“Culhane. Riley Culhane.”
“Cul-hane.” She said it slowly, liking the sound of it. “What does it mean?”
“I’m not sure it means anything.”
“Do you have a family somewhere?”
“No.”
“Will no one grieve for you when you are gone?”
Culhane gave a short laugh. “Grieve? No one’s even likely to miss me.”
“I will grieve for you, Riley Cul-hane.” Winter Star promised softly. “I will cut off my hair and slash my flesh to show my sorrow.”
“No!” he exclaimed, horrified by the picture her words conjured in his mind.
“It is the way of the People,” Winter Star explained. “Sometimes a woman cuts off a finger when her husband is killed. It is our way of showing grief at the loss of a loved one.”
“But I’m not a loved one,” Culhane argued, bemused by the tears glistening in her eyes. “I’m a stranger to you. The enemy.”
“You are not my enemy,” she replied. “And no one should die alone.”
“Winter Star...” He whispered her name, wanting to tell her how much he appreciated her concern, but he could not form the words. He cursed his bound hands, wishing he could take her in his arms and hold her tight, if only for a moment. He longed to bury his lips in the soft blackness of her hair, to kiss away her tears. What a rare creature she was, to feel sorry for him, a stranger doomed to die.
As though sensing his need to touch her, Winter Star placed her hand on his beard-roughened jaw. Her touch, so light and gentle, was oddly sensual. Her nearness and the tender caress of her hand kindled an aching sadness. If only he had met her at another time, in another place. If only his people were not at war with hers. If only he could take her in his arms and tell her how much he had come to care for her. He had never known any woman as sweet and desirable as the young Cheyenne woman sitting quietly beside him, her fingertips lightly stroking his cheek, her dark eyes filled with compassion.
Winter Star stayed with Culhane until first light. Then, as the sky slowly changed from indigo to pale gray, she took her blanket and walked swiftly back to her lodge lest someone discover she had spent the night falling in love with the white man.
“He is a brave man,” Winter Star remarked to her mother later that same morning. “Do you not think so?”
“Brave?” Eagle Woman mused, looking up from the moccasin she was mending. “What makes you say such a thing?”
“He has been our prisoner for many days now, but never has he shown any sign of fear at what awaits him. He does not plead for his freedom, or whimper for mercy. Do you not call that brave?”
“I suppose so,” Eagle Woman agreed, perplexed by her daughter’s extraordinary interest in the vehoe.
“It seems a shame to kill such a man,” Winter Star ventured slowly.
“The man is our enemy. Have you forgotten it was a white man who killed your older brother last winter, a white man who crippled your grandfather? Brave man or coward, the prisoner deserves to die.”
“But this man did not kill my brother, or wound Yellow Shield,” Winter Star argued softly. “Why should he be punished for something he did not do?”
“Winter Star, do not question the ways of the People,” Eagle Woman admonished in exasperation. “I know it is hard for you to accept what sometimes seems like cruelty, but the man will die tomorrow night. It is the will of the People, and you cannot change it.”
“My mother,” Winter Star said hesitantly. “Would you not save him for me?”
Eagle Woman dropped the moccasin she was mending and stared at her daughter in open-mouthed astonishment. “Save him!” she exclaimed, aghast. “You cannot be serious.”
“Please do not let him die.”
“Do you know what you are asking?”
“Yes.”
Eagle Woman shook her head slowly as she contemplated her daughter’s forlorn face. As a child, Winter Star had tried to save every hurt or wounded creature she found. She had mended broken wings, treated injuries on rabbits and squirrels, painstakingly raised a litter of puppies when the mother dog died, set a fawn’s broken leg. She had cried when horses had to be destroyed because they were sick or lame, or had to be killed because the tribe was hungry. She had wept bitter tears when a tiny bear cub she found caught in a trap died. But this, it was too much. The vehoe was not a wounded animal, but the enemy.
Still, Eagle Woman found it hard to ignore the silent plea in her daughter’s brilliant black eyes. “I will think on it,” she promised reluctantly. “Now, run along and do not bother me with it again.”
