They reached Sitting Bull’s camp a week later. Maggie was deeply touched as she watched Sitting Bull’s people open their homes to what was left of Hawk’s tribe. The Hunkpapa women gathered hides and quickly erected lodges for the married couples; single women were taken into the homes of elderly couples.
Maggie and Hawk shared a lodge with Winona. It was not a situation Maggie was particularly happy with. For one thing, she feared that Winona was less than thrilled at having a white woman for a daughter-in-law. For another, having Winona in the lodge left them no privacy at night, and she felt odd lying in Hawk’s arms when his mother’s bed was only a few feet away. But it was only temporary. In the spring, they would travel to Canada, and then they would have their own lodge.
Sighing, she snuggled closer to Hawk, felt his arm slip around her shoulders to draw her close.
Burying his face in her hair, Hawk began to caress her, losing himself in her nearness. Her skin was as soft as the petals of the wild roses that grew along the banks of the Rosebud, her lips as sweet as the berries that grew in the summertime.
Conscious of her mother-in-law sleeping nearby, Maggie whispered, “Hawk, not now.”
“Spirit Woman.” He whispered her name as he caressed her breasts and her belly, and then he drew back, a look of wonder in his eyes.
Maggie blinked up at him, a little disappointed that he had given heed to her words so quickly, and then she frowned. “What is it? What’s wrong?”
“I feel life growing within you.”
“What did you say?”
“I can feel the heartbeat of our child beneath my hand. You are carrying a new life within your womb. A son, Mag-gie. We will have a son.”
Maggie shook her head. If she was pregnant, wouldn’t she be the first to know it? She frowned as she thought of the symptoms she’d been having the last few weeks, the queasiness in the morning, the tenderness in her breasts, the fact that her period was late. She’d attributed her lack of energy and all the other complaints to tension and stress. It had never occurred to her that she could be pregnant.
“There’s no way you could know such a thing,” she said, stunned by his revelation. “It’s impossible.”
“Spirit Woman.” He whispered her name as his hand slid reverently over her belly. “You should know by now that between us nothing is impossible.”
Filled with wonder, Maggie placed her hand over Hawk’s, and all the while she gazed into the depths of his eyes, feeling her soul communing with his.
And suddenly she felt it too, the promise of a new life, the echo of a heartbeat beating soft as a butterfly wing, and in her mind’s eye she saw a child, a beautiful little boy with smooth tawny skin and hair the color of a raven’s wing.
Hawk’s son.
A lasting link between the past and the future.
The following morning, the Nacas, the leaders of the camp, decided it was time to move the village. A crier rode through the camp, announcing that the village would be moving in two days time. They would spend the winter in the sheltering wooded hollows of the Black Hills, camping where wood and water were abundant.
As soon as he heard the news, Shadow Hawk went to Sitting Bull and told him that they must not camp in the Paha Sapa that year, that it would not be safe.
“How do you know this?” Sitting Bull asked, his tone skeptical. The Lakota had always found shelter from the harsh winter storms in the sacred hills.
“I have traveled the Spirit Path of the Sacred Cave, and it was shown to me that any who winter in the Black Hills will be destroyed by the wasichu.”
Sitting Bull considered Hawk’s words for a long time. The legend of the Sacred Cave was known to all the Council Fires of the Lakota Nation, though only the holy man of the Oglala tribe possessed the power to enter the cave on the night of the full moon.
“I hear your words, my brother,” Sitting Bull said gravely. “I will speak to the Nacas.”
Two days later the journey began.
It was an amazing sight, Maggie thought. Scouts rode at the head of the long column, followed by the warriors who rode their best horses and wore their best clothing. Following the warriors came the women and children, some riding and some walking, and then the vast horse herd.
They traveled leisurely, taking time out to rest, to hunt, to laugh and to play, to adjust the packs, to eat.
