It was unfair, she thought irritably. Her friends were gathered outside Red Blossom’s lodge, flirting with some of the young men, and she had to stay home and look after her father’s prisoner!
Culhane groaned softly as he felt hands probing his torn flesh. He tried to brush the annoying hands away, but his arms were tightly bound behind his back.
Muttering an oath, he opened his eyes to find a young woman bending over him. Culhane studied the woman as she carefully peeled his shirt away from the blood dried around the wound. She had large black eyes, a fine straight nose, high cheek bones, a sensuous mouth, and long black hair. She was beautiful for a savage, he mused, very beautiful indeed.
He gasped as she pressed a handful of damp tree moss over the gaping wound in his side. She held it there until the bleeding stopped and then, using a long strip of cloth torn from his shirt-tail, she wrapped it over the moss and tied off the ends.
“Who are you?” Culhane asked, his voice edged with pain. “What’s going to happen to me?”
The girl looked at him as if she didn’t understand.
“Water,” Culhane said distinctly. “Can you bring me some water?” He swore softly as he tried to remember the Cheyenne word for water. “Na-mane-tano,” he said, hoping he was pronouncing it right. “Water.”
The girl lifted one delicate brow as he attempted to speak her language, then rose gracefully to her feet and walked away without a word.
* * * * *
Winter Star could not sleep that night. Every time she closed her eyes, the face of the vehoe rose in her mind. He was a handsome man, for a vehoe. He had a strong square jaw, a nose that was not quite straight, a high forehead, and dark brown hair. But it was the color of his eyes that intrigued her. They were as gray as the sky before a thunderstorm.
Killing and death were an integral part of the life of the Cheyenne, yet she had never been able to look upon the pain or suffering of others without feeling it herself. Man or beast, friend or foe, she could not bear to see any living creature suffer needlessly. Winter Star knew her mother worried about her tender feelings. Life was difficult, often cruel, occasionally brutal. The winters were often hard and unforgiving. Babies and old ones easily succumbed to the harsh weather. Her mother believed it was better to expose one’s self to pain and hardship early in life, to expect the worse, and then be grateful if it didn’t happen.
But Winter Star could not build a wall around her heart. She could not watch babies cry without crying herself. She could not see women grieve for a lost husband or child or parent and not feel their pain. She could not watch one of the ancient ones willingly die of hunger so that another might live and tell herself it was just a part of life.
And tonight she could not sleep, not while the vehoe lay outside, hungry and hurting.
Rising, she drew a buffalo robe around her shoulders. Taking up a waterskin and a thick slice of dried venison, she tiptoed out of the lodge.
Riley Culhane woke at the sound of muffled footsteps. Peering into the darkness, he saw the girl who had bandaged his wound moving quietly toward him.
“Did you come to make sure I’m still here?” he asked with a rueful grin, even though it was obvious he wasn’t going anywhere. His hands were lashed behind his back, his ankles tied together, and the rope around his neck was secured to a strong tree.
The girl did not answer as she knelt beside him. Lifting the waterskin, she held it to his lips while he drank deeply, quenching a thirst that plagued him relentlessly since he’d been wounded.
“Hahoo,” he rasped. Thank you.
Laying the waterskin aside, the girl tore off a piece of dried meat and offered it to him.
I feel like the family pet, Culhane thought as he obediently opened his mouth. Perhaps she’ll teach me to sit up and beg. He ate the venison, took another drink when she offered it to him, draining the container.
Culhane eyed the girl warily as she placed a hand on his brow. “No fever yet,” he told her, “but I’m cold as hell.”
She stared at him for a long moment; then, wordlessly, she removed the robe from her shoulders and draped it around him. It was soft against his bare skin, still warm from the heat of her body.
Winter Star rose to her feet. She gazed at the white man for several moments, wondering where he learned to speak her language, admiring the width of his shoulders as she might have admired good conformation in a horse. But he was not a horse, he was a man, a disturbingly handsome man with incredible eyes - deep gray eyes filled with pain.