“Thank you, my mother!” Winter Star exclaimed happily, and after giving her mother an exuberant hug, she ran out of the lodge, too excited to stay inside.
* * * * *
Culhane sat alone in the bright sunlight, basking in the touch of the sun on his face. His gaze wandered to the distant mountains, and he noticed how the craggy peaks changed color as the sun climbed in the sky. He watched the Cheyenne children playing near their lodges and felt a twinge of regret that he had never married, would never have children of his own. He thought of the women he had known. Most had been women of easy virtue, saloon girls and the like. But there had been others who would have made him a suitable wife. One woman had even proposed to him. She had been pretty and wealthy, but he had not been attracted to her. He had never found a woman to love, one he wanted to share his life with. Now, looking back, his life seemed empty, meaningless.
A great heaviness settled over Culhane as the sun began to drop behind the mountains. Tomorrow would be his last day on earth. He wondered what the actual moment of death would be like. Would there simply be an end of pain, an end of awareness, or was there really another life beyond this one? And if there was, would he find himself in heaven or hell? He knew the Cheyenne believed the spirits of the dead traveled the Hanging Road to heaven where everyone lived happily ever after. There were no rewards or punishments for the Cheyenne, and all who died were equal. Only those who killed themselves were denied the good life in the hereafter.
Culhane grunted softly. He had learned about the Cheyenne afterlife from an ancient squaw who had lived near the fort. She claimed that once she had been very sick and she had died and gone to Seyan, the Place of the Dead. She did not quite reach the camp of her people, she said, but she came within a short distance. She said the lodges were white and handsomely painted. There were people walking about and racks filled with drying meat. All those she had known who had died were there. She claimed to have seen men hunting spirit buffalo and other game. It had been a beautiful place, with green grass and clear blue rivers and streams, and everyone had been happy. But when she got closer, her mother met her and told her she was too early and must go back. She had been sorry to leave, the old woman had said, because it had been so beautiful and peaceful.
Soon, Culhane mused, soon the mystery would be over. He would know the answer to the question which had haunted mankind since the dawn of time.
He watched the women of the tribe as they did their chores and tended their children. They appeared to be much like women everywhere, concerned for their young ones, always busy, sewing and mending, cooking and tanning hides. He heard them laugh, heard them argue with their husbands. For the most part, they were a handsome group of women, tall and slender. They did not seem like savages, yet tomorrow night they would take knives and sharp sticks and carve his flesh until he died of the wounds they inflicted on him. It would not be a pleasant way to die, and he wondered if he would die well, or if, instead, he would scream and beg for mercy.
His mind filled with morbid thoughts and grotesque images, and he closed his eyes, trying to shut them out.
Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof. He grunted softly as a scripture learned in a faraway Sunday School class flitted through his mind.
“Culhane. Culhane!”
He came awake to find Winter Star kneeling beside him.
“I have brough
t you something to eat,” she said.
“Thanks.”
“Do you wish to eat?”
“Why not?” he retorted sarcastically. “No sense dying on an empty stomach.”
Winter Star did not reply as she offered him a slice of succulent tenderloin.
The meat was good, moist and juicy, but to Culhane it tasted like ashes. Nevertheless, he ate everything she had prepared for him, washing it down with a cup of black tea. She had been kind to him, and he did not wish to hurt her feelings.
Winter Star did not hurry away on this, his last night. Sitting beside him, she placed her hand on his shoulder and smiled into his eyes, willing him to smile back.
“I’m obliged to you for taking care of me,” Culhane said.
“Obliged?”
“Grateful,” he explained, and even as he said the word, a little voice in the back of his mind told him all his troubles would have been over by now if she had been a less capable nurse. “I... I appreciate your concern.” He uttered a short, self-conscious laugh. “I’m not much good at this kind of thing, but what I’m trying to say is thanks for everything. You’ve made my time here easier to bear.”
“I would free you if I could.”