Maggie rode beside Hawk, fascinated by the speed with which the women had dismantled the lodges, amazed that a whole village could be moved so quickly and easily. She could find nothing to compare it to save the flight of the Children of Israel out of Egypt as depicted in the film The Ten Commandments. Indeed, that was how the Sioux traveled, carrying with them everything they owned, leaving nothing behind save a few old lodge-poles and scraps of hide.
But it was the thought of being a mother that occupied most of Maggie’s thoughts. They had not told anyone their news, not even Winona, and Maggie held her secret close, cherishing it, dreaming the same dreams all women dreamed when they carried a new life under their hearts.
She looked at Hawk with new eyes now, seeing in him the epitome of what a father should be, a man who was brave and strong, protective and proud; a man who could defend her and provide for her, a man who would teach their son about loyalty and honor, respect for the land, respect for life itself.
He hovered over her, making sure she was comfortable when they stopped at night, making sure she had enough to eat, that she went to bed early.
Winona watched them through knowing eyes, remembering how it had been in those years long past when she had been pregnant with Shadow Hawk. Her husband, Gray Otter, had looked at her the way Shadow Hawk now looked at Maggie. It warmed her heart and made her sad at the same time. Knowing how much they yearned to be alone at this special time in their lives, she often left their temporary lodge in the evening, going out to visit with Sitting Bull and his family.
Shadow Hawk stared after his mother as she left the lodge, his expression thoughtful as he took Maggie in his arms.
“She knows,” he remarked.
“Do you think so?”
“I am sure of it.”
“Do you think she’s glad?”
“Is not every woman happy at the thought of a new life?”
“I don’t know. I don’t think your mother likes me very much.”
“She will in time.”
“I hope so.” Maggie pressed her cheek to Hawk’s chest and closed her eyes, content to listen to the steady sound of his heartbeat, to feel his arms around her. She didn’t feel pregnant, and yet she knew in her heart that she carried Hawk’s child. The thought filled her with joy, and fear.
“What is it?” Hawk asked, sensing the change in her mood.
“I…I’m afraid.”
“Of what?”
“Having the baby.”
“I do not understand.”
Neither did she, not really. How could she tell him she was afraid of childbirth, afraid of the pain, afraid of dying, afraid of having the baby in the Canadian wilderness? He would think her cowardly, weak, unfit to be the mother of a Lakota warrior. But she couldn’t help it. She was afraid.
“My mother will be there to help you,” Hawk remarked.
“I know.”
“There is nothing to fear.”
“I know.” But all the logic in the world couldn’t change the way she felt. And the idea of having the baby here, in this time, made it all the worse. Women frequently died in childbirth. Babies were born dead, or died of diseases that, in the future, were no longer considered serious or fatal.
“Mag-gie.”
“I’m all right,” she said, but she didn’t want to have her baby here. When the time came, she wanted a sterile hospital delivery room, and a doctor in a clean linen gown, and drugs to take the edge off the pain and modern technology in case something went wrong.
She snuggled against him, seeking the strength of his arms, finding comfort in the strong steady beat of his heart bene
ath her cheek. She wouldn’t be afraid. So long as Hawk was there beside her, she wouldn’t be afraid.
Shadow Hawk held Maggie close, her fears now his. He had never given much thought to the mystery of birth. It was a thing best left to the understanding of women. But as he sat there, holding Maggie close, he remembered that Red Arrow’s first wife had died giving birth to a stillborn child, and that, through the years, there had been many women who had died in childbirth and many babies who had not lived more than a few days. The Lakota way of life was hard. Only the strong survived. That was the way it was, the way it had always been. As a child and a young man, he had not questioned such things, but now…
He gazed down at Maggie, pressed so trustingly against him, and knew he would make any sacrifice to keep her safe. He would pray for her each morning and each night, and in the summer he would offer his blood and his pain at the Sun Dance pole, beseeching the gods of the Lakota to watch over his woman and his son.
