses alert. But nothing else happened for quite some time, no other words spoken, even the wind beginning to still. Perhaps, he decided, he was merely dreaming wide-awake.
“E-na’estse-ve!” The low voice came again when War Cloud would have relaxed. This time the voice came from the direction of the clouds.
War Cloud narrowed his brows. He knew that voice, had heard it at some time in his past. Glancing back briefly toward the sleeping figures of the whites, War Cloud tried to determine if anyone else had heard it.
No one moved. No one stirred.
Again, “E-na’estse-ve!”
War Cloud came up to a sitting position and, glancing toward the heavens, asked in a whisper, “Nevaahe ta’hohe?” Who is that?
No response came to the question, and War Cloud tried again, a little more loudly, “Nevaahe ta’hohe?”
Still nothing more was said, nothing to explain what was happening.
And yet, the voice was familiar. Frowning, War Cloud made the connection and asked, “Is this the voice of my ancestor?”
Instead of an answer, the low voice repeated, as though War Cloud hadn’t asked his own question, “E-na’estseve!” She is the one.
“Nevaahe?” Whom do you speak of?
“Ve’ho’a’e. E-na’estse-ve.” The white woman. She is the one.
War Cloud again surveyed his surroundings. Nothing. There was nothing there, except… Again, his brows narrowed, and he let out his breath. “I have not heard from you for many years, my ancestor,” answered War Cloud. “I thought you had given up on me when I failed to be successful in marriage many years ago.”
No direct reply was forthcoming except that the wind whisked by War Cloud as though it were somehow angered. Then came the voice again, saying, “You are the one, and so is she. The time has come at last.”
War Cloud moaned, and shaking his head, uttered, “Hova’ahane. I am not the one. I have tried to destroy the spell that binds you and that binds me and my kin.” He addressed the spirit as though he were speaking to a live person. “But, Grandfather, I grow tired of the game. Five times I have been ready to marry. And in all these experiences, none of these women have stayed with me. All are gone; all left me for another. The curse holds strong.”
“It will be different this time,” came the softly spoken words.
“It will not be different!” Irritated, War Cloud found himself raising his voice. Calming himself and glancing back toward the sleeping figures below him to ensure that he had not roused them, he added, “Go away, Grandfather. The last time you spoke to me, I had more trouble than I could handle.”
Now, it is true that these were odd things to say to a spirit, made even more strange by the fact that War Cloud should be so annoyed. Amongst all Cheyenne, as well as with most Indian tribes, the object of a vision, as well as the being who gave it, was revered, perhaps even feared. However…
“Yet,” the voice said gently, “did not the white men come as I said they would? Did they not build their homes on your land? Are there not now more of them than
the blades of grass upon the ground?”
“Haahe, all these things became true,” War Cloud whispered, “but not for many years and not before I was laughed from the camp. My wife left me after only a few days to run away with another because no one would believe these strange things that you told me.”
A strained silence followed this statement, the land mimicking the stillness, although a few drops of rain began to splatter on War Cloud’s face. At length, the voice continued, “Your wife would have left you no matter what you did or said, for the curse over our family prevents your happiness, and hers. You know that either she had to leave you or she would die.”
War Cloud sulked, knowing in his heart the truth of these words. Yet, still, he was unwilling to relent and he ordered, at some length, “Go away!”
“I cannot,” came the voice. “I am as reliant upon you as you are on me.”
“I do not rely on you!”
“Do you not?” came the voice, oddly inflected with laughter. “And yet you seek to cross the prairie with many white children and expect to do it without incident from the warrior-whites?”
War Cloud grunted. “I must do as I must do. I am now honor-bound to do this because of my brother. Now, go away and do not seek me out again. I am not the one to end your plight. I have already tried to help you, to help my clan; I have failed. Perhaps my brother is the one who can at last break this bad luck. Why do you not talk to him?”
A hush filled the void left by these words, and then the vision of an old man materialized before War Cloud, there upon the prairie. War Cloud came up onto his forearms as he announced, “Since I was a young man, you have come to me and have spoken to me, Grandfather. Haahe, yes, you have given me wisdom, you have shown me truths many times, but these truths are not always easy to accept. I would have you leave me alone.”
Several hushed moments passed before the image asked, “Tell me why you speak as you do.”
War Cloud forced himself to curb his irritation. He reminded himself that it was not his ancestor’s fault that his own people had not believed the truth of the old man’s prophecy all those years ago, just as it was not his fault that War Cloud found himself escorting a group of white people. At length, he said, “Grandfather, you may speak to me wisely as you have done in the past. It is only that sometimes these things that you tell me are not only hard to do, they are difficult to believe. Grandfather, I would live in peace with my people and with myself.”
The image came to within ten feet of War Cloud and there it halted. It said, “There will be no peace for you or any of our family until you put this curse to rest, my son. I know these things are hard to understand and they are hard for you to do, but you must set your mind to it. The white woman’s heart is good.”
With a quick jerk of his head, War Cloud announced, “I am already helping her and it matters not if her heart is good or evil. I have pledged myself. It is enough. I will take her north.”
“This is not what she wants.”
“She has no choice.”
“But you do.”
