“The rope?”
“All maidens wear it.”
“What’s it for?”
“Protection. All girls wear the rope when they reach the age of womanhood. Women wear it, too, when they leave the village.”
“What’s it supposed to protect you from?”
“You.”
“White men?”
“All men. No man dares violate the protection of the rope.”
“Sort of an Indian chastity belt,” Culhane muttered. “I guess the punishment for violating a virgin is pretty severe.”
Winter Star nodded solemnly. “But there would be no punishment if we were married.”
“Be serious. Your father isn’t going to let you marry a slave.”
“Perhaps you will not always be a slave.”
Her words quickly sparked Culhane’s interest. “What do you mean?”
“Long ago, a white man was captured by our people. He, too, was made a slave. But, in time, he proved to be a brave man and he was adopted into the tribe and became a warrior. He married one of our women and had many sons.”
“What happened to him? Is he still here?”
“No. He was killed by the Crow.”
* * * * *
Later that night, Culhane pondered Winter Star’s words. If he could get adopted into the tribe, he might yet gain his freedom. It was a heady thought, and for the first time since his capture, he felt a slim ray of hope.
He began to change his attitude the very next day. He quickly did whatever he was told to do and applied himself to learning the Cheyenne tongue. Begging an old bow and some arrows from Yellow Shield, he spent an hour or so each afternoon trying to master the intricacies of the bow. At first, his attempts were comical, but after a few weeks, he managed to hit the target more often than not.
He asked Elk Hunter if he could look after his horses, and when the warrior reluctantly gave his permission, Culhane threw himself into the task. Soon, Elk Hunter’s horses were the talk of the village. In a gesture of gratitude, Elk Hunter gave Culhane an old buckskin mare. Culhane was pleased with the gift and set about learning to ride as the Cheyenne did. It was not easy, guiding a horse with the pressure of his knees, or hanging over the side while the horse ran at a gallop across the plains. Culhane, always a good horseman, soon mastered the art of riding Cheyenne style.
He showed the proper respect to the elders of the tribe, played with the children, was courteous to the women.
He never complained about the work he was required to do, nor did he ask for any favors. As the days passed, he found himself thinking less often of escape. The longer he lived among the Cheyenne, the more he came to like and respect them. And always, there was Winter Star. What good would life be without her?
But Culhane was not the only man in her life. Young Hawk continued to court Winter Star. Nights, he played his flute outside her lodge, the notes clear and sweet, telling her of his love. Mornings, when she went to the river for water, he often waited along the path, hoping to catch her alone. He came often to her lodge, still under the pretense of visiting Elk Hunter.
About this same time Swift Antelope also began to court Winter Star, for she was of an age to be married and a lovely young maiden. He passed her lodge often, hoping to catch a glimpse of her. Nights, he prowled nearby, hoping she would come outside with her courting blanket over her arm. Inevitably, Young Hawk would also be there, waiting and hoping to see her alone.
But Winter Star had eyes only for Culhane. With each passing day, she loved him more. He had a ready smile, a quick wit. Constant exposure to the harsh Dakota sun turned his whole body a deep golden brown, and she considered him the most handsome man in the whole Cheyenne nation. Most of all, she loved the way his storm-gray eyes caressed her, making her feel warm and weak as a newborn child.
If only he were not a slave. If only he could court her. How wonderful to stand within her courting blanket, its heavy folds covering their heads, shutting out the rest of the world.
With both Young Hawk and Swift Antelope courting her, it grew harder and harder to steal a few moments alone with Culhane, making the time they spent together all the more precious.
It was August, the Month of Ripe Plums, when Young Hawk brought six ponies to Elk Hunter’s lodge.
“I have looked on your daughter with favor,” the young warrior declared. “I would have her for my wife.”
Winter Star’s heart went cold at Young Hawk’s proposal. Turning troubled eyes toward her father, she shook her head, silently beseeching her father to refuse Young Hawk’s offer.
