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Savage Illusions

Page 33

by Cassie Edwards


  A song was so­on ac­com­pan­ying this ga­me, a we­ird, une­arthy tu­ne sung by an old war­ri­or. At first, it was a scar­cely audib­le mur­mur, li­ke the gen­t­le so­ug­hing of an eve­ning bre­eze, but gra­du­al­ly it in­c­re­ased in vo­lu­me and re­ac­hed a very high pitch, sin­king qu­ickly to a low bass so­und which ro­se and fell, then gra­du­al­ly di­ed, to be aga­in re­pe­ated.

  One of the war­ri­ors who was con­ce­aling the bo­nes swa­yed his body, arms, and hands in ti­me to the mu­sic and went thro­ugh all man­ner of gra­ce­ful and in­t­ri­ca­te mo­ve­ments for the pur­po­se of con­fu­sing the gu­es­sers.

  This went on for so­me ti­me.

  Jolena was pro­ud when Spot­ted Eag­le ca­me away with many pri­zes, the most pre­ci­o­us of them all a bra­ce­let ma­de of pink, iri­des­cent shells, which he promptly slip­ped on­to Jole­na's right arm.

  They we­re la­ug­hing and fol­lo­wing the ple­asant aro­ma of fo­od ro­as­ting clo­se by over anot­her lar­ge, out­do­or fi­re, when Kirk ca­me sud­denly in­to vi­ew. Glo­we­ring, he ca­me to Jole­na and to­ok her by an arm, us­he­ring her away from Spot­ted Eag­le.

  Stopping in the sha­dow of a te­pee, Kirk tur­ned Jole­na to fa­ce him. "Sis, I'm strong eno­ugh to tra­vel," he sa­id. "If I ha­ve to beg you to go with me, I will."

  "Please don't," Jole­na sa­id, cas­ting her eyes dow­n­ward. "My mind is ma­de up, Kirk. I ho­pe you will un­der­s­tand one day why I had to ma­ke the cho­ice that I did."

  "Your lo­ve for Spot­ted Eag­le?" he sa­id, pla­cing a fin­ger to her chin and tip­ping it up so that the­ir eyes co­uld me­et and hold.

  "That, and al­so my lo­ve for my pe­op­le," Jole­na sa­id, over Kirk's sho­ul­der se­e­ing Spot­ted Eag­le co­ming to­ward them.

  "I can un­der­s­tand how you co­uld be­co­me in­fa­tu­ated with a han­d­so­me war­ri­or," Kirk sa­id, drop­ping his hands to his si­des. "I, too, am in­fa­tu­ated with an In­di­an. I co­uld easily lo­ve Mo­on Flo­wer­but not if it me­ant for­get­ting all of my lo­yal­ti­es to the fa­mily who ra­ised me from a baby to adul­t­ho­od."

  "Then lo­ve Mo­on Flo­wer and le­ave me alo­ne," Jole­na sa­id, sig­hing he­avily. "I shall ne­ver chan­ge my mind. Ne­ver."

  Kirk frow­ned. "I knew that you wo­uldn't," he sa­id, gi­ving Spot­ted Eag­le a tro­ub­led glan­ce over his sho­ul­der as he ca­me pro­tec­ti­vely to Jole­na's si­de.

  Then he ga­ve Mo­on Flo­wer a nod, brin­ging her to his si­de. When she ca­me to him, bas­h­ful­ly smi­ling, he pla­ced an arm aro­und her wa­ist. "Mo­on Flo­wer is tra­ve­ling with me to Sa­int Lo­u­is," he sa­id, his eyes lig­h­ting up, his lips qu­ave­ring in­to a smi­le. "She's pro­mi­sed to marry me." Jole­na's he­art se­emed to stop, and she felt a col­d­ness en­ter her he­art as she ga­zed in­to Mo­on Flo­wer's eyes, stun­ned at her brot­her's qu­ick de­ci­si­on.

  Jolena knew why Mo­on Flo­wer might be eager to le­ave her vil­la­ge­to hi­de the sha­me of an un­wed preg­nancy?

  But did Kirk know abo­ut the preg­nancy?

