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Savage Illusions

Page 6

by Cassie Edwards


  "That damn In­di­an is as­king too many qu­es­ti­ons," Kirk grow­led. "He's be­en hi­red to le­ad, not to in­ter­fe­re in our pri­va­te li­ves."

  Jolena tug­ged at Kirk's hand, trying to get free. "Let me go, Kirk," she sa­id, an­ger brim­ming in her eyes as she gla­red at him. "What you did was most im­po­li­te. He was just ma­king con­ver­sa­ti­on."

  "He saw yo­ur skin co­lo­ring," Kirk grum­b­led, flas­hing an angry lo­ok back at her. "And it wasn't just po­li­te con­ver­sa­ti­on that ca­used him to say what he did. Jole­na, you are In­di­an, thro­ugh and thro­ugh. He saw it. He wants to ma­ke it his bu­si­ness to know why, and I won't al­low it."

  Jolena ce­ased strug­gling with her brot­her, kno­wing that al­t­ho­ugh she was the mo­re wil­lful of the two, he was the stron­ger.

  Throwing a glan­ce over her sho­ul­der, she ga­zed at Spot­ted Eag­let­his In­di­an who­se na­me, as well as his han­d­so­me­ness, in­t­ri­gu­ed her.

  She did not know how, but Spot­ted Eag­le was one and the sa­me as the In­di­an in her dre­ams! She did not see how that co­uld be so, yet it was. No one co­uld say that all In­di­ans lo­oked ali­ke, for the slig­h­ter In­di­an com­pa­ni­on of Spot­ted Eag­le's lo­oked not­hing li­ke the man in her dre­am. In her eyes, he was not han­d­so­me at all.

  He, too, had lo­oked at her stran­gely, but she had de­fi­ned this as an in­te­rest in her. She knew lust in the eyes of a man when she saw it, and this man lus­ted af­ter her. He se­emed re­ady even at this mo­ment to throw her to the gro­und and co­ver her with his body. He frig­h­te­ned her, and she knew to ke­ep an eye on him, es­pe­ci­al­ly if she was left alo­ne for any length of ti­me with him.

  "Kirk," Jole­na blur­ted, fi­nal­ly yan­king her­self out of her brot­her's grip. "I ho­pe that to­day isn't a sam­p­le of how gu­ar­ded you are go­ing to be of my every mo­ve and new ac­qu­a­in­tan­ce. You ma­de me lo­ok hel­p­less in front of ever­yo­ne. You know bet­ter than that, so ple­ase think be­fo­re you act next ti­me."

  "It do­esn't ta­ke much thin­king to know when you ne­ed yo­ur brot­her to lo­ok af­ter yo­ur wel­fa­re, es­pe­ci­al­ly when an In­di­an war­ri­or is be­co­ming too in­qu­isi­ti­ve abo­ut you," Kirk sa­id, gi­ving Jole­na a frown. "I pro­mi­sed fat­her I wo­uld…"

  His words bro­ke off as a gu­ar­ded lo­ok ca­me in­to his eyes, then he lo­oked away from Jole­na, si­lent.

  "You pro­mi­sed fat­her you wo­uld ke­ep me from fin­ding out abo­ut my he­ri­ta­ge, didn't you?" she snap­ped back. "Is he… are you… so thre­ate­ned by the truth that you will do an­y­t­hing to ke­ep me from even tal­king to an In­di­an? Kirk, that won't work and you know it. If I want to talk, for in­s­tan­ce, to Spot­ted Eag­le, I will, and I will not al­low you to hu­mi­li­ate me, nor him, ever aga­in."

  "Didn't you see the way he was lo­oking at you, sis?" Kirk sa­id ur­gently. "He was lo­oking at you as tho­ugh he wan­ted to pos­sess you, or per­haps al­re­ady did. And I saw the way you we­re lo­oking at him. Damn it, sis, don't get in­fa­tu­ated with an In­di­an just be­ca­use yo­ur skin is the sa­me co­lor as his. II don't want you de­ci­ding to stay be­hind when it is ti­me to re­turn to Sa­int Lo­u­is."

