“Sit still till they’re gone,” Sage told her quietly.
The Indians all rode closer, a couple of them looking Mary over. They rode painted horses, and lances and arrows bedecked every man. A couple of them carried old flintlock rifles. Some nodded to Sage as they went by. Sage turned his horse then, watching them until they disappeared into a stand of aspen and moved down a ridge where he knew he wouldn’t be able to see them anymore.
Mary swallowed and breathed deeply. “Were they Utes?”
“Yup. Looking for a killer grizzly. The one that was talking to me lost a son to the bear just yesterday. He was only eight.”
She realized that was why the man had had tears in his eyes. “Oh, how sad, Sage!”
“We’ll have to be alert. It happened south of us. They think the bear came this way. That’s why they came this way, too. I just hope they’re right and that grizzly has already gone by us so we don’t have our own run-in with it. I gave the Indians some tobacco to show our friendliness—told them we’re just passing through, heading south. He said I had a handsome woman.”
“Handsome?”
“That’s the way they look at it.” He grinned and looked over at her. “They understand you belong to me and they respect that. You don’t have to be afraid of them. If I had gotten smart with them, it might have been a different story.” He turned his horse again, taking up her reins. “We’d best get moving.”
He rode for several yards before speaking again. “I asked if they knew anything about Red Dog, but they said he was with another clan someplace west of here.”
“Do you think you’ll ever see Red Dog again, Sage?”
“I doubt it.”
She watched him lovingly. “Does that bother you?”
“Some. But nothing like the thought of never seeing you again. Nothing could be that bad. That’s why you won out—over my life, my friends, this land. You doubt anymore how much I love you, Mary MacKenzie?”
She smiled. “No. I’ll never doubt that.”
“You remember that when we get to Texas.”
“I’ll remember.”
They rode for close to an hour when they heard it, a mighty roar that seemed to fill the mountain air. Sage halted his horse, and both mounts shuffled nervously.
“Sage! What is it?”
“Could be that grizzly.” He pulled his rifle from its boot again. “Hang on tight to the saddle,” he warned. “The horses will be hard to handle if—”
He didn’t even have time to finish. In the distance a massive grizzly was lumbering right in their direction. Now he could hear the hoots and howls of the Indians. They had apparently scared up the animal and were now in hot pursuit, heading back south. Sage knew their arrows would do little harm to the bear, at least not until several of them had hit the right marks.
It seemed as though everything happened at once. The bear was lumbering closer, the Indians following, yipping and calling; and Mary’s horse reared. Sage heard her scream as he cocked his rifle, and he turned to see her tumbling from the horse.
“Mary!”
Sage quickly dismounted. His horse and Mary’s, deathly afraid of the oncoming bear, ran off, Mary’s horse dragging the travois behind, bouncing it over rocks and plants. Sage ran to Mary, who lay stunned, the breath knocked out of her. “Mary, are you hurt?”
She couldn’t answer right away, and there was no time to examine her. The bear was coming too close. Sage rose. He could hear the animal’s heavy breathing now, and he suffered his own bad memories of another bear, another time. For a brief moment he could see claws and fangs and hear the mighty roar, smell the putrid breath. He moved away from Mary, who now was trying to roll to a sitting position.
“Don’t move, Mary, don’t move!” he shouted, running from her to attract the bear away.
“Sage,” she whispered. She sat frozen, watching the bear come closer. It was filled with arrows but still running hard.
Sage took a stand and raised his rifle, taking careful aim. He fired.
The bear tumbled forward, rolling over and over. After lying still for a brief moment, it got up again, rising on its hind legs not far from Sage and roaring like the mighty beast it was. Sage didn’t move from his spot. He aimed again, fired again. The bear stood as though transfixed, roaring, its front paws waving in the air. Then it crashed down, and Mary actually felt the ground shake under its great weight.