“I know. Don’t grieve for me when I’m gone. I can’t abide the thought of you cutting off your hair or slashing your flesh. Promise me.”
“If it is your wish.”
“It is.”
They sat together as the campfires died out and the Indians turned in for the night. Feeling drowsy, Winter Star leaned against Culhane, resting her head on his broad shoulder. Feeling his lips move in her hair, she raised her head, her eyes meeting his in a long, lingering glance more eloquent than words.
For stretched seconds, they caressed each other with their eyes; then, slowly, Culhane leaned forward, his mouth claiming hers in a kiss filled with promises that could never be kept.
A delicious warmth crept through Winter Star as his mouth pressed against her own. A thousand fireflies seemed to be trapped inside her stomach, their wings fluttering wildly, and she curled her toes in delight as his kiss deepened.
Culhane groaned softly as heat surged through his veins. Winter Star’s mouth was soft and yielding, sweeter than any nectar.
A moment stretched into eternity before they drew apart. Stunned by the magic between them, they gazed at each other in wonder. Then, eyes shining, Winter Star touched her lips to his, her arms twining around his neck. Closing her eyes, she ignored the storm of emotions raging within her heart as she moved closer to Culhane, wanting to feel his body next to her own.
Somehow, they were lying side by side on the ground, their bodies straining together, their lips fused in a kiss that joined heart to heart and soul to soul.
Winter Star knew she should be ashamed of her brazen behavior, but she could not resist the urging of her body, or her heart. Never before had she felt so alive, so vibrant. Never before had she desired a man, or craved his touch. She longed to free Culhane’s hands, to feel his fingers moving in her hair, but she dared not.
In a brief moment of sanity, she knew she should return to her father’s lodge before it was too late. She would be ostracized by her people if she were caught with her arms around a man who was the enemy. Perhaps she would be banished, but she could not bring herself to leave him. Tomorrow night they would kill him. This night, these few precious moments, were all they would ever have.
Culhane murmured soft words of love in her ear, his voice husky, deep with passion. Her upper body lay over his, and she felt her senses come alive as he kissed her eyes and nose, the curve of her cheek, the sensitive hollow behind her ear.
Culhane cursed his bound hands as Winter Star moaned softly, her arms tight around his neck. She wanted him, wanted him as much as he wanted her. The knowledge sparked an idea in the back of his mind, one he was hesitant to pursue in light of her kindness to him, and yet, if he could convince her to free his hands, there was a slim chance he might be able to escape.
He swore softly as he felt her tears on his cheek. “Star...”
She sat up, her dark eyes filled with anguish, and then she reached behind him, her fingers fumbling with the knots. They could banish her, they could kill her in his place, but she could not let him die.
Culhane felt a surge of exhilaration as he realized she was going to untie him, and then he froze.
“He’kotoo’estse,” he whispered urgently. “Be quiet. Someone’s coming.”
Winter Star froze, eyes wide with fear. Her courage, so strong a moment ago, deserted her in the face of reality. With a muffled cry, she scrambled to her feet and ran for the cover of the trees. Then, on silent feet, she made her way back to her father’s lodge.
Safe inside, with her sleeping robes drawn up to her chin, she stared into the darkness, her throat thick with unshed tears. Tomorrow night he would be dead. Never again would she feel the touch of his lips on hers, or hear him whisper her name, his voice filled with longing.
Never again.
Chapter 6
Culhane woke sluggishly the following morning. For a moment he lay huddled on the ground, staring blankly at the sky and then, abruptly, he remembered. This was to be his last day and his senses were suddenly sharp and alert.
Rising to his feet, he relieved himself, and then he began to pace back and forth, his whole body tense, like that of a wolf caught in a trap.
Today, the people did not ignore him. The women eyed him speculatively as they passed by, and he could see them wondering how he would react to the thousand cuts to be inflicted on him that night. Would he scream like a frightened child, or wail for help like a woman deep in the throes of childbirth? Would he grovel and plead and weep for mercy? Or would be die well?