  Jolena knew that he must not know, for he was not the sort to to­le­ra­te a wi­fe he­avy with anot­her man's child, es­pe­ci­al­ly an In­di­an's.

  Nor wo­uld he be the sort to ra­ise that child!

  Jolena wan­ted to re­ach out and tell her brot­her the truth, but a part of her that re­sen­ted his at­ti­tu­de to­ward her he­ri­ta­ge wo­uld not al­low her to warn him of the de­ce­it.

  Smiling, she re­ac­hed a hand to her brot­her's arm. "I ho­pe you both will be happy," she sa­id.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Shivering in the co­ol bre­eze of the mor­ning, Jole­na sto­od so­lemnly by, wat­c­hing Kirk pre­pa­ring to le­ave for Fort Chan­ce. Word had be­en re­ce­ived that a ri­ver­bo­at wo­uld be pas­sing thro­ugh and wo­uld be ma­king a stop at Fort Chan­ce. Kirk had just eno­ugh ti­me to get the­re.

  Jolena frow­ned as she wat­c­hed Kirk help Mo­on Flo­wer in­to her sad­dle, then swung him­self on­to a hor­se that had be­en as­sig­ned him for the jo­ur­ney.

  Then her eyes we­re drawn aro­und and she smi­led we­akly up at Spot­ted Eag­le. "I'm glad that you are ri­ding with the war­ri­ors who are ac­com­pan­ying my brot­her to Fort Chan­ce," she mur­mu­red. "And I un­der­s­tand why you don't want me to go with you. Ple­ase hurry back, my lo­ve. The nights are get­ting col­der. The blan­kets will be cold and empty wit­ho­ut you at my si­de."

  "It is go­od that you un­der­s­tand why you must stay be­hind," he sa­id, lif­ting her chin with a fo­re­fin­ger, so that her lips we­re only a bre­ath away from his. "Go­od-byes might be har­der to say if you are aga­in thrown in­to the li­fe of whi­te pe­op­le at the fort. It is best not to tempt you."

  "Darling, I know it wo­uld be fu­ti­le to ar­gue with you, to tell you that I think you are wrong abo­ut that," Jole­na sa­id. "So I shan't, and I shall stay with my pe­op­le and le­arn mo­re of the­ir ways whi­le I am wa­iting for you to re­turn to me."

  "It sho­uld be only one night that I will be go­ne from you," Spot­ted Eag­le sa­id, ig­no­ring Kirk's gla­re when he brus­hed a kiss ac­ross Jole­na's lips. He then whis­pe­red to her. "And if the blan­kets do not warm you eno­ugh, let yo­ur mind re­call our mo­ments to­get­her. Will that not warm you thro­ugh and thro­ugh, my wo­man?"

  "I can't do that," Jole­na mur­mu­red, smi­ling softly up at him. "It wo­uld truly be best if I think of ot­her things whi­le you are go­ne from me. Re­cal­ling our mo­ments to­get­her wo­uld ma­ke me want you too much at a ti­me when you are be­ing de­ni­ed me."

  "Perhaps this se­pa­ra­ti­on will be go­od for us both," Spot­ted Eag­le sa­id, chuc­k­ling.

  He le­aned even clo­ser to be su­re that no one el­se co­uld he­ar, es­pe­ci­al­ly Kirk. "Wa­iting will en­han­ce the ple­asu­re,'' he whis­pe­red. "When I re­turn, we will ma­ke lo­ve as tho­ugh it we­re the first ti­me."

  "My every he­ar­t­be­at will co­unt the mi­nu­tes for yo­ur re­turn," she whis­pe­red back, gi­ving him a soft kiss, then mo­ved away from him and went stiffly to her brot­her.

  "Kirk, I ho­pe the­re are no hard fe­elings bet­we­en us," she sa­id. "And ple­ase, ple­ase do yo­ur best to ma­ke fat­her un­der­s­tand. He, of all pe­op­le, sho­uld. He is the one who to­ok me from my true pe­op­le. He had me for many ye­ars, as his own. My true fat­her will ha­ve me for less, for his ye­ars are al­re­ady too many in num­ber to co­unt many mo­re."

