We continued on to the farm, leaving the dark clouds even farther behind, but my own thoughts were full of dark clouds. All I could think of was how stiff Clinton’s body was, when they lifted him, in order to put him in the hole they had dug. I wondered what we would discover when we arrived at the farm.
When we finally approached, I could see the ducks and gees roaming around the yard, hunting for food. I did not see the pigs, though. The chickens were also loose, since we had left very little to feed the animals when we left, and we had left the chicken house open so the chickens could find something to eat, if they were not eaten themselves by some wild animal.
When the wagon came to a halt, Buck and Bell tossed their heads and pawed the ground, as though they were anxious to be put in the barn with some fresh hay and grain, which was what they had been used to, when arriving home. I climbed down, and both Muraco and Inteus walked beside me, as I approached the front door.
“Bertha?” I called, wondering if she had left, or whether she was still at the house, since she had not come out of the house when we approached, but if she was looking out the window, she would have seen the Indians with me, and probably feared the worse.
I slowly opened the door and looked inside. I did not see Bertha anywhere.
“If you are here, you need to come out, Bertha,” I called. “No one is going to hurt you, but if you stay here, you are going to starve. Clinton is dead, so you need to come with us.”
When I mentioned Clinton being dead, I heard a faint whimper, so I knew Bertha was in the house somewhere.
“These Indians are taking me back to their village, when we leave. We are taking all the left-over stock, and are slaughtering the pigs, so we can bring them with us as well. You won’t have any way to feed yourself, and you don’t have a horse to pull the buggy, so you will have to come with us.”
I heard a noise, and I looked up to see Bertha hesitantly coming down the stairs.
“Clinton is dead?” she asked in a weak shaking voice.
She looked thin, and frightened. It didn’t look like she had bothered to change her dress since the day we left. Her hair was no longer immaculately combed, and parts of it hung around her face, as it fell from the pins.
“An Indian killed him, because he was threatening to kill members of my family, the same way he had killed our father. You are as guilty as he was, but I won’t let the Indians harm you. They are my friends, and the only way you are going to survive, is if you come with us. If you refuse, we can take you as far as the Santa Fe trail where you might find someone to take you to Dodge, but you will have no supplies, and no telling if anyone will come along and help you. Your best choice is to come with us for the winter, and when we return in the spring, I will have Emmet take you back to Dodge.”
Bertha looked like she didn’t believe me, but she had little choice. Either she remained there and starved to death, or trusted me, and came with us.
“The Indians killed my son! Why should I go with them?” She choked in a horror-stricken voice.
“And Clinton killed my father, yet you expected me to marry him! You don’t deserve the help I am offering you, and if you choose not to take it, you can remain here and fend for yourself, for all I care!” I turned from the room.
“Where are you going?” she shrieked, as she started to hurry down the stairs.
“I’m going with the Indians to find the pigs, round up the poultry, and load some more food on the wagon we hid in a cave,” I told her, over my shoulder.
“You left food here and hid it?” her voice squeaked. “You wanted us to starve to death!”
“Yes, but it wasn’t because I wanted you to starve, I just wanted you to leave our farm. You never should have married my father. If you intend to come with us, you need to get your things together, by the time we come back. We don’t have a lot of time. I made the Indians bury your son, so you should thank me for that!”
“You are a horrid girl!”
“No, I believe that you and Clinton are the ones that are horrid. You fooled my father into marrying you, and thanked him by putting an end to his life. I could easily have Emmet turn you into the sheriff when he returns you to Dodge, so just be thankful for small blessings.”
I then left the room, along with Muraco and Inteus, and got back up into the wagon.
“I’ll show you where the food is, and while you are loading it in the wagon, I will go lure the pigs,” I told him. “They know me, and will think I have something to feed them. I’ll take some bucketatoes with me to lure them with.”
Once I collected some bucketatoes from our extra food storage, I started sprinting across the meadow, back to the farmhouse.
I thought about the day Buttercup had had her calf, and I had walked across this very meadow, only to discover a wounded Indian in the cave. It seemed like a lifetime ago, I thought. The chickens were easy to lure into a cage, since there was still grain that was at the bottom of the bag that we used for feed, which neither Clinton or Bertha bothered to use to feed what few chickens we left behind. The ducks and geese came just as easy. Once I had them in several small cages, I went out to look for the pigs.
By the time I had rounded the pigs up, Muraco and Inteus had returned to the house with the wagon full of food. Inteus had the travois attacked to the back of his horse.
The two braves were well educated in how to slaughter animals, and so I left them to slaughter the pigs and pack the meat on the travois. I busied myself putting the pens filled with the chickens and ducks, up on top of the wagon where the tarp, we had used to cover the food in the cave, was now covering the food in the wagon.
Bertha stood on the front porch, clutching her magazines to her breast, like they were a treasure she was afraid to let go of. Her suitcase sat at her feet on the porch boards beside her. She looked pitiful, and I thought that maybe she was starting to lose her senses. Her eyes had a blank, wild look to them, like she wasn’t even seeing us.