  Knowing that Kirk's wor­ri­es we­re well-fo­un­ded, and that even she saw the dan­gers in al­lo­wing her fe­elings for Spot­ted Eag­le to grow, Jole­na did not of­fer him a res­pon­se. In truth, she did not know what to say. She co­uld not deny even to her brot­her that she was in­t­ri­gu­ed by the Blac­k­fo­ot war­ri­or, for she was not skil­led in tel­ling li­es.

  Instead, she es­ca­ped fur­t­her con­ver­sa­ti­on with him by ga­zing aro­und her, ta­king in the sce­ne aro­und them. The si­te of the fort had be­en well se­lec­ted, on a be­a­uti­ful pra­irie on the banks ne­ar the jun­c­ti­on of the Mis­so­uri and Yel­low­s­to­ne ri­vers. Jole­na's fat­her had told her that sin­ce this was the prin­ci­pal he­ad­qu­ar­ters of the fur com­pa­ni­es of this re­gi­on, a vast stock of go­ods was kept on hand. At cer­ta­in ti­mes of the ye­ar, the nu­me­ro­us tra­ders from the dis­tant out­posts con­cen­t­ra­ted he­re with the pro­fits from the­ir se­ason's tra­de and out­fit­ted them­sel­ves with a fresh supply of go­ods to tra­de with the In­di­ans. This post was al­so the ge­ne­ral ren­dez­vo­us of a gre­at num­ber of In­di­an tri­bes, who we­re con­ti­nu­al­ly con­cen­t­ra­ting the­re for the pur­po­se of tra­de.

  It ap­pe­ared that tho­se who li­ved wit­hin the walls of the fort li­ved in a com­for­tab­le style. Jole­na co­uld co­unt so­me eight or ten log ho­uses and sto­res and knew that forty or fifty sol­di­ers we­re sta­ti­oned the­re. She was ama­zed at the num­ber of hor­ses in the cor­ral at the far end of the co­ur­t­yard, not far from the long row of bar­racks. The­re had to be at le­ast one hun­d­red hor­ses in­si­de the fen­ce!

  ''Here now, let me ta­ke you to my pri­va­te dwel­ling," Ralph sa­id, sud­denly nud­ging his way bet­we­en Jole­na and Kirk. "You can get com­for­tab­le with a cup of hot tea be­fo­re ever­yo­ne el­se ar­ri­ves for sup­per. Yo­ur trunks and per­so­nal be­lon­gings are be­ing se­en to. To­mor­row they will be lo­aded in­to the co­ve­red wa­gons that sho­uld be ar­ri­ving from anot­her out­post. The­se wa­gons will ta­ke you whe­re you ne­ed to go. Spot­ted Eag­le knows the ave­nue of tra­vel that will ta­ke you aro­und the worst, im­pas­sab­le ter­ra­in."

  The na­me Spot­ted Eag­le ma­de Jole­na's he­art le­ap. She lo­oked gu­il­tily at Kirk and saw that his re­ac­ti­on to the na­me was much dif­fe­rent from her own. In his blue eyes she co­uld see a tra­ce of gu­ar­ded an­ger.

  Steve gu­ided her and Kirk to­ward the lar­gest and most han­d­so­me of the log ca­bins. She fol­lo­wed him in­si­de, fin­ding a hu­ge sto­ne fi­rep­la­ce whe­re a soft fi­re bur­ned in the mas­si­ve gra­te; plush, de­eply cus­hi­oned cha­irs we­re po­si­ti­oned be­fo­re the fi­rep­la­ce.

  As she lo­oked slowly aro­und the ro­om, she fo­und signs that only a man li­ved the­re and con­c­lu­ded that Ralph was not mar­ri­ed, or per­haps was wi­do­wed. All the fur­ni­tu­re was manly and cru­de, and li­ned along the far wall we­re his trop­hi­es­stuf­fed he­ads of de­er and every ot­her kind of wild ani­mal to be fo­und in this un­ta­med Mon­ta­na Ter­ri­tory re­gi­on.

  Jolena tur­ned qu­ickly when a Me­xi­can wo­man ca­me in­to the ro­om, wi­ping her hands on an ap­ron. Her gra­ying ha­ir was worn in a tight bun atop her he­ad, and her eyes we­re wi­de and smi­ling as she ga­zed from Kirk to Jole­na.