With a sigh, she turned away and left him there, alone, in the dark.
* * * * *
In the morning, Winter Star hurried through her chores. She did not stop to talk to the other maidens as she knelt at the riverbank to fill her waterskin. She did not pause to speak to Little Blue Girl as she headed into the forest to gather wood.
As soon as she finished her chores, Winter Star went behind the lodge to check on the white man.
The moment she saw him, she knew he was sick. His eyes were closed, his skin pale, damp with perspiration. He did not stir when she removed the bandage from his side. The wound was swollen and ugly, streaked with red.
Brow puckered with worry, Winter Star drew the robe over the white man and then went in search of her grandfather, the tribal medicine man.
She found him sitting before his lodge, his eyes closed, his head bowed. Reverently, she touched his shoulder. “Namshim?”
Yellow Shield raised his head slowly. A warm smile touched his lips as he saw his granddaughter standing before him. “Nish’a, I am glad to see you. Come, sit here beside me.”
“Not now, Namshim. I need your help.”
“You have but to ask.”
“I need a poultice for a bad wound.”
“Is my son hurt?” Yellow Shield asked anxiously. “Why did you not tell me sooner?”
“No, Namshim. It is not for my father.”
The old man’s relief was clearly visible on his weathered face. “Help me up, child,” he said, reaching for her hand. “Who is the poultice for?”
Winter Star took hold of her grandfather’s hand and helped him to his feet. He was not a terribly old man, but a bullet fired by a French trapper years ago had shattered his knee, making it hard for him to get around without help.
“The poultice is for the vehoe my father brought home.”
Yellow Shield nodded. He had heard of the white soldier-coat who killed three of their young men.
Winter Star helped her grandfather into his lodge, waited as he rummaged around in one of his parfleches until he found the herbs necessary for healing.
“Mix this with warm water and a little bear fat,” he instructed, handing her a small bag filled with crushed herbs. “Spread the mixture over the wound then cover it with a hot cloth. Do not touch it for one full day.”
“Yes, Namshim. Thank you.”
Returning to her own lodge, Winter Star mixed the herbs as directed then went to the white man. He was tossing restlessly, his head rolling from side to side.
Compassion filled Winter Star’s heart as she lifted his shirt and spread the thick paste over the angry wound before covering it with a cloth she had soaked in boiling water. The man groaned low in his throat as the hot cloth touched his inflamed flesh.
Winter Star sat beside the white man all that morning, replacing the robe when he tossed it aside, wiping the sweat from his brow with a cool cloth, spooning water into his mouth. Observing that his wrists and ankles were red and swollen from the constant chafing of the rawhide, she removed the thongs binding him. His hands were big and brown and looked capable of breaking her in half without any trouble. Yet she was not afraid of him. With a shrug, she removed the noose from around his neck, as well.
Delirious from the fever, the man mumbled incoherently. She wondered what he was saying. Was he calling for a loved one? Once, wracked with pain, he reached for Winter Star, his big hand swallowing hers as a big fish might swallow a little o
ne. He clutched her hand tightly, his body rigid as the poultice sucked the poison from the wound. A great shuddering sigh surged through him and he began to shiver convulsively despite the heavy robe covering him.
Taking her lower lip between her teeth, Winter Star looked around to see if anyone was watching. Seeing no one in sight, she slipped under the robe and drew him close.
His arms went around her and he pressed himself against her, his long, lean body instinctively seeking the warmth of hers. Almost immediately, his shivering stopped and his breathing became slower and less labored.
Winter Star stared at him. She had not expected the vehoe to cling to her, had not expected to find herself so moved by his touch. He held her close, as a man might hold the woman he loved, crushing her breasts against the hard wall of his chest. One of his long legs flopped over hers, and she felt her cheeks grow hot at such intimate contact with a man.