Once the pig meat was packed and tied to the travois, I helped Bertha up in the wagon, while Muraco threw her suitcase behind. I had thought to put some extra cooking utensils, and a reflecting oven that we had used to bake bread in when we had traveled from Missouri, up on the wagon, while the Indians were busy with butchering the pigs. The thought, of that trip, we took out here, made me think about Aunt Sally and Uncle Ted. When we returned to the farm again, I would have to write them and tell them about father, I thought absently.
Muraco climbed up beside me and we headed back out towards the winter camp of the Kiowa and Comanche. None of us spoke, and Bertha rocked herself, as she hugged her magazines to her breast. I wondered if she had even had anything to eat, while we had been away? I didn’t bother to ask her. I just passed her a raw bucketato to eat, tossed one to Inteus, and handed one to Muraco as well.
We did not stop to camp along the way, and it took us the entire night to make it back to the village. I could still hear thunder, in the distance, which rumbled through my head, like a bad omen. By dawn, we were pulling into the village, and since Indians rise early, many of the tribe came out to greet us and started unloading the wagon and the travois.
Muraco said he would find someone to shelter Bertha. When he said that, Bertha gave a shudder and a little whimper. I had no sympathy for her, though. She deserved every discomfort and unhappiness she confronted, having to live with the Indians. After all, because of her and Clinton, we were all in the same boat. I went to our lean-to and collapsed onto the buffalo skin.
I was aware that someone had come into the lean-to, and I slowly opened my eyes. I could see Muraco hovering over me.
“Come with me,” he said, reaching out his hand.
I wasn’t sure why he wanted me to come with him, but I was too tired to balk. I meekly followed him as he led me away from the camp and headed up along the river bank. He had two blankets thrown over his arm. Finally, he stopped.
“We will bathe here,” he told me, and started to remove his clothes.
I stood watching him, feeling intrigued with the sight of him, and yet embarrassed to shed my clothes as well. He gave me a questioning glance.
“Take your clothes off and come into the water,” he instructed.
“I have never been with a man like this. It seems immodest,” I half-stammered.
“It is important to clean the body. Kiowas bathe as often as possible. There is no shame in it,” he insisted.
“But I am a woman, and you are a man,” I protested.
“What does that matter? Don’t you want to be clean?”
A confused look came upon his face.
“I shouldn’t undress in front of you,” I said stubbornly.
“I undressed in front of you, but I will turn my back, if you wish,” he half-laughed.
I watched him turn his strong, bronze back to me. His hair fell loose over his shoulders, and I stood there for a long time, trying to gain enough nerve to remove my clothes. He looked over his shoulder at me.
“You are just standing there,” he complained.
He turned, and came over to me.
“I will not harm you. I will not try to take you. I am here to protect you, which is why I choose to stay near to you, even as you bathe. Don’t be afraid.”
He reached his hand up, and pulled the pin that held my hair in a bun, causing my hair to billow about my shoulders.
He brought his hand down against the neck of my blouse, and began unfastening the buttons. I caught my breath, remembering how Clinton had started to undress me, but something about the look on Muraco’s face gave me comfort, so I allowed him to finish the task. Then he was helping me remove the rest of my clothes until I stood beside him with nothing on.
His hand grasped mine, and led me out into the water, until we were waist deep. Muraco busied himself bathing himself, dipping his head under the water to wash his hair, and eventually I began to bath myself, as well.
The water felt so cool and refreshing. The sun was already starting to send its late autumn heat down, and I knew it was going to be a hot day. I lower in the water, as I watched Muraco across from me tending to himself. When he saw me watching him, he smiled.
“You see?” he said with a smile, “there is no harm bathing together.”
He came closer to me, and I started to shiver, as he reached out his hand and smoothed it over my wet hair.
“You have a fire soul,” he mumbled. “We believe the hair is the soul, and your hair matches who you are. You are stubborn and brave, yet kind and have a tender place even for your enemy.”
He took one of my hands in his, and looked down at it.
“I have felt your soft hands on my body, when you cared for me. It was all I ever thought about. I still think about it,” he breathed.
I involuntarily reached out and touched his wound, running my fingers over the scar.
“You healed well,” I murmured.
Muraco’s eyes looked deeply into mine, consuming my very being with his stare. I could feel that stare pulling me to him in a way I had never experienced before. Suddenly, I became self-conscious, and started to pull my hand away. Only Muraco placed his hand over mine, not allowing me to pull away from him.
“Do not fear me,” he whispered. “I am here to protect you. Only you must trust me. You must stay near to me, because Lomasi may not be the only one who does not want you here. Also, she may try to attack you again, if I do not remain beside you. You must never stray from my side.”
“For the whole winter?” I asked, starting to feel a little alarmed.
“You have no other choice. The whites have betrayed us in the past. Many do not trust any whites. Promise you will stay near me at all times.”
“What about my brothers and sister?” I questioned. “Are their lives in danger?”
“It is the custom to treat guests with respect, but nothing can be promised, if someone breaks that custom,” he told me.
“Then you had better make sure no one breaks that custom,” I said firmly, starting to stiffen.
“I will make it my duty,” he assured me.
Then he placed his arms around me and held me against him, stroking my back with his broad hand.
