No Other Man

by Shannon Drake

  She looked around, then shook her head. "No water."

  He smiled. "Smell the air."

  "The air?"

  "The water is down at the bottom of that hill."

  She stared at him doubtfully, then started to run down the hill to the next rise.

  A brook gently trickled by beneath her.

  Sloan, Willow, Ice Raven, and Blade came riding up and dismounted from their horses.

  Hawk started to unpack with Willow.

  Sloan rode over to Skylar. "Did he really smell water?" Skylar demanded.

  "Of course," Sloan told her.

  He lifted his horse's saddle from the animal. "Then, of course, we camped here a few times before, so he probably knew the creek was right down there anyway."

  He winked at her and walked away.

  That night, they slept in a circle in a copse of tree. Two men remained on guard throughout the hours of darkness.

  It was a peaceful night. Skylar slept beside Hawk. Slept with her head upon his chest.

  He rested his hands upon her shoulders, her hair.

  But even when his watch was over, he stayed awake through most of the night.

  Watching.

  He sensed a strange danger. Sensed a warning in the call of the night birds. Felt it burn within his blood.

  But he couldn't see it.

  The hours passed. The night was uneventful. Morning came, and they prepared to ride again.

  Though they traveled light, it took them two days of riding in a southeasterly direction to reach the agreed-upon site for the conference.

  The morning before the meeting was to take place, they t ame upon a temporary camp for some of the white commissioners, army personnel, journalists, and the sutlers who were bound to follow such a group.

  Before they neared the white camp, Ice Raven and Blade departed. Skylar wanted to thank them, perhaps hug them good-bye. But the Sioux were not demonstrative, and she had learned that wives were seldom direct with the male relatives of their husbands, and so she simply said goodbye and thank you, and waved when the two of them left.

  "Hawk! Major! Willow!" A soldier called as they neared the camp. He hurried out to meet them, a young man with red hair, freckles, and a lieutenant's insignia upon his uniform. He wore a broad grin. "Why, you two look more like redskins than redskins!" he exclaimed. "And Willow, well..."

  "Well, I'm Willow, eh?" Willow said.

  Skylar was surprised that neither her husband, Willow, nor Sloan seemed to take offense. Sloan looked at Hawk. Hawk shrugged.

  "It's the boy's red hair," Hawk said. "He wishes he had the skin to match it."

  "Irish," Sloan said sadly with a shake of his head.

  "Irish is just fine," Hawk said, "if you can mix it with Sioux."

  "An Irish Sioux!"

  "It's happened upon occasion," Sloan warned.

  The young man grinned, but then his grin froze as he gazed at Skylar "Oh, my God! Is this gorgeous creature such a half-breed? I'd have never imagined—"

  "Danby, this is my wife, Lady Douglas, recently come west from Baltimore," Hawk said.

  His jaw dropped. "Oh, God! Now I've sworn—I'm sorry, Hawk, I—"

  "Skylar, meet Lieutenant Danby Dixon. Danby, Lady Douglas," Sloan interrupted.

  "Skylar, please," she told the lieutenant, smiling down at him. "It's a pleasure to meet you, sir. And thank you very much for finding me gorgeous."

  The lieutenant smiled sheepishly up at Skylar, "Good day to you, Lady Douglas—Skylar!" He gaped at her a second longer, then seemed to come to his senses. He lowered his voice quickly. "Hawk, Major, Willow, I think it's a hard time to be Sioux, indeed. Why, it seems to me folks in Washington must be blind. They can't keep a promise to save a life, and that's a sad fact. They're tense as rabbits about this conference. The general is just about gnawing on his own hat, awaiting your report, Major. Though what anyone is meeting about, I don't know. The folks from Washington want the Black Hills burst wide open. And it's happening!"

  They neared a cluster of tents where Skylar saw officials in civilian dress, military men in uniform, and Indian scouts in their mixture of Plains dress and army issue. Suddenly a young woman with long pigtails came hurrying forward. "Bless me!" she exclaimed, staring at Skylar. She pressed her hand to her heart. "Bless me!" she repeated.