  "We ha­ve vi­si­tors, s?, Mis­ter Ralph?" Ma­ria Es­te­fan sa­id, still smi­ling her ap­pro­val. "And isn't she the pretty one?" she sa­id, lo­oking Jole­na slowly up and down. "Indi­an? Which tri­be?"

  Jolena had be­en re­tur­ning the wo­man's smi­le un­til she had re­fer­red to her as an In­di­an, go­ing as far as as­king her tri­be.

  There was a stra­ined si­len­ce.

  Ralph qu­ickly in­ter­ce­ded. "Ma­ria, this is Jole­na and Kirk Ed­monds from Sa­int Lo­u­is," he sa­id, ges­tu­ring to­ward them. "They ha­ve co­me to se­arch for a ra­re but­terfly. They will be le­aving on the ex­pe­di­ti­on to­mor­row. Don't you think you sho­uld show them the sup­per you've pre­pa­red for them and the­ir as­so­ci­ates?"

  Maria squ­in­ted cu­ri­o­usly up at Jole­na from her ex­t­re­mely short he­ight, but sa­id no mo­re as she gu­ided them in­to the di­ning ro­om, which was set for the eve­ning me­al. The long oak tab­le se­emed to gro­an un­der the lu­xu­ri­es of the co­un­t­r­y­buf­fa­lo me­at and ton­gu­es, be­avers' ta­ils and mar­row fat. A bot­tle of Ma­de­ira and an ex­cel­lent port sat glis­te­ning in the light of se­ve­ral can­d­les in the cen­ter of the tab­le, and pi­les of bre­ad and che­ese lo­oked tem�
�p­ting midst the ot­her de­li­ca­ci­es.

  "Does it me­et with yo­ur ap­pro­val?" Ralph sa­id, mo­ving to the tab­le and run­ning his hand along its smo­oth, highly po­lis­hed top.

  "I wasn't even awa­re of be­ing hungry un­til I saw this," Jole­na sa­id, la­ug­hing softly.

  One by one the rest of the sci­en­tists and the­ir as­sis­tants fi­led in­to the ro­om. Jole­na sat down be­si­de Kirk and wel­co­med a cup of tea as Ma­ria then fil­led a long-stem­med glass with wi­ne. She smi­led her thanks, yet was re­mem­be­ring the wo­man's qu­es­ti­on­w­hich tri­be was she from?

  It ate at her in­si­des, the not kno­wing.

  Now, mo­re than ever be­fo­re, she had to find out her true he­ri­ta­ge… her true fat­her… her true pe­op­le.

  Somehow, so­me way­s­he wo­uld.

  Her tho­ughts swit­c­hed qu­ickly to the han­d­so­me war­ri­or. Per­haps he co­uld help her dis­co­ver the truths that un­til now we­re kept from her?

  She tin­g­led from he­ad to toe to think that she had a true re­ason to be­co­me clo­ser to Spot­ted Eag­le.

  Still in awe of this wo­man who was In­di­an, yet was dres­sed in whi­te clot­hing, Spot­ted Eag­le only went thro­ugh the mo­ti­ons of ma­king camp just in­si­de the fort's walls. Ever­y­t­hing he did he did mec­ha­ni­cal­ly, wit­ho­ut tho­ught. He co­uld not con­ce­ive how this wo­man co­uld be an­yo­ne but the da­ug­h­ter of Swe­et Do­ve and Brown Elk. No one co­uld lo­ok so li­ke so­me­one wit­ho­ut be­ing re­la­ted!

  He glan­ced at Two Rid­ges as he was spre­ading his pelts for the night clo­se be­si­de the fi­re. He fo­und it im­pos­sib­le to sha­re with Two Rid­ges his sus­pi­ci­on that Jole­na was Two Rid­ges' half-sis­ter.

  Looking away from Two Rid­ges, aga­in oc­cup­ying him­self with his own cho­res of pre­pa­ring his pelts for the night, he de­ci­ded that kno­wing who Jole­na su­rely was wo­uld be his sec­ret, to be sa­vo­red un­til the ti­me ca­me that Jole­na wo­uld be ta­ken to me­et her true pe­op­le. Then Two Rid­ges wo­uld know.

  Only then.

  Spotted Eag­le did not want to sha­re Jole­na with Two Rid­ges for any re­ason as yet. It was go­ing to be dif­fi­cult eno­ugh to find ways to get her away from her whi­te brot­her, this man se­emingly ob­ses­sed with her.