  Kirk sat stiffly for a few mo­ments as si­len­ce fell li­ke a wall bet­we­en him and Jole­na, then he re­ac­hed a hand to her che­ek.

  "Sis, I hold no grud­ges," he sa­id, his vo­ice drawn. "If it we­re me, and had I be­en de­ni­ed my true pe­op­le for so long, I am su­re I wo­uld do the sa­me as you. Ple­ase be happy, sis. That's what's im­por­tant now. That you are happy in yo­ur de­ci­si­on to li­ve with the Blac­k­fo­ot pe­op­le. You… ha­ve my bles­sing."

  Jolena knew that he was sa­ying things that he did not fe­el and was gra­te­ful that he co­uld do this for her, pla­cing his true fe­elings asi­de to de­al with la­ter, af­ter he was away from her.

  "Thank you, Kirk," Jole­na sa­id, a sob lod­ging in her thro­at. She ga­zed at Mo­on Flo­wer, her spi­ne stif­fe­ning at the tho­ught that this Blac­k­fo­ot ma­iden was de­ce­iving Kirk. But still she co­uld not find it in her­self to warn Kirk, for he was a man now and sho­uld be ca­pab­le of ma­king his own de­ci­si­ons wit­ho­ut a sis­ter's in­ter­fe­ren­ce.

  Spotted Eag­le mo­un­ted his hor­se and gu­ided it next to Kirk's. "Whi­te brot­her, it is ti­me to le­ave," he sa­id, then tur­ned his eyes to Jole­na aga­in. "When the sun ri­ses aga­in and sli­des up­ward to the hig­hest po­int in the sky yo­ur man will re­turn to you."

  "
Please be ca­re­ful," Jole­na sa­id, ner­vo­usly clas­ping and un­c­las­ping her hands be­hind her.

  Spotted Eag­le nod­ded, then ro­de on ahe­ad to jo­in the ot­her war­ri­ors who we­re ri­ding with him.

  Kirk and Jole­na sta­red at one anot­her a mo­ment, then Kirk nud­ged his he­els in­to the flanks of his hor­se and ro­de away, Mo­on Flo­wer du­ti­ful­ly at his si­de on her whi­te ma­re.

  Jolena wat­c­hed un­til they be­ca­me only spots on the ho­ri­zon. Then she tur­ned aro­und and lo­oked at the ac­ti­vity in the vil­la­ge.

  The sun was just ri­sing. Thin co­lumns of smo­ke we­re cre­eping from the smo­ke ho­les of the lod­ges, as­cen­ding in­to the still mor­ning air. Ever­y­w­he­re out­si­de, wo­men we­re busy car­rying wa­ter and wo­od. So­me we­re dig­ging in a bank ne­ar the ri­ver for red clay, which wo­uld be used for pa­int.

  Inside the­ir dwel­lings the wo­men we­re pre­pa­ring me­als.

  The men we­re co­ming out and star­ting for the ri­ver. So­me we­re fol­lo­wed by the­ir chil­d­ren. So­me we­re car­rying tho­se too small to walk. When they re­ac­hed the wa­ter's ed­ge, they drop­ped the­ir blan­kets and plun­ged in­to the cold wa­ter.

  Jolena knew now that win­ter and sum­mer, storm or shi­ne, this was the­ir da­ily cus­tom. The Blac­k­fo­ot had be­en ta­ught that this ma­de them to­ugh and he­althy and enab­led them to en­du­re the bit­ter cold whi­le hun­ting on the ba­re, ble­ak pra­irie.

  Jolena had al­re­ady eaten her mor­ning me­al with Spot­ted Eag­le be­fo­re he left and now plan­ned to do many things to help pass her long and lo­nely day wit­ho­ut Spot­ted Eag­le ne­ar.

  As so­on as the wo­men left the­ir dwel­lings and be­gan the­ir da­ily cho­res, Jole­na jo­ined them, fol­lo­wing the­ir le­ad so that she co­uld le­arn the pro­per way to do ever­y­t­hing. To­day the wo­men we­re ma­king fo­ods from dri­ed me­at, the thic­ker parts of the buf­fa­lo ha­ving al­re­ady be­en cut in lar­ge, thin she­ets and hung in the sun to dry.