“You are a brave warrior, honored and respected among our people,” Elk Hunter said. “Our lodge would be proud to acknowledge you as a son, but my daughter is not yet ready for marriage.”
“She is old enough,” Young Hawk argued. “I will give you eight horses for her, and the skin of a mountain lion.”
“That is more than generous,” Elk Hunter allowed, “but Winter Star is my only daughter, and she has expressed no desire to marry.”
With as much good grace as he could muster, Young Hawk left the lodge, aware of the sympathetic smiles and good-natured teasing that followed him through the camp. It was not unusual for a suitor to be turned down, but it was humiliating just the same.
“Thank you, neyho,” Winter Star said earnestly.
“Young Hawk is right, my daughter. You are of an age to be married. Do none of our young men appeal to you?”
“No, my father.”
“Look again,” Elk Hunter chided with a smile. “I would like to have grandchildren before I am too old to lift them.”
* * * * *
The tribe sweltered under the blazing August sun. Little work was done during the heat of the day. The warriors sat in the shade, gambling or repairing their weapons, while the women gathered at the river with the children, playing and splashing in the cool water.
Only the ancient ones basked in the sun, letting the warmth ease the aches in their joints.
It was on a day in late August that Culhane changed forever his status with the tribe.
He was sitting in the shade of Elk Hunter’s lodge, alone, when a sudden scream rent the sultry afternoon.
Springing to his feet, he ran toward the sound, swore under his breath as he rounded the corner of the lodge. The tipi next to Winter Star’s was on fire and from within he heard a shrill cry. Without thinking, he took a deep breath and darted through the smoke-filled doorway.
Inside, a small boy was huddled against the rear of the lodge, sobbing hysterically. A quick look around told the story. The boy, waking from his nap, had been playing near the fire pit when he upset a pot of bear grease. The grease had trickled into the pit, igniting the baked coals. The fire quickly lapped up the grease, then spread to the reed mats covering the dirt floor.
Eyes and lungs burning, Culhane scooped up the sobbing child, tucked him under one arm, and ran out of the lodge, gasping for air.
The boy’s mother came running up seconds later. Spying Culhane with her son, she let out a shriek and grabbed the boy to her ample breast, crying and scolding him at the same time.
The quick action of some of the warriors soon had the fire extinguished, though the lodge and its contents were destroyed.
Later that afternoon, the boy’s mother sought Culhane. “I have come to thank you for saving my son’s life,” she said, speaking slowly so he could understand her words. “My husband has many horses. It is our wish that you look them over and take those that please you.”
Culhane nodded. He recognized her now. She was the warrior woman who had plunged her knife into his thigh with such enthusiasm.
“I am sure the decision will be difficult,” he replied. “You are most generous.”
“We will be forever in your debt,” the warrior woman said.
Culhane smiled as he watched the woman walk away. How hard it must have been for her to thank him, he mused, for it had been her knife that had cut the deepest and caused the most pain.
>
Culhane’s place within the tribe changed after that. The people no longer looked at him as if he were less than human, nor did they belittle him. The women smiled at him warmly now, for he had saved the life of a child, and children were greatly prized among the Cheyenne. The warriors no longer ignored him, for he had proved his heart was good toward the People.
But the biggest surprise came from Yellow Shield who, after discussing the matter with Elk Hunter, declared he wished to adopt Culhane as his son.
Winter Star was ecstatic. As the adopted son of Yellow Shield, Culhane would no longer be a slave. He would be one of the People, free to court her openly.
So it was that on a day in late summer, Riley Culhane became a member of the Cheyenne tribe. The ceremony was simple and beautiful. Yellow Shield stood before the people and declared that the white man known as Culhane would now be known as Braves the Fire, son of Yellow Shield. Taking a knife, the old warrior slashed Culhane’s palm and then his own. Then, their two hands pressed tightly together, they became one blood.
That night, after hours of feasting and dancing, Culhane moved into Yellow Shield’s lodge.