  In ti­me, this wo­uld chan­ge, he tho­ught, smi­ling to him­self.

  The only man who wo­uld pos­sess and be ob­ses­sed with her wo­uld be Spot­ted Eag­le!

  He to­ok a pi­ece of dri­ed me­at and back fat from the buc­k­s­kin po­uch that he had bro­ught from his hor­se, sat down by the fi­re, and be­gan eating slowly, his tho­ughts still on this wo­man who so re­sem­b­led the wo­man of his past. It was brin­ging back many me­mo­ri­es that ma­de a slow ac­he aro­und his he­art.

  Two Rid­ges lo­oked gu­ar­dedly over at Spot­ted Eag­le. When he tho­ught that his fri­end might be too lost in tho­ught to no­ti­ce his ab­sen­ce, he mo­ved ste­al­t­hily away from the cam­p­si­te. He had no­ti­ced the ar­ri­val of anot­her Blac­k­fo­ot fri­end of anot­her Blac­k­fo­ot vil­la­ge ma­king tem­po­rary camp out­si­de the fort walls to tra­de his pelts on the mor­row.

  White Mo­le did an­y­t­hing for pay­ment, even if it was tel­ling a lie to add hor­ses to his cor­ral back at his vil­la­ge.

  For two hor­ses, Whi­te Mo­le wo­uld do most an­y­t­hing.

  Even lying to Spot­ted Eag­le, a most re­ve­red Blac­k­fo­ot war­ri­or!

  But Two Rid­ges saw no ot­her way to get the cop­per prin­cess all to him­self. He wan­ted her badly eno­ugh to try an­y­t­hing to ha­ve her, even if, in the end, he lost Spot­ted Eag­le's fri­en­d­s­hip.

  Hurrying an­xi­o­usly, he ca­me upon Whi­te Mo­le's cam­p­si­te. He em­b­ra­ced his short, squ­at fri­end, who­se eyes we­re stran­gely dis­fi­gu­red by a whi­te mo­le abo­ve each of them. "My fri­end, it is go­od to see you aga­in," Two Rid­ges sa­id, step­ping away from his fri­end. "Wo­uld you sha­re a smo­ke with yo­ur Blac­k­fo­ot ne­ig­h­bor?"

  " Kyi- ok-yi, co­me. It will be go­od to sha­re my pi­pe with Two Rid­ges," Whi­te Mo­le sa­id, kne­eling to re­ach in­si­de his buc­k­s­kin tra­vel bag for his long-stem­med pi­pe. Two Rid­ges sat down on Whi­te Mo­le's blan­ket as Whi­te Mo­le set­tled down be­si­de him, stam­ping In­di­an to­bac­co in­to the bowl of the pi­pe. Af­ter the pi­pe was lit by a bur­ning twig, they to­ok turns dra­wing from the stem, then la­id it asi­de and tal­ked.

  "You ha­ve co­me to Whi­te Mo­le for mo­re than smo­ke?" Whi­te Mo­le as­ked.

  "That is so," Two Rid­ges sa­id stiffly, his legs cros­sed, his hands on each of his kne­es.

  "You tell Whi­te Mo­le why," the smal­ler In­di­an sa­id, le­aning his fa­ce clo­ser to Two Rid­ges.

  "First I want to say that I will pay you two hor­ses if you do as I ask," Two Rid­ges sa­id, wat­c­hing Whi­te Mo­le's thick lips form a slow smi­le.

  "Two hor­ses will be fi­ne pay­ment," Whi­te Mo­le sa­id, nod­ding. "Tell me what to do. It is the sa­me as do­ne."

  Two Rid­ges lo­oked over his sho­ul­der to see if Spot­ted Eag­le had no­ti­ced whe­re he had go­ne, glad to see that a row of bus­hes hid him from his fri­end's vi­ew.

  He then le­aned clo­ser to Whi­te Mo­le. "I must say this qu­ickly, then re­turn to my cam­p­si­te be­fo­re my fri­end finds me with you," he sa­id softly.

  White Mo­le stra­ined his neck, lo­oking aro­und the bus­hes. "You are with Spot­ted Eag­le, I see," he sa­id.