And then he thought of what Maggie had told him of the future. The white men would be coming soon. They would find the yellow metal in the Black Hills, battles would be fought and won, fought and lost, and in a few short years his people would be defeated, at the mercy of the wasichu, penned on a reservation… It was the reason he was taking his people to Canada.
It occurred to him then, with crystal clarity, that he did not want to go to Canada, that he did not want to live in the Grandmother’s country, that he wanted to live here, in the shadow of the Black Hills, where he had always lived, that he wanted his son to be born there.
But all that was impossible now, and for the first time, he realized what he was giving up.
Chapter Thirty-Five
Slowly, Bobby opened his eyes, frowning when the darkness remained. Where was he?
It came back to him in a rush, the Sacred Cave, the blackness, the fear. Had he failed?
Rising to his feet, he raked his fingers through his hair, brushed the sand from his clout. He was stalling for time, he thought wryly, afraid to find out if he’d failed—and even more afraid to learn he had succeeded.
Squaring his shoulders, he walked toward the entrance of the cave. What would he find outside? Was it still 1993, or had he managed to find the spirit path that led into the past?
Heart pounding, he made his way toward the entrance and stepped out of the cave into the light of a new day. Hands clenched at his sides, he turned and looked down the hill toward Maggie St. Claire’s house.
But the house was gone. His horse was gone.
He looked the other way, just to make sure, but there was no sign of human habitation, only the timeless Hills covered with tall ponderosa pines.
He uttered a quick prayer, praying that he was in 1872, and then, filled with a sense of exhilaration, he started down the far side of the hill, oblivious to the hunger clawing at his belly, oblivious to the fact that he had no food, no horse, no weapons. He would worry about those things later. For now, he must find Hawk.
When he reached the bottom of the hill, he saw the scattered remnants of what had been an Indian village. Hawk’s village? The one destroyed by the Army?
He wandered through the ruined camp. Not much remained now. A few weathered lodge-poles, a few scraps of leather that had been chewed by rodents. Digging in the debris, he found a blanket that was only burned around one edge. Laying it over his shoulder, he poked into the burned lodges, experiencing a sense of satisfaction when he found a long-bladed knife. The beaded sheath had been destroyed, but the bone haft and the blade were still intact, and he shoved it in the waistband of his clout, feeling better now that he had a weapon.
He spent another hour wandering through the village, but he found nothing else he could use. For a moment, he stood there wondering which way to go, and then he started walking away from the village, headed for Fort Laramie for no other reason than it was, the only landmark he knew that had existed in 1872.
He stopped at a shallow waterhole and quenched his thirst, then continued onward, grateful that he’d been working out the last few months.
Fear was his constant companion as he made his way across the plains, but he fought it down.
Follow the Hawk. Follow the Hawk. The voice in the cave had told him to follow the Hawk, the voice of Heart-of-the-Wolf had told him to follow the Hawk, and even now he seemed to hear the words repeating in the back of his mind. Surely it was his destiny to find Hawk. Surely the gods of the Lakota would help him if he didn’t succumb to panic, if he held fast to his courage, to the conviction that he was doing the right thing.
As he walked briskly, Bobby’s gaze shifted from right to left. The Black Hills looked different, yet the same. The main thing he noticed was the silence. The ranch had been quiet, set as it was in the little meadow away from the road, but there’d usually been noise of one kind or another in the background—Miss St. Claire’s stereo endlessly playing the record of The Phantom of the Opera, the muted roar of airplane engines, the low hum of the air conditioner in the summertime, the ring of the telephone, the sound of Veronica’s Ford Mustang. It was a little eerie crossing the prairie with only the muffled sound of his footsteps for company.
He’d walked about five miles when he became aware of the faint sounds of battle, sounds that grew steadily louder as he topped a grassy rise.
He stared at the battle in disbelief. Horses raced back and forth across the short buffalo grass, their riders armed with bows and arrows, feathered lances, war clubs and rifles.
Pawnee and Lakota. He recognized the two tribes at once. Neither party was painted for war and he guessed they were hunting parties that had run into each other.