Two days later, Eagle Woman presented Culhane with a new set of clothes. He accepted them graciously, complimenting her skill as a seamstress. The buckskin shirt was soft, fringed at the sleeves and along the back. The leggings, of heavier buckskin, were fringed along the outer seam. There was also a pair of exquisitely wrought moccasins.
Clothed in his new apparel, his skin now as dark as any Cheyenne’s, his brown hair near shoulder length, Culhane looked more Indian than white.
That evening, he intercepted Winter Star as she made her way to the river to bathe.
“Well, what do you think?” he asked.
“You are very handsome,” she replied. “Already, the other maidens are casting their eyes in your direction.”
“I want no other woman,” Culhane said huskily. “Only you.”
Pulling her into the cover of the woods, he took her in his arms and kissed her deeply. She surrendered readily to his touch, her body pressing against his, her arms wrapping around his waist to hold him close.
“You’re a lusty wench,” Culhane murmured.
“You turn my blood to fire,” Winter Star answered boldly.
“Shall I quench that fire?”
“You will never quench it,” Winter Star replied tremulously, “though you may lower the flame.”
“If I brought ponies to your father, would he turn me away?”
“I do not know.” She smiled up at him, her eyes bright. “How many ponies do you think I am worth?”
“More than the six Young Hawk offered. I have ten fine horses. I will offer them to your father tonight.”
* * * * *
Elk Hunter’s copper-hued face remained impassive as he listened to the white man ask for Winter Star’s hand in marriage, but inwardly he was far from calm. Though he had developed a certain degree of respect for the vehoe, he could not forget that it had been a white man who killed his son, a white man who crippled his father. White men could not be trusted. They had proved it at Sand Creek when they attacked a peaceful village flying the flag of the white eyes, and a flag of truce. They made promises they did not keep.
And yet, Elk Hunter had only to look at Winter Star to know his daughter was deeply in love with Culhane. There was music in her voice when she spoke to him, a softness in her eyes, a gentle warmth in her face. As much as he loved his daughter, that was how much he hated all white men.
“I will take good care of her,” Culhane vowed. “I will do all that is expected of a Cheyenne husband.”
“You are not a warrior,” Elk Hunter said, unable to completely mask the contempt in his voice.
“Then I will become one.”
Elk Hunter studied Culhane for the space of several moments. Then, eyes burning into Culhane’s, he said, “Tell me, white man, if we are attacked by the soldier coats, where will your loyalty lie? Will you defend our people, or will you turn on us and seek to return to your own kind?”
Culhane shook his head slowly. “I don’t know,” he answered truthfully. “But one thing I do know, I would defend Winter Star’s life with my own, if necessary. I would not hesitate to kill anyone, red or white, who attempted to do her harm.”
“I believe you. Now hear my words. We will not speak of marriage now. We will wait one year. If you have proven yourself to be a warrior in that time, and if you still want my daughter for your wife, and she wants you, then we shall speak of it again.”
“A year!” Culhane exclaimed.
A year! Winter Star thought in dismay.
“A year,” Elk Hunter repeated. “You have not been with us long. You still have much to learn of our ways. If you truly love my daughter, a year will not be too long to wait.”
“Very well,” Culhane agreed. “One year, but not a minute more.”
Chapter 8
Winter Star sat beside the river, idly tossing pebbles into the current as she waited for Culhane to find her.
She looked up expectantly at the sound of footsteps, felt a keen sense of disappointment when she saw that it wasn’t Culhane but Young Hawk.
“May I join you?” he asked politely.
Winter Star shrugged. “If you wish.”
“I was looking for you.”
“Why? Is something wrong?”
“No. I wanted to speak to you about the vehoe.” Young Hawk’s eyes searched hers intently. “You know he will never truly be one of us. Why do you wish to marry a man who is our enemy?”
“He is not our enemy. Every day, he becomes more Cheyenne, more like us.”