The Indians all stopped in the distance, staring at the fallen bear. Then the lead man, who had lost his son to the beast, let out a screaming war whoop, raising his lance. Mary watched with mixed emotions as the others followed suit, all of them yipping and calling in celebration as they rode forward then and surrounded Sage and the bear. They dismounted and began dancing around the bear, stabbing at it, slapping Sage on the back, laughing, calling Sage a “brave white man” in their own tongue, some of them taking his rifle and looking it over in awe.
Sage left them and hurried over to Mary, helping her to her feet. “You all right?”
She nodded. “I think so. I just got the wind knocked out of me, I guess.” She hugged him then. “Oh, Sage, I was so afraid for you.”
He gave her a reassuring squeeze. “I don’t mind sayin’ that brought back some pretty unsettling memories. Thank God this one went down.”
He broke his embrace when he saw the Ute man who had lost his son approaching. The man held up a paw he had severed from the grizzly. He said something to Sage in his own tongue, his words sounding savage and wild, his face lit up with a kind of fierce joy.
Sage took the paw from the man, holding it up proudly. The Indians jumped up and down and cheered again, and Mary felt like running. They were acting so wild, and all she could see were Comanche, grabbing at her, holding her, raping her. She turned away and Sage grasped her arm.
“Don’t turn your back, Mary! You’ll insult them. Turn around, now! Now! Give them a big smile. It’s all right.”
Her breathing was quick, but when she met his eyes she knew she could trust Sage MacKenzie to know what he was doing. Sage said something quickly to the frowning Ute man, and Mary faced him, forcing a smile. The Ute man said something back, then turned to the others and shouted some kind of order. He left them then and Sage kept hold of Mary’s arm.
“They’re happier than hell that the bear is dead, and they think I’m a brave white man,” he told her. “The paw is a gift, so I can make a necklace from the claws. This is a great honor. No harm will come to us, Mary, believe me. They’ll want to make camp right here and celebrate tonight. We have to celebrate with them. It’s proper. Besides, they’ll cut up the bear for us and we’ll have some fresh meat for a while. We’ll pack it in lard and it will last us a few days. White Beaver, that’s the lead one’s name, has ordered some of the others to go after our horses and get them back for us.” He forced her around to meet his eyes. “You hearing me, Mary? They’re friendly. Don’t be rude to them. I know you’re just scared, but they’ll take it as being rude. They can be kind of touchy. Long as we stay friendly, there’s no problem. This is a great moment for them. If I win ’em over, we’ve got safe travel all the way to southern Colorado territory.” He held out the claw. “And this is gonna be our protection.”
The night was full of talk Mary could not understand, as well as laughter and drinking. She stayed close to Sage as bear meat roasted over an open fire, its aroma filling the night air. Sage won even more respect and honor when he showed the Indians his scars from the bear that had attacked him the winter before. This made him a great man indeed. He removed the bearskin from the travois and unrolled it as further proof, and the Indians gawked at it as though it were something from another world.
White Beaver handed Sage a necklace, which he untied from around his own neck, made of beads and stones, nodding toward Mary when he did so. Sage turned to Mary, grinning and handing her the necklace.
“A gift for the brave white woman who travels with the brave white man,” he told her with a wink.
“They think that because you’re with me, you have to be brave and strong yourself, and they’re right.”
“Oh, Sage, you know that isn’t true.”
He could see her reddening even in the firelight and he laughed. “Like hell. It is true, woman.” He reached around her and tied the necklace around her neck. “I’ll tell him you’re very honored.”
Sage said something to White Beaver, and Mary fingered the necklace. How strange it seemed to be sitting here with Indians, even accepting a gift from them, after what she had been through with the Comanche. Life in this land could get very confusing, she decided. Enemies could become friends, and friends become enemies.
White Beaver began carving up the bear meat, handing pieces to Sage and Mary. Sage took his and bit into it, holding it in his hands. Mary took hers cautiously, wishing she had a plate.
“Tonight we eat their way,” he told her.
She watched the others eating heartily then, some of them wiping greasy fingers on their buckskins and even rubbing some of the bear grease into their hair.