“I will always watch over you, so you can leave unharmed, after winter has passed,” he mumbled in my hair.
Muraco stood holding me, for a long moment. At length, he finally led me up on the bank, and wrapped one of the blankets around me. He wrapped the other blanket around himself. He stopped, bending down to pick up our clothes.
“We will go back to my lodge and sleep now,” he told me, and started out ahead of me, like nothing had transpired between us.
When we reached the lean-to, Muraco held the flap open for me, so I could enter. Then he went to the buffalo robe, and grabbed my hand, pulling me down beside him, wrapping me in his blanket, along with mine. I laid my head against his shoulder, feeling his wet hair against my cheek. His strong arms clutched me to him, as though he never intended to let go. I could feel myself sinking into him, letting his essence wash over me in a way I couldn’t quite understand. I only knew I felt protected by him. I wanted to remain by his side, the way he insisted I do, not just to feel safe, but to feel content, as well.
I could feel his bare skin against my own skin, and the warmth of it filled me with a need for that warmth. I felt myself pushing closer against him, wanting to soak his warmth into me. Muraco placed his lips on my forehead. They felt soft and pliable, and inviting. I liked the touch of his lips on my brow. I gave a small murmur, and his arms squeezed me tighter.
Eventually, I fell asleep feeling warm and contented, in Muraco’s embrace. Perhaps he was not as indifferent about me after all, I decided. Anyway, at that moment, I knew he was not acting indifferent.
When I opened my eyes, Muraco was leaning on his elbow, looking down at me. “Are you rested?” he asked. “We should probably eat something. I hear your sister is baking bread. Tala is very impressed with her.”
I realized he wore his buckskin leggings, so he must have gotten up and gone out, while I still slept. “She is a very good cook,” I told him.
“My people do not make bread the way she does. We have eaten the white man’s bread before, because we were given gifts by the whites to persuade us not to attack the wagons on the trail, but no one ever knew how it was made. The whole tribe is watching her bake it.”
“Really?” I smiled.
“I brought your bag of clothes, from the wagon. Get dressed, and we will go out and watch her too,” he offered.
Muraco handed me my satchel, I had packed when we first left the farm, and I rummaged through it, to find something to wear. Muraco stood over me, watching my every move, as I pulled my clothes from the satchel.
“Why do you wear so many clothes?” he asked, with a quizzical smile. “A dress should be all you need,” he insisted. “It makes it easier when you need to relieve yourself.”
He grabbed up my petty-coat, under things and stockings and threw them in the corner, and took up my dress.
“That should do,” he told me, placing it over my head. He pulled it down around me, and started doing up the buttons.
“I will get you moccasins to wear,” he told me.
Then he pulled me by the hand and led me out of the lean-to, without any shoes on. We headed to a large group of people who were gathered around, what I learned was the fire where Darie was putting pans of bread in the reflector oven that was on the fire. She looked up at me and smiled.
“They think I am making magic,” she said. “When I was kneading the dough, Wolf called me Khoon-gyah Maun. It means dancing hands,” she smiled.
I gave a pleased laugh, because she seemed to be fitting in so well, and did not look frightened any longer.
“They said you went and got the rest of our food, so I suppose that means we have to stay here,” she said, looking up at me.
She didn’t seem upset about it, though.
“I had to get Muraco to take me
back to the farm to get Bertha, and have him bury Clinton, on the way. I had to bribe him with something,” I told her.
I heard a low grunt, and looked over to see Emmet glaring at me.
“Now we have nothing to go back to,” he complained. “That was supposed to be our back-up, Constance!”
Emmet hardly ever called me Constance, so I knew he was angry at me. He gave me that ‘I should have been in charge,’ look he always gave me, when he disagreed with me, but there was nothing I could do about it.
Suddenly, someone came running up, and at first I thought it was a young Indian boy, until I saw it was Nigel, dressed in Indian clothes, with Sport at his heels. Sport must have decided to stay close to someone he knew, since I was not around.
“Guess what, Connie?” he said a little breathless, as he came to a stop. “They are going to adopt me, and make me into a real Indian! They call it Ee-haw-gyah. Apenimon is going to teach me his language, so I can talk to the Indians, just like you! He is going to show me how to shoot a bow and ride horses like the Indians do!”
His eyes were excited, and I could tell he was happy about being here.
“You will do not such thing!” Emmet, broke in. “They are not going to make a heathen out of you! We are just staying here until spring, and then we are going back to the farm, and things will go back to how they used to be,” he insisted.
“You cannot stop me!” Nigel shouted. “It is all planned. After we eat, they are taking me to the river to wash away the old me, so the new Indian me can be born!”
“Over my dead body!” Emmet grumbled.
I put my hand on Emmet’s shoulder.
“Don’t make a fuss, Emmet. What difference will it make? Nigel seems happy about it. Why can’t you let him have his way, and not make any waves? It is just a silly belief, and when we are ready to leave, Nigel will come back with us.”
“No I won’t!” Nigel spouted. “I will be a real Indian then, and I am going to stay and live with the Comanche and Kiowa.”
Kiowa White Moon Page 15