“I have not the choice,” argued War Cloud. “If I do as she asks me, I risk the murder of myself and my brother. If I take her north, she may survive.”
“Or she and the children might be killed by those amongst our own kind whose hearts have become as hardened as the earth upon which you walk.”
“It is a risk,” War Cloud acknowledged, “but it is the only way.”
“Hova’ahane, there is another way,” said the spirit. “Do as she asks. I will be here with you. I will guide you.”
“Enough!” The wind whipped around War Cloud and rain began to splatter in his face in earnest. But he would not be swayed by these things. “I will need no guide, for I know the way north. I will do as I think best, not as she suggests or as you will it. I would be rid of her as soon as I can, Grandfather, and be on my way.”
“Yet, she could be many things to you. My son, it takes but one act of kindness for one such as she.”
“But she…she is…”
“One act of kindness…” With these words, the image disappeared, amidst a hair-raising crack of thunder.
“Saaa,” War Cloud muttered to himself, scoffing, yet even as he did so, a hand touched his arm. Despite himself, War Cloud jerked and spun around, sitting up and staring into a pair of round, green eyes…
Chapter Nine
Anna slept fitfully.
The wind felt as though it were nudging her, talking to her. Worse, she was having a gruesome nightmare.
From somewhere far away from her body, she watched as her captor talked to an apparition. Watched him as though she were somehow a part of the conversation.
But she wasn’t.
Oh, how she wanted to come awake. She kept prodding herself, hoping to open her eyes, but they remained tightly shut.
And still the voices spoke, in words she could not understand.
A crack of thunder cut through the air and Anna awakened with a start.
Her breathing came in fits and spurts and Anna drew her hand to her heart, as though to shield herself. She was frightened…frightened and… She glanced around her, at the children.
At least they slept peacefully. Oh, how she loved every single one of them.
Watching them, Anna realized what she was going to have to do, and the sooner it was done, the better she would feel about it…she hoped.
So it was with a determination that might have rivaled even the most stouthearted of men, that Anna rose to seek out her captor.
“Sir.” The white woman’s gentle voice reached out to him. “I must speak to you.”
War Cloud calmed himself and, still holding her gaze, found himself asking, “Did you see? Did you hear?”
“See what?”
War Cloud let out his breath and narrowed his brow, asking, “Did something awaken you?”
“My thoughts awoke me; they worry me, sir,” she said, and War Cloud relaxed. “I have at last fully confronted the fact that I, and I alone, am responsible for these children, and my mind does not rest easy.” Her look puzzled, she stopped for the beat of a moment, then, “I am sorry, sir, but I heard nothing.”
“Hova’ahane.” He shook his head. With a deep sigh, War Cloud settled his glance on the horizon, his face an unreadable mask.
“Sir, please, I must speak to you.”
Still not looking at her, he said, “I am listening.”
He heard her sigh before she began, “Sir, forgive me for coming upon you as I have, it is only that I feel I must repeat my concern about the children.”
“Humph!” was his only answer.
“Please listen. There is a way for you to take us to a white man’s town. You and your brother would not have to come with us into the camp, just lead us close to it.”
“And what do you think the white people will do after you or the children tell them that Indians led you to them?”
“We would not say anything?”
He scoffed. “Think you not?” His chin shot up and he slanted her a glance. “And what will you say when they ask you how you came to find a camp of white people hundreds of miles from the raid upon the fire horse? With no weapons? With no food?” He growled. “You would fool no one.”
“But by the time others became aware of it, you could be gone.”
He bristled, releasing his breath in a dismissal before he said, “You think as a white person.”
“I am a white person.”
He gave her a quick glance. “Haahe, so you are. But if you are to survive here, I would urge you to direct your attention to the barely noticeable things that surround you. You must start, white woman, to think like an Indian. Do you understand?”
“I…I don’t think so.”
“Humph!” he said. “I want you to do something.”
She nodded. “All right.”
He waved his hand in the general direction of the prairie. “Observe what you see around you.”
She looked.
“What do you see?”
She hesitated, then, “A storm, clouds, night.”
He nodded. “What else?”
“The prairie which goes on into nothing, grass, rain…nothing more.”
He nodded again. “Ah, now you see it.”
“What?” Her voice cracked. “I see nothing.”
He remained emotionless and said, “That is the point. There is nothing more there. Do you observe that I am afoot?”
She nodded.
“Tell me one of the most frequent possessions of the white man.”
She looked puzzled, at last guessing, “Guns?”
“Horses, Little Bear. The whites have horses. I would be easily found, hunted. No matter the lead I might have on these people, once they found out about me, they would have advantage, even if I captured a horse or two. No, the whites would find me and kill me.”
“But I am willing to negotiate.”
He turned his head slowly toward her and repeated, “Negotiate?” He said the word slowly, his tongue slurring the syllables together as though he could barely believe what he heard.
She nodded. “Yes, sir,” she said, “I am willing to give you something in exchange for this small favor you would do for the children.”
He looked her up and down, watched as she gulped, watched as her glance fell to the ground.
He waited for her response and when it came he could barely hear it, she spoke so softly. He asked, “What was that again? I did not hear you.”
Again he watched as she balked, at last uttering, “I would do as you ask.”
That stopped him; stopped him so completely still he had to remember to breathe.