“You should marry a man of your own blood,” Young Hawk insisted quietly. “I have looked on you with love for many years, but always you have rejected me. Will you not reconsider before it is too late?”
Winter Star looked away. She had no desire to hurt Young Hawk; indeed, she was fond of him, but she did not love him as she loved Culhane. Young Hawk was a handsome young man, but he seemed like a boy when compared to Culhane. Young Hawk was tall and broad-shouldered, but compared to Culhane, he was like a sapling beside a sturdy oak.
“Winter Star, I will offer your father all of my horses. I will provide for your family and give you many sons, if only you will be mine.”
“I am sorry,” she murmured. “I love Culhane. I want no other for my husband.”
“And what will you do when he tires of our ways and begins to yearn for his own people, for a woman whose skin is as pale as his? The vehoe cannot be trusted. He will tell you he will stay with you forever, but one day he will change his mind. What will you do then?”
“It will not happen,” Winter Star retorted, leaping to her feet. “He is not like other white men. He will not leave me!”
Young Hawk shrugged. “And what if the Long Knives attack our village? Do you think he will fight against his own people?”
“Yes!” she declared boldly, but doubts crowded her heart. She glared at Young Hawk, hating him for speaking of things she had refused to consider, for making her doubt the depths of Culhane’s loyalty.
Turning on her heel, she ran back to the village.
Chapter 9
The days passed quickly. Culhane had much to learn and Yellow Shield was his teacher. From the old man, Culhane learned how to track the deer and the elk and the bear. He learned how to follow the trail of the wily mountain lion, and the crafty wolf. He learned to read the signs of the moon and the sun and the stars, to find water where none was visible. He learned to fight with a knife, how to throw a lance. Yellow Shield presented him with a good strong bow made of mulberry wood and a dozen beautifully fletched arrows, and then instructed him in the proper way to use and care for such weapons.
The old man taught Culhane the chants and prayers of the People, as well as some of the ancient tribal dances and rituals. At first, Culhane felt a little silly, sitting back on his heels each morning, chanting Cheyenne prayers t
o a heathen god. He had never been a religious man. You were born, you lived, you died, and that was that. He never thought much about God, or the Hereafter, figuring that, if there was a Heaven, he’d never see it, and if there was a Hell, he’d find out about it firsthand soon enough. But from Yellow Shield, he learned that the People believed in many gods. There was Maheo, the chief god, and Heammawihio, and countless others. Every living thing had its own spirit, thus no animal was ever killed for sport. For to take a life—any life—was a serious thing and not to be done lightly. Prayers were offered to the spirit of animals slain for meat, asking their forgiveness, leaving a little of the flesh behind to nourish the earth.
In spite of their earlier treatment of him, he realized the People were not as cruel and bloodthirsty as Culhane had thought. They had a reverence for life, a keen sense of humor, an open honesty he found refreshing. They laughed and played practical jokes on one another. They mourned their dead, cried when they were hurt, grew angry when they were wronged, avenged their enemies.
He was aware of the change in himself, a change in his thinking, in the way he looked at life and death. He began to feel a oneness with the People, began to think that, perhaps, someone was really listening when he prayed to Maheo.
Winter Star watched Culhane’s progress with interest and excitement. Almost before her eyes, she could see him becoming more and more Cheyenne in his thinking and actions, less and less like the white man.
He excelled in riding and wrestling. And if he was only a fair hand with a bow, he made up for it by being an outstanding marksman with pistol and rifle.
He hunted with the men, supplying Yellow Shield with fresh meat and hides, generously sharing what he killed with others in the tribe.
While Culhane was learning to be a warrior, Winter Star was also very busy. She tanned the hides he brought her and stored them away to be used for their lodge when they were married. She sewed a new dress for herself and then, with her mother’s help, began to design the dress she would be married in. When that was completed, she found a prime deerskin and cut out a shirt for Culhane.
Tales of Western Romance Page 12