Pulling back a little, Winter Star studied his face. This man was the enemy, yet she found him undeniably attractive. His dark brown hair was as straight as her own. His mouth was full and wide.
Slowly, she lifted her hand and ran her fingertips over his lower lip. It was warm and firm. Quickly, she jerked her hand away and slid out from under the buffalo robe, frightened by the liquid heat which had suffused her from head to toe when she touched him.
Shaken to the core of her being, she fled to the river. Finding a secluded spot, she stripped off her doeskin tunic and moccasins and plunged into the cold clear water. She swam briskly for ten minutes, her mind closed to everything but the feel of the chill water on her flushed skin, the sound of the breeze sighing through the trees, the bright blue sky overhead.
Stepping from the river, she shook herself, then stood in the sunlight, letting its warmth bake her dry. After dressing, she stretched out on the downy grass and stared up at the leaves of the trees overhead. With a sigh, she closed her eyes. Instantly, the face of the white man appeared behind her closed lids.
Grimacing, Winter Star opened her eyes and sat up. Why did the vehoe haunt her so? What was there about him that stirred her blood and made her think of things no maiden should be thinking? Still, she was of an age to be married, and no stranger to men.
Young Hawk was her most ardent suitor. He played his flute outside her lodge on many a warm summer night, brought presents to her father. Many times she and Young Hawk stood close under the courting blanket. Sometimes they touched, their hands and fingers exploring each other’s faces and arms, never trespassing into those areas that were taboo.
But Young Hawk’s touch had never fired her blood or her imagination as did that of the white man. Young Hawk had never made her heart pound like that of a rabbit caught in a trap. Yet the touch of the vehoe filled her with a strange longing, a deep-seated yearning for more. Was there something wrong with her? Some awful taint in her blood that made her heart cold towards the men of her own tribe, yet caused her blood to flow like warm honey at the touch of a man who was a stranger to her, an enemy to her people?
Rising, she vowed never to see the white man again. Yet when she returned to the village, her feet moved steadily toward the rear of her lodge. He needed her. She could not ignore him.
Drifting in a hazy world of pain and darkness, Culhane was nevertheless aware of the young woman’s presence. Reaching out, he sought her hand. Grasping it in his own, he squeezed it tightly as a fresh wave of pain washed over him. His grip tightened when she endeavored to pull free. He could not let her go. She was his only solace in a maze of strange sights and sounds, his only comfort in a foreign world of pain and shadow.
Winter Star looked after Culhane all that day, feeding him warm broth, tending his personal needs, wiping the perspiration from his body with cloths soaked in cool water, holding his hand when the pain became unbearable.
Elk Hunter and Eagle Woman did not try to dissuade their daughter from spending so much time with the white man, nor did they chide her for being so concerned about the prisoner’s welfare. It was in her nature to do so. Everyone in the tribe knew of Winter Star’s tender heart and unfailing compassion. It was a part of her, as natural to her as the color of her hair and eyes. Many thought that one day she would be a powerful medicine woman. Not only did she have great rapport with both man and beast, but she had been endowed with her grandfather’s gift for healing, as well.
Winter Star did not begrudge the hours she spent caring for the white man. When he grew restless, she sang to him, pleased that the sound of the old songs soothed him. Other times, she stroked his forehead with her fingertips, and this, too, seemed to calm his troubled spirit.
She stayed at his side throughout the day and night, leaving only long enough to perform her evening chores and eat a hurried meal with her parents.
Though they had told her to look after him, now that his wound had festered, it seemed a waste of time and effort to try and save him when he was fated to die. Elk Hunter said as much as he lit his pipe and Eagle Woman nodded in agreement. But neither thought to try and stop Winter Star from going to the white man.
Winter Star sat with the prisoner all night, her hand clutched tightly in his as the fever raged through him. It grieved her to see him in pain.
The wound in his side looked no better in the morning. Fearing the vehoe might die, Winter Star again sought her grandfather’s advice.