  The back fat of the buf­fa­lo was al­so dri­ed and wo­uld be eaten with the me­at as Jole­na had eaten her bre­ad and but­ter when she li­ved in Sa­int Lo­u­is.

  Pemmican was ma­de of the flesh of the buf­fa­lo, the me­at ha­ving be­en dri­ed in the usu­al way, and for this use, only le­an me­at was cho­sen.

  Two lar­ge fi­res had be­en al­lo­wed to burn down to red co­als. The wo­men threw the dri­ed she­ets of me­at on the co­als of the fi­re al­lo­wing it to he­at thro­ugh, tur­ning it of­ten to ke­ep it from bur­ning.

  After a ti­me, the ro­as­ting of this dri­ed me­at ca­used a smo­ke to ri­se from the fi­re in use, which wo­uld ha­ve gi­ven the me­at a bit­ter tas­te, so the wo­men tur­ned to the ot­her fi­re and used that un­til the first one had bur­ned cle­ar aga­in.

  After eno­ugh of the ro­as­ted me­at had be­en thrown on a fleshy pi­ece of hi­de ne­arby, it was fla­iled with sticks, and be­ing very brit­tle, was easily bro­ken up. This was con­s­tantly stir­red and po­un­ded un­til it was all fi­ne.

  Meanwhile, the tal­low of the buf­fa­lo had be­en mel­ted in a lar­ge ket­tle, and the pem­mi­can bags pre­pa­red. The­se we­re ma­de of bull's hi­de and we­re in two pi­eces, which when sewn to­get­her ma­de a bag which wo­uld hold one hun­d­red po­unds.

  The po­un­ded me­at and tal­low we­re put in a tro­ugh ma­de of bull's hi­de, a wo­oden spa­de be­ing used to stir the mix­tu­re. Af­ter it was tho­ro­ughly mi­xed, it was sho­ve­led in­to one of the sacks, held open, and ram­med down and pac­ked tight with a big stick, every ef­fort be­ing ma­de to ex­pel all the air.

  When the bag was full and pac­ked as tight as pos­sib­le, it was sewn up. It was then put on the gro­und, and the wo­men jum­ped on it to ma­ke it still mo­re tight and so­lid.

  Jolena was shown how a much fi­ner gra­de of pem­mi­can was ma­de from the cho­icest parts of the buf­fa­lo with mar­row fat. To this, dri­ed ber­ri­es and po­un­ded cho­ke-cher­ri­es we­re ad­ded, ma­king a de­li­ci­o­us fo­od which was ex­t­re­mely nut­ri­ti­o­us.

  The pro­cess of pre­pa­ring the me­ats to­ok most of the day. Ex­ha­us­ted, Jole­na went to Spot­ted Eag­le's te­pee and grab­bed a blan­ket and went back out in­to the sha­dows of eve­ning, to­ward the ri­ver. When she got the­re, she ma­de su­re no one el­se was aro­und, then un­d­res­sed and do­ve in­to the wa­ter.

  She swam and swam, ti­ring her­self even mo­re, kno­wing that this was ne­ces­sary for her to get to sle­ep, for she was res­t­less over thin­king of spen­ding the full night wit­ho­ut Spot­ted Eag­le the­re with her. Al­t­ho­ugh she was with her true pe­op­le, she was fe­eling ap­pre­hen­si­ve abo­ut be­ing alo­ne with them.

  This was a go­od test, one that wo­uld pro­ve whet­her or not her de­ci­si­on to stay with the Blac­k­fo­ot was right.

  Jolena pa­used and tre­aded wa­ter. She held her he­ad back and al­lo­wed her long ha­ir to drift in­to the wa­ter be­hind her as she sta­red up at the stars that we­re just be­gin­ning to fill the black vel­vet sky, the mo­on only a tiny, bent sli­ver of whi­te over­he­ad.