  "Minister's wife, Sarah," Danby said, making the introduction as if it were a warning.

  Skylar realized that it was her doeskin dress the woman was staring at in horror. She had forgotten her apparel until now. How foolish. There weren't many women at the camp, but those she saw were respectably dressed, in petticoats and skirts that had been somewhat modified for prairie conditions, but they were all quite feminine and fashionable, nonetheless.

  "You poor, poor dear!" she exclaimed. "Lord Douglas, has this darling creature been a prisoner among the Sioux? Have you brought her back to the bosom of her own people? Does she speak English?"

  "Quite well, Sarah. This is my wife, Skylar."

  Sarah's jaw dropped, much as Danby's had done. "There was a rumor from up your way that you had married, Hawk, but—oh, God, I am sorry. Lady Douglas. Er, Lady Douglas ..." she broke off, extremely uncomfortable. "Lady Douglas, the sutler has some lovely gowns, if you're interested."

  Skylar glanced at Hawk, amused.

  He smiled in return. "I imagine my wife is quite interested. Skylar, I assure you, you'll be ... fairly safe in Sarah's company."

  "Lord Douglas, you can be very bad!" Sarah chastised him.

  "Bad can be good upon occasion, Sarah," Sloan assured her.

  Poor Sarah flushed crimson. ' 'Danby, can you please escort these men to the general? He'll get them into some civilized clothing, and perhaps they'll learn to mind their manners and quit taunting a naive little spirit like me!"

  Hawk laughed. "Don't let her fool you, Skylar. She's a tigress."

  "Danby!" Sarah cried. "Will you please!"

  "Major, Lord Douglas, please follow me."

  Danby seemed happy enough with his task as escort. "Lady Douglas, if you wish to accompany Sarah, I'll care for your horse."

  Skylar thanked him. She slipped down from Nutmeg, well aware that Sarah was staring at her. Sarah suddenly regained her own manners. "I'm so sorry. Your hair is just so—"

  "Blond?" Skylar suggested.

  "For that outfit!" Sarah gasped.

  "I'm afraid I gave my 'civilized' clothing away," Skylar told her, emphasizing the word "civilized."

  Sarah didn't notice. She shuddered. "You've just come from the East? And been cast among the heathens!"

  "My husband is half heathen."

  Sarah crossed herself. "Hush now! We've worked hard to bring him into the proper fold."

  "Oh!" Skylar said. She hurried along with Sarah, who could walk very briskly. She felt the eyes of soldiers, civilians, and the scattered women here and there upon her. She straightened her shoulders, wondering with more than a trace of amusement how many of them thought that she had been a prisoner of the Sioux, recently released by Hawk, Sloan, and Willow.

  Then she felt guilty, well aware that many people here had had friends and family slaughtered by the Indians. She had found it very easy to take the Sioux side in this battle, perhaps because she had seen the Sioux side of it for the first time.

  War was tragic for both sides, she reminded herself.

  In a matter of moments, Sarah had her to the sutler, and in a matter-of-fact way, had quickly managed to go through every single one of the man's garments, bargained outrageously for everything Skylar could possibly need, and managed to get it all folded and in a basket.

  "The general will make arrangements for your tent tonight," Sarah assured Skylar. "For now, you must come with me. David—my husband—is out among the men. You can wash and divest yourself of that dreadful garment—"

  "This dreadful garment is a cherished gift," Skylar said firmly.

  "Oh." Sarah didn't exactly say the word. Her mouth rounded into it. She s
tared at Skylar. Then she started walking again. "Well. Well. One day, we'll reach the Indians. David says so. Then they won't be heathens any longer, and they'll learn that they can't do murder and that they must settle down to white ways. You can just... change your clothing. Fold up your, er, gift, and pack it for home."

  Sarah hurried on. Skylar followed her, considering the woman a rather pompous but well-meaning creature.

  Two hours later, she had washed. Her flesh carried the scent of Sarah's lavender soap, and she wore a dress of calico cotton, silk stockings, and leather shoes. David, young like his wife—just as pompous, Skylar thought, but just as well meaning—had come back to the large tent he had set up at the campsite. Hawk, Sloan, Willow, the general, and many of his aides had come to the ministers, and Skylar sipped sherry while she listened to the men worry about the question before them. She realized that the soldiers among them seemed to realize that the treaties thus far made with the Sioux had been nothing more than promises made to be broken, and that half of them were sick about what duty required them to do.