  "Yes, as I usu­al­ly am," Two Rid­ges sa­id, then le­aned clo­ser aga­in to Whi­te Mo­le. "My fri­end, the­re are many whi­te pe­op­le who will be le­aving the fort in co­ve­red wa­gons to­mor­row. Fol­low them a full day and night, then go in­to the­ir camp and gi­ve this fal­se mes­sa­ge to Spot­ted Eag­let­hat anot­her bra­ve has co­me to you and told you to re­lay a mes­sa­ge to Spot­ted Eag­le that he must re­turn ho­me, that his fat­her is ailing. By the ti­me Spot­ted Eag­le dis­co­vers the de­ce­it, Two Rid­ges will ha­ve a chan­ce to draw the one cal­led Jole­na in­to lo­ving him. You will not be ac­cu­sed of the de­cep­ti­on, be­ca­use you will say a bra­ve who­se na­me is not known to you has told you."

  " Hai- vah! You are de­ce­iving yo­ur fa­vo­red fri­end?" Whi­te Mo­le sa­id, his vo­ice fil­led with won­der.

  "For a be­a­uti­ful wo­man, wo­uld you not do the sa­me?" Two Rid­ges sa­id, smi­ling de­vi­lishly at Whi­te Mo­le. It was im­por­tant to Two Rid­ges to ha­ve so­met­hing to ca­use envy in Spot­ted Eag­le! As he saw it, it was not fa­ir that Spot­ted Eag­le re­ce­ived so much ado­ra­ti­on from the­ir Blac­k­fo­ot pe­op­le, es­pe­ci­al­ly the el­ders, and Two Rid­ges so lit­tle. Two Rid­ges had a strong dri­ve to chan­ge that.

  White Mo­le re­tur­ned the smi­le. "I will ma­ke hasty tra­de of my pelts at early sun­ri­se then wa­it hid­den for the whi­te pe­op­le to le­ave on wa­gons and will fol­low."

  He pla­ced a hand on Two Rid­ges' sho­ul­der. "You pay me well with best hor­ses for such a de­ce­it?" he sa­id, his eyes dan­cing.

  "The best," Two Rid­ges sa­id, nod­ding.

  " Kyi. The de­ed is the sa­me as do­ne," Whi­te Mo­le sa­id, chuc­k­ling. Two Rid­ges ro­se qu­ickly to his fe­et and ma­de a wi­de cir­c­le so that, sho­uld Spot­ted Eag­le turn and see his re­turn to the cam­p­si­te, he wo­uld not see whe­re he had be­en.

  But Two Rid­ges fo­und qu­ickly eno­ugh that he had not­hing to fe­ar. He re­ac­hed his camp wit­ho­ut even a si­de­wi­se glan­ce from Spot­ted Eag­le. Spot­ted Eag­le was as tho­ugh in a tran­ce, his mind su­rely loc­ked on the be­a­uty of the wo­man of mystery, Two Rid­ges' cop­per prin­cess!

  This ma­de Two Rid­ges even mo­re de­ter­mi­ned in his pri­va­
te pur­su­it of this wo­man that had sto­len the he­arts of two fri­ends!

  Chapter Six

  Comfortably full from the lar­ge me­al and fe­eling spar­k­ling cle­an from a bath, Jole­na sta­red from the win­dow of the bed­ro­om that she had be­en as­sig­ned for the night. She hug­ged her­self when a shi­ver ra­ced ac­ross her flesh, the small dot of a cam­p­fi­re aga­inst the fal­ling dusk ma­king her think of Spot­ted Eag­le. He was out the­re, ma­king camp just in­si­de the walls of the fort.

  She co­uld not ma­ke him out in the dar­ke­ning shawl of eve­ning, yet knew that it must be his cam­p­fi­re she co­uld see flic­ke­ring softly in the night in the co­ur­t­yard of the fort.

  Something akin to a si­lent bid­ding se­emed to be cal­ling her the­re, to dis­co­ver why the­re had be­en an in­s­tant at­trac­ti­on bet­we­en her­self and the Blac­k­fo­ot war­ri­or. The tho­ught of be­ing with him day and night in the co­ming we­eks ma­de the pit of her sto­mach ta­ke on a stran­ge chur­ning. To ima­gi­ne how it might be to be held by him, to be kis­sed by him, ma­de her he­art thud wildly.

 

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