The old man nodded as Winter Star described the appearance of the raw, angry wound and the thick, yellow pus oozing from it.
“Dissolve a chunk of salt in warm water,” Yellow Shield instructed. “After you have washed the wound with the salted water, you must probe inside the wound. Perhaps there is a bit of cloth or dirt lodged inside preventing the wound from healing properly.”
“What if I find nothing there?”
The old man shrugged fatalistically. “Sometimes people die in spite of all that we can do. The white man’s fate rests with Maheo.”
Winter Star nodded, but she looked so distressed Yellow Shield felt he had to offer her some ray of hope, however slim. Handing her a bag of herbs, he said, “Try these, child. Perhaps they will help. At best, they will ease the pain.”
“Na-e’ese, Namshim,” Winter Star said gratefully. Thank you, Grandfather.
She hurried back to the white man, the bag of herbs clutched to her breast.
The vehoe began to thrash about as she washed the area surrounding the wound, swore mightily as she swabbed the ragged gash with salted water.
“You must lie still,” Winter Star pleaded softly. “I cannot help you if you fight against me.”
Culhane grew quiet at the sound of her voice. Through a red haze of pain, he saw the Indian girl bending over him. Reaching out, he tried to push her hand away from his side, but he was weak, so weak. With ease, she removed his hand from hers. He cursed softly, angered by the pain she caused him. Why didn’t she just let him die in peace?
Winter Star chewed on her lower lip as she gently probed the bloody wound, searching for whatever prevented the wound from healing properly.
The white man groaned, his whole body convulsing with pain as her finger inched deeper into his mutilated flesh.
Winter Star uttered a triumphant cry as her questing finger brushed against something besides muscle and torn flesh. Seconds later, she pulled the object from the wound. It was a piece of wadded up blue cloth, no bigger than the tip of her thumb.
Tossing the scrap of bloodied cloth aside, Winter Star rinsed the wound with salted water; then, making a fresh poultice, she laid it over the wound and bound it with a strip of clean cloth.
With a heartfelt sigh of gratitude, she offered a silent prayer of thanksgiving to Maheo.
Chapter 3
Winter Star knelt beside the river, filling a waterskin, her thoughts, as always, drifting toward the white man. She wondered who he was, and where he had come from. And if he had a woman waiting for him somewhere.
She was about to return to her mother’s lodge when she heard Willow call her nam
e.
“Winter Star,” Willow called again. “Wait.”
Winter Star smiled as her friend ran up to her.
“I have not seen you for many days,” Willow said. “Tell me, what is the vehoe like? Does he smell bad? Is he built like our men? Does his skin feel the same?”
“Willow! What are you saying?”
The girl shrugged. “I have never seen a white man up close. My mother has forbidden me to go to your lodge while the vehoe is there. I just wondered if white men are, you know, different.”
“I do not know if the vehoe is different or not,” Winter Star retorted with a toss of her head. “I have no one to compare him to.”
“Surely you have seen a man without his breech clout,” Willow replied.
Winter Star grinned. “Just one. Your little brother, Black Beaver.”
Willow laughed. “Boys and men are all the same. One grows into the other.”
Winter Star giggled behind her hand.
“Why do your parents make you spend so much time looking after the white man?”
“They do not make me,” Winter Star answered with a shrug.
Willow’s eyes grew wide. “You stay with him because you want to?”
“Yes,” Winter Star said defiantly.
“Why?”
“I do not know.” Winter Star looked down, her fingers toying with the handle of the waterskin. “He needs me.”
Willow nodded, her expression thoughtful as she studied her friend. “He is going to die soon.”
“I know.”
“It is good to kill the soldier coats!” Willow remarked vehemently. “I wish I could kill him myself!”
Winter Star nodded. She could understand Willow’s hatred. Her friend’s father had been killed by the Long Knives last winter.
“You do not wish to see him dead, do you?” Willow accused. “You like this man, don’t you?”
Tales of Western Romance Page 8