Several women paused to stare at him, reviling him for being a killer of women and children. She could not imagine Culhane killing women and children. He was a good man, a kind man. She stared at Blue Dawn and Deer Girl and the others. She had known them all her life. They were good women, loving wives and mothers. But they would not hesitate to draw Culhane’s blood. There wasn’t a woman in the tribe who hadn’t lost a loved one to the white eyes. They would delight in the chance to avenge their loved ones.
Winter Star groaned softly. How could she stay here after he was gone? How could she continue to live with the people who killed him?
Tormented by her thoughts, she watched Culhane until the sun began to sink behind the mountains. She memorized every detail of his face, every line and angle. She noted the way his hair curled lovingly at the nape of his neck, the strength in his arms, the powerful muscles in his shoulders and thighs.
The village hummed with excitement as the sky grew dark. Warriors pulled on their finest clouts and leggings, painting their faces and chests, adorning their hair with feathers. The women donned their best dresses, taking pains with their hair, adorning themselves with beads and shells. The children ran merrily through the camp, laughing with the exuberant innocence of youth.
Culhane felt his gut tighten with apprehension as the setting sun turned the sky to flame and stained the clouds with touches of crimson. Like blood, he mused bleakly.
He swallowed hard as the people began to emerge from their lodges. A great fire was built in the center of the camp and a festive air prevailed as the final preparations were made.
* * * * *
Winter Star dressed with care that night. She had told Culhane she would not be there to watch him die, but she could not stay away. She had to be near him for as long as possible. She wished now she had gone to him this morning and told him she loved him, that she would never forget him. But there was no time now.
She smoothed her tunic over her hips. It was a lovely garment, soft to the touch. Long fringe dangled from the sleeves. She brushed her hair until it was smooth and shiny. Then, with a last heartfelt look in her mother’s direction, she went out to join the other unmarried women.
The air filled with the aroma of roasting meat. All day, the women cooked venison and buffalo and wild turkey. There were baskets of wild plums and berries and a variety of vegetables. Children and dogs ran through the camp; the young warriors strutted around in their finery, showing off for the maidens, while the old men talked of battles long past, of the good days before the white man invaded the land.
Winter Star tried to laugh and smile with the other maidens, but her heart felt heavy in her breast. She could see Culhane in the distance. He stood beside the post, his head high, as he watched the activity around him. Occasionally, a handful of young boys would approach him, whooping and dancing in a fair imitation of the Cheyenne scalp dance.
At last, everyone had eaten his fill and the dancing began. There were dances of thanksgiving to honor Heammawihio for a bountiful year, dances to celebrate the coming of summer, friendship dances, and dances where the warriors mimed how they had counted coup in battle.
Culhane’s nerves grew taut as a bowstring while the minutes passed. Sweat beaded across his brow and he clenched his bound hands into tight fists. Damn, why don’t they get it over with?
Gradually, the dancing changed in tempo, the drumming becoming strangely ominous, and he knew his time was running out.
He had never been a praying man, but now he raised his eyes toward heaven, noting the vast inky blackness of the sky, the twinkling path of the Milky Way, the silver sliver of the moon. There was no point in praying for mercy or rescue, he thought bleakly. No point in hoping for a miracle now, and so he prayed for the strength to endure, to show them a white man could die as bravely as a Cheyenne.
A sudden stillness settled over the Indians as a tall, gray-haired warrior began to speak.
“When the white man first came, we welcomed him. We gave him food and shelter and friendship. We taught him how to survive in our land. And how did the vehoe repay our kindness? With treachery!”
A murmur of assent rippled through the crowd, and then the drums began to beat again, sounding heavy and sad. Like a death knell, as every woman who had ever lost a loved one to the white man’s treachery walked purposefully toward Culhane.
Instinctively, he backed away, until he came up against the post. For stretched seconds, he faced the women, feeling their hatred radiating toward him like heat from a stove. Then, according to tradition, the oldest woman in the tribe approached Culhane. Her gnarled fingers were curled around the handle of a long-bladed skinning knife, and her rheumy old eyes gleamed with satisfaction as she raked the point of the blade across Culhane’s chest, drawing first blood.
Culhane sucked in his breath as the knife sliced into his flesh. A second woman cut his left forearm, just below the elbow, a third gashed his right thigh. Some cursed him, some spat in his face, but they all glared at him through eyes dark with hatred and contempt as they eagerly shed his blood.
He began to shiver spasmodically as his nerves began to wear thin. He had never experienced such hatred and it was more frightening than the pain or the specter of death. The women he had known had been kind, tender-hearted, givers of life and comfort. Even most of the whores he had known had been soft-hearted if you took the time and trouble to look deep enough. But there was no softness in these women, not now. They smiled with delight as they carved his flesh. Some laughed. Even the youngest ones seemed to take great pleasure in causing him pain. It was a frightening thing, to be the target of such unforgiving hatred, to know he was being punished for crimes he had not committed. And yet, he was not totally innocent. He had killed Indians in battle...