Winter Star did not bring him breakfast on this, his last morning. Instead, an old woman with iron-gray hair and skin like wrinkled paper squatted before him and spooned a sticky concoction into his mouth. When he tried to ask about Winter Star’s whereabouts, the old woman shrugged and walked away.
It was both the longest and the shortest day of his life. Sitting on his heels, his eyes focused on the distant mountains, he reflected on his past. Other than acquiring an unwanted reputation as a fast gun, he had accomplished very little in his twenty-seven years. He had been constantly in and out of trouble with the law until a wise old judge “persuaded” him to enlist in the Army. Doing a stint as a dogface seemed preferable to doing time in prison, although in the beginning, he hadn’t been so sure. He resented taking orders, resented the monotony of drilling. The petty squabbles between the men seemed childish, the snobbery of the brass hard to swallow. He was promoted to sergeant three times, and busted back to private three times.
Only after his transfer to Fort Lincoln in Dakota Territory, had he finally settled down. He loved the West, loved the vast empty spaces, the towering mountains, the endless prairie. It was a wild and beautiful land, unkind to those who were not prepared to accept its harsh lessons.
Life on a western post was far different from military life in the east. There was more tension among the men when they rode out on patrol due to the ever-present threat of Indian attack, yet there was great camaraderie, too, a sense of belonging, of being united against a common enemy. Rules were less strictly enforced, but they were carried out with a vengeance when necessary.
Out West, there was less time for tedious drills on the parade ground. On the frontier, it was more important to have a well-oiled gun and a well-trained horse than to have well-ironed creases and clean white gloves. Of course, a soldier’s life wasn’t all hardship and danger. They were allowed time to hunt and fish, since antelope, deer, elk, and buffalo provided a welcome change in a diet that consisted mainly of beef and pork.
There was a lot of work on a frontier post. Fortunately, or unfortunately, depending on which side of the shovel you were on, most of the tedious jobs were assigned as punishment. However, he’d done his share when necessary. Riley learned to make adobe
bricks, roof a building, plant and irrigate a garden, and build walls. He had cleaned stables, whitewashed the officer’s quarters, cut wood, and stood extra guard duty.
He soaked up knowledge like a sponge. He had learned the sign language of the Plains Indians and picked up some of their lingo along the way, learning a smattering of Sioux and Cheyenne. Awed by the wild beauty of the land, he was fascinated by the Indians, the buffalo.
After distinguishing himself in several battles against the Sioux and the Cheyenne, he had been promoted to Sergeant, for the fourth time. He was proud of his rank this time. He had earned those stripes, and he meant to keep them...
A child’s laughter shattered his reverie, bringing him back to the present. Glancing at the sun, he saw that the day was already half gone.
* * * * *
Winter Star helped her mother prepare the morning meal then took the sleeping robes outside to air. That done she went for fresh water, gathered an armful of wood, then weeded a portion of the garden.
She worked hard, trying to keep Culhane’s image from her mind, trying to forget the touch of his mouth on hers, the sound of his voice in her ear. Trying to forget this was his last day.
She knew she was being a coward by refusing to see him. She was the only friend he had, but she could not face him. She could not be near him and not touch him. She could not look into his eyes knowing her people were going to kill him.
At mid-day, she went to the river to bathe. The water was cold against her skin and she swam briskly, wishing she had never met Culhane, wishing she could put him out of her mind, out of her heart. But she could not forget. Her mind kept replaying scenes of their time together. She had only known him for a few weeks, yet it seemed she had known him all her life. Leaving the river, she stood in the sunlight to dry off, then slipped on her tunic and moccasins and made her way to a place where she could observe Culhane without being seen.
He paced back and forth, his skin lightly sheened with perspiration. Was he afraid? How would be react when the women began to peel the skin from his arms and legs and chest? How would he withstand the pain when they began to cut off his fingers and toes? They would gouge out his eyes and cut out his tongue, exacting blood for blood, a life for many lives. How would he stand it? How would she?
Tales of Western Romance Page 10