  A serious, middle-aged captain named Clark was especially interested in querying Hawk, Sloan, and Willow.

  ' 'Is it definite, then, that none of the Crazy Horse people will come?"

  "It is definite that Crazy Horse will not attend," Sloan told him politely.

  The captain seemed deeply depressed. "I see trouble ahead. Great trouble."

  "The whites just don't want to see how far they're pushing the Sioux," Hawk said.

  "The whites! The whites!" Captain Clark exclaimed unhappily. "We group them all together as savages. I suppose it is only fair that they group us together in return. I find our policies appalling! But if we wind up in battle, no brave will stop to ask me if I approve of American policy before he takes my scalp."

  "He wouldn't understand that you weren't part of it," Skylar said quietly. "The only reason he will go into battle against you is because he chooses to do so. He assumes you have made a similar choice."

  She had spoken so softly. She realized that despite that, everyone in the tent was staring at her. Her husband in particular. He smiled at her and set down the glass of sherry he had been drinking. He turned to the general and the minister and his wife.

  "We've had a long ride. If I understand correctly, you've accommodations for me and my wife?"

  "Of course, Lord Douglas! Danby will be glad to escort you to your tent."

  Skylar said her goodnights, thanking Sarah. She paused by Sloan. He smiled and very elegantly and properly kissed the back of her hand.

  Danby, talking away, brought them to their tent.

  It was fairly large, with a decent enough camp bed. It was closely surrounded by many other tents. Hawk sighed

  softly, removing the white shirt he had donned since she had seen him before the party, tossing it over the back of a folding camp chair.

  He sighed. "I guess we'd better get some sleep," he said.

  Skylar nodded, stripping down to her chemise. She climbed into the small cot. He doused the lamp on the crude table in the center of the tent, getting in beside her. He scooped an arm around her, holding her close.

  "Comfortable?" he asked her.

  "Yes."

  He was silent a minute. "You know, you've actually done quite well in a house, a tipi, and a tent."

  "I'm so glad you think I can handle 'hardship' competently."

  He laughed softly. "I'm very ..."

  "Yes?"

  "Proud of you," he said.

  She smiled. "Thank you."

  His arm tightened around her.

  "We've no ..."

  "Privacy?" he finished for her. He must have felt both her comfort—and her discomfort.

  "No privacy."

  "We need some sleep anyway," he said politely. His hand moved very gently through her hair. "Goodnight.. . wife."

  She smiled and closed her eyes.

  He didn't close his. Somewhere in the night, very late in the night, he noted a shadow.

  The fire just outside the tent had burned low. Perhaps he imagined the shadow.

  No. No matter how low the light might be, the canvas of the military tent was light and thin, reflecting any form of shadow.

  And someone was moving just beyond their tent. Lifting the flap.

  He leaped up in a silent flash, prepared this time, ready to follow .. .

  "Hawk?"

  She whispered his name, frightened, only half awake, clinging to him.

  The shadow was gone.

  "Hawk, what is it?"

  "Nothing. Nothing, Skylar. I'm so sorry I woke you. Just a—a dream," he said. He smoothed her hair.

  She lay back again, her cheek against his chest. So trustingly. He stared at the canvas ceiling, entirely frustrated.

  "Monsters," she murmured, falling back asleep. Her fingers moved over the bare flesh of his chest. He bit back a groan.

  They'd be home soon. Back to Mayfair. He'd be in complete control there; she'd be safe from Crow attacks.

  He wondered why he had the feeling that monsters just might follow them anyway.

  The actual meeting was to take place some distance from where they had camped.

  The site had been chosen by two of the major Indian reservations, so that all traveled the same distance and none of the major chiefs would be insulted.

  Seated upon Nutmeg, at a place somewhat back from where the action was to take place, Skylar watched as the meeting formed. She had seen the Indians, of course. Seen them all day. Walking and riding along the hills above the valley, some sitting as if they, too, had come to observe and awaited the spectacle of the day.