Winter Star flinched as another knife cut into Culhane’s flesh. How long could he endure such torture before his courage broke? She looked at the faces of her friends and felt a deep sadness. She knew they had all lost loved ones in battle. She, herself, had lost a brother and a cousin in the endless war with the white man. But killing Culhane would not bring back the Cheyenne dead, and she could not understand how the women found comfort in causing pain. It grieved her because she did not understand, because she was different.
Culhane’s body was sheened with sweat and blood. Thus far, the cuts had all been shallow and of no consequence, and though they were painful as hell, he had suffered worse in battle. There was a sudden change in the mood of the crowd and he knew the women were through playing with him.
He drew in a deep breath as a tall woman advanced toward him, a finely honed hunting knife in her hand. She wore a long doeskin tunic. A single eagle feather adorned her long black hair and he knew he was looking at a woman who was also a warrior, a woman who had killed at least one man in battle.
From the corner of his eye, Culhane saw Winter Star standing near the edge of the crowd, her expression filled with pity and compassion. He focused his attention on her lovely face as the warrior woman drove her blade into his right thigh.
A shout went up as the warrior woman withdrew her knife and raised it high above her head, a cry of victory on her lips.
The blood running down Culhane’s thigh felt hot against skin gone suddenly cold, and he shivered convulsively. He was afraid, and he didn’t like it. He stared at the blood running down his leg and felt his stomach churn. He felt the vomit rise in his throat and he choked it back, more afraid of disgracing himself than he was of dying.
But he could not choke back the primal, gut-wrenching fear as two other women stepped forward, one slashing his left arm, the other his right. He felt the strength leaving his legs as blood poured from his wounds. Teeth clenched, jaw rigid with anger and defiance, he glared at his attackers, choking back the sob welling in his throat.
And now the crowd was with him. They cheered his bravery as a young girl darted forward and cut his cheek, applauded as a middle-aged woman drove her knee into his groin. The warriors nodd
ed their approval. Perhaps, at last, they had found a white man who knew how to die well.
Winter Star sent another long pleading glance at her mother, felt her heart pound with hope as Eagle Woman exchanged a few words with Elk Hunter. Then, head high, she took a place in front of Culhane and held up her hand.
“I admire this vehoe’s courage,” she said for all to hear. “From this night forward, he shall be my slave.”
Removing the knife from her belt, she walked toward the prisoner.
Culhane steeled himself for her attack, wondering how much more he could stand before his waning courage dissolved completely and he began to plead for mercy. His whole body throbbed with pain. His mouth was as dry as the desert in mid-summer.
His muscles grew taut as the woman raised her knife, but instead of striking his flesh, she cut the rope that bound him to the post.
Catching up the end of his tether, Eagle Woman gave a tug on the rope. Confused, Culhane followed the woman to her lodge. Each step sent splinters of pain jolting through him.
With a curt gesture, the woman indicated he should sit down near the entrance to the lodge and he did so gratefully, wondering why she had cut him free, wishing he had paid more attention to what she said to the crowd.
Minutes later, Winter Star appeared, followed by the same tall warrior who had originally captured him.
The warrior paused before Culhane. “Vehoe,” Elk Hunter said in stilted English. “Your life has been spared. From now on, you will do whatever my wife desires of you. If you try to escape, you will meet the fate that should have been yours this night.”
Without waiting for a reply, the warrior entered the lodge.
Culhane turned to Winter Star, a puzzled expression on his face.
“My mother has chosen you to be her slave,” Winter Star explained happily.
“Slave!” Culhane spat the word out as if it tasted bad.
“Yes. Stay here.”
Smiling, Winter Star ran into the lodge and threw her arms around her mother’s neck. “Thank you,” she said fervently.
Elk Hunter turned a sharp eye on his daughter. “Was this your idea?” he demanded.
“Yes, my father.”
“Why did you wish to spare the life of the white man?”
“I... I did not want to see such a brave man die such a horrible death.”
Elk Hunter frowned. His daughter’s words rang true, yet he sensed she was not telling him everything.
With an effort, Winter Star met her father’s probing gaze. He must never suspect her real motives for saving Culhane’s life. Elk Hunter hated all white men. He would not be pleased to know his only daughter had fallen in love with one.
“I will go now and tend his wounds,” Winter Star said, hoping her voice did not betray her eagerness to see Culhane.
“Very well,” Elk Hunter agreed, his expression thoughtful.
Gathering water and clean cloths, Winter Star hurried to Culhane. She treated the deep cut in his right thigh first, felt him flinch each time she touched him. The other cuts were mostly superficial. She washed them carefully, applied healing herbs, then bound the wounds with strips of cloth to keep them clean. Hopefully, most of them would leave no scars.
“What now?” Culhane asked as she washed his blood from her hands.
“You must do whatever you are told without question. If you refuse, you will be whipped. If you try to run away, you will be caught and the women will finish what they started tonight.”
“Great.”
“You are alive, Culhane. Can you not be thankful for that?”
“I suppose so.”
Winter Star gazed deep into his eyes. “Do not think it will be easy to escape,” she warned. “My people will watch you very carefully. There are sentries in the hills. No prisoner has ever escaped.”