There wasn’t much killing going on, mostly warriors trying to count coup on one another.
He saw two men in hand-to-hand combat, fighting over a knife which lay on the ground at their feet, and he leaned forward, silently rooting for the Lakota warrior who, in a quick, graceful move, managed to slip out of the Pawnee’s grasp. Diving for the knife, the Lakota rolled onto his back, the blade up, just as the Pawnee lunged at him.
The Pawnee let out a bone-chilling shriek as the knife pierced his stomach. The sound drew everyone’s attention and all other fighting came to a halt. Slowly, the two hunting parties separated while two warriors went to look after the wounded man.
Bobby ran down the hill, calling to the Lakota until one of the warriors rode toward him.
“Hau, kola,” Bobby said. “Hello, friend.”
The warrior looked at him suspiciously. “Hau, kola.”
“Can you help me?” Bobby said, still speaking Lakota. “I’m lost.”
“Who are your people?”
“I have no people.”
The warrior looked around and then grunted softly. “And no horse.”
“And no horse.”
Scooting forward a little, the warrior extended his arm and Bobby vaulted up behind him.
The warrior reined his horse around and urged the spotted pony into a lope, following his companions.
Bobby could hardly contain his excitement. He had found a band of Lakota. Perhaps one of these very men was related to him.
It was an exhilarating thought and it was all he could do to keep from laughing out loud. Deep down, he had never believed any of it, not for a moment. He had never truly believed that Hawk was from the past, never believed the cave held any magic. But now…he murmured a quick prayer of thanks to Wakán Tanka.
He was here and he was never going back.
Chapter Thirty-Six
The hunting party caught up with the main body of the tribe three days later.
Bobby could only stare in awe at his first sight of Indians on the move. It was fascinating, incredible, a long procession strung out for miles.
Far ahead were the scouts, to the sides and rear were the Fox Soldiers who were acting as police. Then came the warriors, followed by the women, some riding or leading pack horses, some walking. The old ones rode the travois ponies, sharing their horses
with their grandchildren. Dogs ran everywhere, weaving back and forth, barking at the horses, chasing rabbits and prairie dogs. The horse herd brought up the rear, colts and fillies darting away from their mothers, then hurrying back again.
It was a sight Bobby knew he’d never forget.
As they neared the horse herd, the warrior who had befriended Bobby said, “See that big roan? He is mine. Now he is yours.”
The warrior, whose name was Buffalo Heart, pulled an extra bridle from his war bag. “If we get separated, look for me when we make camp tonight. My woman will prepare a meal for you and then you will share my lodge.”
“Pilamaya,” Bobby said. Taking the bridle, he slid from the back of Buffalo Heart’s pony and approached the roan gelding. The animal snorted and sidestepped, then stood docile as Bobby slipped the bridle over its head.
“Good boy,” Bobby murmured. He patted the horse’s neck for a moment, then vaulted onto the animal’s bare back and rode after Buffalo Heart.
Shadow Hawk rode near the head of the column, just behind Sitting Bull, his heart swelling with emotion. He had not realized how much he had missed being with his own people.
Riding across the plains, he drew a deep breath, drinking in the smell of dust and sweat, of horses and leather, grass and sage. The sun warmed his back, a gentle breeze cooled his face. He found pleasure in the easy rhythm of the horse beneath him and in the familiar sound of the Lakota language. He heard the piercing cry of a hunting hawk, the shrill whinny of a mare, the laughter of the women, and felt he had truly come home.
Glancing over his shoulder, Shadow Hawk saw Maggie riding beside his mother and he smiled at both women. Gradually, they were becoming friends.
The night before, Shadow Hawk had told his mother that Maggie was pregnant, Winona had looked at him for several seconds, one eyebrow raised.
“Do you think I am deaf and blind?” she had asked with a wry grin, and then she had hugged him and said maybe, just maybe, it wasn’t so bad having a wasichu for a daughter-in-law.
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