  But then, as the United States commissioners and their army guard along with their Indian scouts set out and waited before their command tent, the warriors began to arrive in earnest.

  The sun was high in the sky; it was noon.

  They came out of the hills, and though they frightened her, they were a fantastic display. Their ponies raced, churning up dirt and dust and earth and grass. They gal- loped, reared, cantered, the first chief leading his men, perhaps a party of two hundred, down a sloping hill.

  They whooped and cried out. Their voices rose in a tremolo. They burst down upon the waiting commissioners, circling them in a dramatic, awesome, terrifying display. They took their places before the commissioners. Their chief dismounted from his horse and came forward, taking his place.

  Then the next group rode down from the hills. Then the next, and the next. The riders were magnificent. Some more heavily clothed, some nearly naked. They wore feathers in their long dark hair, some with one or a few feathers, some with beautiful bedecked, long, glorious bonnets. They were incredibly disciplined in their display. And when they had all congregated before the commissioners, there were thousands of them.

  They called out, shouted, raised their weapons, shook their fists.

  "Think we may have trouble?" Hawk asked Sloan.

  Sloan shrugged, his dark eyes slanting toward Skylar. He smiled. Shook his head.

  "Not even two hundred whites. Thousands of Indians. Why would there be trouble?" she asked sweetly.

  Hawk looked out over the assembly. "They know what will happen if they slaughter these commissioners and the army officers."

  "A lot of innocent men will die," Skylar murmured.

  ' 'The whole army would come after them, with the complete blessing of every citizen in the United States. So far, there are still those back home who frown on the wholesale slaughter of native peoples in the pursuit of Manifest Destiny," Hawk said coolly.

  "Red Cloud is getting ready to speak," Sloan said.

  A warrior, dark and leathered from his life in the sun, yet with a strong, dignified bearing, stood before them all. Yet before he could begin to speak, it seemed that the crowd of Indians began to undulate, breaking apart, giving way. Skylar heard a screech rising high on the wind. She turned from Red Cloud to see that another man was racing into the crowd. She thought that she knew hi
m. He was the one they had called Little-Big-Man—he had been one of the warriors who had ridden with her husband against the Crow when they had rescued her that night. He was completely naked upon his pony except for a small breechclout and the war bonnet he wore, created of feathers, streaming like a banner in the wind as he burst his way through the Indians, past Red Cloud, to the open space before the commissioners. He carried a rifle and lifted it high, shouting.

  "What's he saying?" Skylar asked anxiously. She could see that the Indians were growing restless. A low sound was building among the warriors as they talked among themselves.

  They didn't answer her. Hawk, Sloan, and Willow had grown very tense as they listened. Now they mounted their horses and flanked her.

  "What—?"

  Willow, at her husband's side, gave her the answer. "He says that he has come to kill the white men who are stealing Indian lands."

  Skylar clamped her hand over her mouth, silencing a scream, as she saw the warrior take aim at one of the white commissioners. But he never fired a shot. Young-Man- Afraid, a warrior who had joined with the agency Indians, rode through the crowd with a small group of his Indian police behind him. He spoke very quickly, disarming Little- Big-Man before the indignant warrior could fire at anyone.

  "Thank God!" Skylar breathed.

  "Trouble," Sloan said softly.

  "But—"

  Hawk had suddenly turned in the saddle to Willow. "Stay with Skylar," he said.

  And raced into the grouping of Indians, Sloan quickly following behind him. Yet even as they rode, cries, tremolos, and shouts were rising among the Indians. The sounds were menacing.

  Thousands of Indians.

  Only a couple hundred whites.

  The Sioux were raising their weapons. The shouts were growing more furious.

  Hawk burst in among them, calling out.

  "What is he saying?" Skylar cried worriedly.

  Willow looked at her, not wanting to tell her.

  "Willow!"

  "He's telling them that they must not murder the whites gathered here. If they do, the whites will come by the tens of thousands and slaughter them all in turn. They mustn't let violence happen today."