Culhane nodded. “I understand. Thanks for the warning.”
Winter Star stood up as her mother stepped out of the lodge. Drawing her knife, Eagle Woman cut the rawhide thong binding Culhane’s wrists. That done, she tossed a pair of buckskin leggings into his lap.
“Cover yourself,” she said curtly.
“Yes, ma’am,” Culhane replied.
Winter Star turned her back as Culhane pulled on the leggings. They were a near-perfect fit, soft and comfortable. Rising, he flexed his arms and shoulders. His wrists, tightly bound for over two weeks, were chafed and sore, but he didn’t care, so good was it to have his hands free again.
“You will sleep here,” Winter Star said. “I will bring you a blanket.”
“Thanks. Why are you looking at me like that?”
“I am afraid you will not make a good slave,” she answered sadly. “I think you will resent taking orders from my mother. I think you will earn many whippings.”
Culhane shrugged. She was dead right, he thought ruefully. He wouldn’t like taking orders. But then, he never had.
“What else?” he asked.
“I think you will try to escape,” Winter Star remarked. “Do not try it, Culhane. Please do not try to run away.”
“Would it matter very much to you if I were killed?”
“Very much.”
“Stop worrying, Star. I promise you I won’t run away.”
“I will get a blanket for you,” she said, and hurried away lest he see the tears shining in her eyes.
Chapter 7
Winter Star had been right. Culhane did not take well to being a slave. Not only was he expected to do whatever Winter Star’s parents told him to do, but he was expected to do everyone else’s bidding, as well. Some days he was on the go from dawn until dark, fetching wood, carrying water, picking fruit and berries, digging for roots, running errands, pulling weeds. As a slave, he was scorned and ridiculed by men and women alike, belittled, and mocked at every turn. Few of the Indians spoke more than a smattering of English, but he had no trouble understanding the Cheyenne words of derision hurled at him.
More than once, he felt the sting of the lash across his back; once, when he refused to wash an old woman’s cooking pot, she broke a tree branch over his shoulders. The welt it raised lasted for days.
First thing each morning, he drew water and collected the day’s firewood for Winter Star’s mother. When that was done, Eagle Woman sent him to do the same for Yellow Shield.
As the days passed, Culhane developed a genuine affection for the old man. Yellow Shield patiently taught Culhane the Cheyenne language, helped him to understand the Indian way of thinking. During the first few days when his wounds were still healing, he spent many hours in the old man’s lodge listening to the stories and legends of the Cheyenne people, including the story of Sweet Medicine, their greatest prophet.
As Culhane listened to how the Indian people had been deceived and cheated by the white man, he began to understand their hatred for the settlers crowding westward.
“We know our days are numbered,” Yellow Shield remarked during one such conversation. “Sweet Medicine foresaw the decline of our people in visions, but we will not surrender without a fight.”
Culhane was thoughtful when he left the old man’s lodge that afternoon. More and more, he learned to respect the Cheyenne. They were not inhuman savages, as he had been led to believe, but a race of people who lived in harmony with the land, never taking more than they needed. They did not hunt for sport or trophies, but to provide their families with food and shelter and clothing. They did not kill the buffalo and take only the hide and the tongue, as the white hunters did. The Indians used every part of the shaggy beast. The hides provided the people with clothing and lodge covers, and shrouded their bodies in death. The horns were used for spoons, the hair was used for thread, the hooves were made into glue, the paunch could be used for a cook pot. Nothing went to waste, not even the tail, which made an excellent fly whisk.
The Cheyenne laughed and cried and mourned their lost loved ones. They swam and danced, played games, and had a passion for gambling that rivaled any he had ever seen
. They fell in love, married, and had children; adorable children with straight black hair and dark inquisitive eyes. Boys who grew to be brave warriors. Girls who grew into lovely young women. Women like Winter Star...
She was the only bright spot in his captivity. No matter that his life was no longer his own, no matter that he lived outside, no better than one of the camp dogs, no matter that he was held in bitter contempt by the rest of the tribe. When he was with Winter Star, he felt light-hearted and free.
They met as often as possible in the woods, away from the prying eyes of the tribe. At first, they only kissed, their lips tasting, touching, exploring. Winter Star lived for the moments when she could be with Culhane. The hours they were apart seemed like years; the few moments they shared were never enough.
Culhane, too, cherished the time they spent together. He was touched by her honest concern for his welfare, awed by her extraordinary beauty, captivated by her guileless charm. She was everything he had ever hoped to find in a woman and he thought Fate must be having a good laugh at his expense. He had turned his back on women with social position and wealth only to fall in love with a woman he could never truly call his own.
It was on a day in late July when Culhane learned another lesson about the Cheyenne. He had met Winter Star at their usual place. As always, she had run to him, her arms twining around his neck as he caught her close, his mouth covering hers in a long kiss filled with yearning. His hands slid over her back, then moved to draw her hips against his. Bending, he let his hands slide down her thighs, and then he paused.
“What’s that?” he asked as he explored the odd bulge beneath her skirt.
He felt her stiffen in his arms.”The rope.”
Tales of Western Romance Page 11