“Makes for nice, shiny hair that stays in place,” Sage told Mary, catching the shock in her eyes. “Eat up, woman, and don’t throw any away or they’ll be insulted again.”
She carefully bit into the meat, which was very tender. She supposed that in spite of its size, the grizzly must have been a rather young one for the meat to be so tender. She could not deny her hungry stomach then and she ate the meat with as much relish as the men, beginning to take a certain pride in sitting here with a mountain man among Indians in the wilds of the Rockies. What amazing experiences she was having, and what wonderful strength she was learning from Sage MacKenzie. This was such a far cry from the way she had been brought up. She couldn’t help wondering now, if she had shown bravery rather than fear, whether she would have suffered as much at the hands of the Comanche. These Indians seemed to respect bravery to the extreme.
Sage understood them, and she found herself wishing she could understand them better herself. Somehow it seemed as though understanding them would help ease the pain of her baby’s and husband’s deaths. Perhaps if she could erase the hatred and bitterness from her heart, she could live with the awful memories. Sage had told her once that the Comanche had not acted against her and her family as individuals, but as representatives of the white race that was robbing them of the land they loved, and who had themselves slaughtered Indians like animals and forced those remaining into a land they hated and where many of them were dying.
It was easy to understand why the Ute loved this mountain country. She loved it herself. She wondered if the white men would ever fill it to the extent that these Indians, too, would have to leave. Looking up, she noticed deep cuts on White Beaver’s chest and asked Sage where he had gotten them.
“A blood sacrifice for the death of his son,” he replied. “Lots of Indian tribes do it—think the more they cut themselves, the more they show their love and grief.”
He took another bite of meat and chewed for a moment, while Mary let it sink in. Love and grief. She had never associated such feelings with Indians before.
“Look at his tired eyes,” Sage told her then, “the sadness in his smile. The man is suffering. It was his firstborn son who was killed. He told me he wanted to die himself but that the Spirit Above would not accept him if he took his own life.”
“Why does he leave his shirt off?” she asked. “It’s so cold here at night.”
“He wants to suffer more. Besides, the air is good for healing the cuts. So is bear grease—especially from the killer bear itself. He’ll smear some over the cuts as a form of vengeance—the grease and blood from the very bear that killed his son and is now dead.”
It was all so hard to drink in, so barbaric. Yet it was their way of living. She had never understood so clearly just how differently people lived—her own family, their Negro servants, these Indians, and even men like Sage. All had their own particular customs, their reasons for joy and for violence.
How many times had she heard that white settlers were gathering to go “Indian hunting.” She had never thought much about it before. It seemed as natural as hunting deer or rabbits. Now it became painfully clear how wrong it was. They were actually real people, with real emotions, experiencing joy and sorrow, taking time for celebration and revenge.
The Indians drank until the wee hours of the morning, well after Mary herself had fallen asleep. When she awoke Sage and the others were all stretched out on bedrolls, the horses grazing nearby, the fire dwindled down to no more than warm coals. To Mary it was an amazing scene. She stood up, almost laughing out loud.
Here she stood, in the middle of wild, untamed country. She had no idea where she was, and around her lay a pack of wild Indians sleeping off a drunk, and a mountain man as wild as those Indians. The skinned bear’s hide was stretched out on pegs nearby, and bones lay strewn about, tossed away after the meat had been eaten off them.
She stood surrounded by an untamed people in an untamed country, but the moment was one of the most peaceful she had ever encountered. The sun was rising, casting myriad colors against the distant mountains. The morning was warm, and birds sang as the soft grass of the valley swayed in a gentle breeze.
She put her hands on her hips. “Well, well,” she muttered quietly. “And all of you are supposed to be so alert. I could pick up a gun and shoot half of you right now in your sleep. And I thought I was the vulnerable one in this bunch.”
She covered her mouth with her hand to stifle a laugh. How would she ever explain such a scene to her mother?