  When the bre­eze brus­hed ac­ross Jole­na's fa­ce, she shi­ve­red and be­gan swim­ming back to­ward sho­re. Just as she was abo­ut to climb out of the wa­ter, she stop­ped and her bre­ath ca­ught in her thro­at when she dis­co­ve­red so­me­one stan­ding in the sha­dows wat­c­hing her.

  Jolena slip­ped down in­to the wa­ter aga­in, ex­cept for her he­ad. With a po­un­ding he­art she ga­zed stub­bornly at the per­son in the sha­dows. "Who's the­re?" she as­ked, her vo­ice wary. "Show yo­ur­self, who­ever you are."

  Brown Elk step­ped in­to vi­ew. He bent over and pic­ked up the blan­ket that Jole­na had left the­re for drying her­self, then wal­ked on to the em­ban­k­ment, hol­ding the blan­ket out for her.

  "It is I, yo­ur fat­her," he sa­id. "When I did not find you in Spot­ted Eag­le's dwel­ling, I fe­ared you might ha­ve be­en fo­olish eno­ugh to co­me to the ri­ver alo­ne for a bath. And I see I was right. Da­ug­h­ter, do you not know the dan­gers of such fo­olish no­ti­ons as this?"

  Jolena sig­hed with re­li­ef, un­der­s­tan­ding now that she sho­uldn't ha­ve co­me alo­ne to the ri­ver, es­pe­ci­al­ly at night. So­me­one be­si­des her fat­her might ha­ve be­en wat­c­hing for her to le­ave the wa­ter. "I was too res­t­less by the fi­re, alo­ne," she mur­mu­red. When he held the blan­ket out far­t­her, so that she co­uld re­ach it, she to­ok it and step­ped qu­ickly out of the wa­ter and wrap­ped her­self in it.

  "Did you not know that I was just as alo­ne?" Brown Elk sa­id, his vo­ice fil­led with a sad we­ari­ness. "You co­uld ha­ve co­me and fil­led this old man's he­art with yo­ur com­pany, in­s­te­ad of the ri­ver's."

  "I'm sorry," Jole­na mur­mu­red. "I wasn't thin­king cle­arly, Fat­her. I sho­uld ha­ve co­me and spent the eve­ning with you. I shall even now, if you will ha­ve me."

  She was awash with gu­ilt that she had be­en thin­king only of her­self and her own lo­ne­li­ness, when she sho­uld ha­ve re­ali­zed how aban­do­ned her true fat­her was fe­eling. Not only had she left his dwel­ling to li­ve with Spot­ted Eag­le, Mo­on Flo­wer had al­so be­en qu­ick to le­ave him af­ter he had so ge­ne­ro­usly ope­ned his he­art and arms to her, in­vi­ting her to stay with him when her pa­rents had ba­nis­hed her from the­ir li­ves.

  "My dwel­ling is yo­urs whe­ne­ver you wish to be a part of it," Brown Elk sa­id. "Espe­ci­al­ly to­night."

  After she was dri­ed eno­ugh, Jole­na ac­cep­ted the clot­hes that her fat­her pic­ked up from the gro­und. She mo­ved be­hind a tree and dres­sed whi­le he wa­ited for her. Then, fe­eling much bet­ter, she went with Brown Elk to his lod­ge and enj­oyed sha­ring a bowl of so
­up with him whi­le they la­ug­hed and tal­ked.

  Then the­re was a so­und out­si­de the te­pee. Both tur­ned the­ir eyes as the en­t­ran­ce flap was sho­ved asi­de.

  Jolena and her fat­her gas­ped when Mo­on Flo­wer en­te­red the te­pee, her eyes dow­n­cast.

  Jolena's eyes shif­ted when Spot­ted Eag­le ca­me in be­hind Mo­on Flo­wer. She mo­ved qu­ickly to her fe­et as Brown Elk shuf­fled to his. Jole­na went to Spot­ted Eag­le and sto­od at his si­de, her eyes on Mo­on Flo­wer as Brown Elk em­b­ra­ced her and wel­co­med her to his dwel­ling.

  Then Brown Elk step­ped away from her and held her hands. "Why do you re­turn?" he as­ked, his dark eyes se­e­ing much sad­ness in Mo­on Flo­wer's as she slowly lo­oked up at him.

 

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