Chapter Twenty
Weeks passed, during which they moved from the mountains east into the vast, rolling plains of eastern Colorado.
“We’ve got two choices,” Sage told her. “Directly south will take us straight into Apache and Comanche country. East over to the Cimarron and then south will take us through Cheyenne and Kiowa country. I figure the lesser of the two evils is Cheyenne-Kiowa country. I reckon there’s no sense asking you your opinion.”
“Anything but Comanche territory,” she answered.
“That’s what I figured.”
“Are the Cheyenne peaceful?”
“About like the Utes. Most Indians don’t get riled till they’re pushed, except maybe the Crow and Blackfoot. They’re an ornery bunch, but that’s way north. Many a man like myself has had his scalp lifted by those buzzards. I guess I’ve just been lucky. I had a couple of run-ins, but I won out. ’Course, even the Blackfoot and Crow react mostly to being pushed. Too many trappers moved in on their territory without asking, stole their women, killed some of them for no good reason.”
“You ever steal a woman?”
He laughed. “I’ve still got my scalp, haven’t I?”
She smiled. “Yes. And it’s beautiful. Everything about you is beautiful. You’re a perfect specimen of man, Sage MacKenzie.”
He just shook his head. “I’m not rounded off enough.”
“What do you mean, ‘rounded off’?”
“Got no fancy schooling, no job where I make a lot of money, not even any fancy manners.”
“That doesn’t make a man, Sage. Besides, you can’t help it. You were orphaned at an early age. There was no one to provide all those things for you. You’re a good man, and you’re smart and brave and skilled in the ways a man needs to be skilled in this land. How much good did it do my husband to be rich and educated? He still didn’t know how to watch out for Indians or how to fight them.”
He stopped, turning to her with a frown. “You sure got a way of looking at things, considering your own background. Most women like you are pure snobs to a man like me.”
“I know you too well, Sage. I’ve seen the kind of man you are under that beard and those buckskins.”
He turned again. “Well, before we get to your folks’ place, well find you some decent clothes and a bathhouse and both of us will clean up right proper. I’ve got a little money for that. I’ll shave and make
myself real presentable. And you’ll go back just as pretty and perfect as when you left.”
Pain moved through her chest. “Perfect? Not so perfect anymore, Sage.”
“None of that talk. You’re still Marietta St. Claire Cousteau, and pretty soon we’ll legally add MacKenzie to that name. You’re still their daughter, still educated and refined and all those fancy things. You’re actually a better person than when you left, Mary—stronger, lots stronger. And you know a lot about this land now. You don’t get so scared of things anymore. You can even shoot my rifle now.”
They rode on silently for a while. Yes, she could use his rifle. He had taught her. And he was right about the other things. She didn’t feel so ashamed and afraid anymore. She was downright proud of how she had grown these last few months—all thanks to Sage MacKenzie. It was just too bad all this traveling prevented them from making love as often as they would have liked. Each day meant a day closer to Texas and the possibility they could not be together after all.
They had made that stop he had talked about—the place where there was a cave and soft grass and a stream. They had stayed four days, resting, eating, washing up clothes, making love. That had been the nicest part. Her memories of that place were as warm and tender as those of the little cabin they had left behind. Her memories of the cabin were still almost painful.
They moved through Cheyenne country, miraculously avoiding contact with any Indians. But they did encounter seas of buffalo, an awesome sight for Mary, and also dangerous. Usually they sat on a rise and waited for the herd to move on, or they carefully rode around the animals.
But once they were caught by surprise, cresting a rise and seeing a herd of thousands coming up the other side, headed right toward them. Never would Mary forget sitting frozen on her horse, while Sage sat beside her, keeping his own horse in check and holding the bridle of her mount while the great beasts lumbered past them on Mary’s side. Luckily, it seemed they had started a long journey to a new feeding ground, and Sage was aware that when covering several miles, buffalo moved together only three or four abreast, all keeping in a line.
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