Fall came in a riot of changing colors and the Cheyenne began to make preparations for winter. The women spent long hours drying meat, preparing pemmican, mending worn clothing, making new moccasins and warm coats. The men were often away, hunting meat, raiding their enemies for food and clothing and blankets.
The times when the men were away were anxious times for Winter Star. Now, she not only prayed for her father’s safe return, but for Culhane’s life, as well.
She spent time with Yellow Shield, feeling pleased when he told her of Culhane’s good heart, of his kindness and generosity toward an old man.
It was late fall when the warriors left on a retaliatory raid against the Crow. To pass the time, Winter Star cut out a pair of moccasins for her grandfather, but she found it hard to concentrate on sewing when Culhane was away, fighting their enemies. She loved him so much, what would she do if he were killed? He had become an integral part of her life, as important as the air she breathed, the blood that coursed through her veins. She could not remember what her life had been like before he came, could not imagine living without him.
The war party was three days overdue when Eagle Woman found Winter Star weeping softly.
“What is it, child?” her mother asked.
“How can you bear it when father is away?” Winter Star asked, wiping the tears from her eyes. “How can you look so cheerful when he might be killed?”
Eagle Woman laid a comforting hand on her daughter’s shoulder. “Fighting is a way of life for our men. When you marry Culhane, it will be a part of your life for as long as you live. You must smile when he leaves so that he feels good about going and does not worry about leaving you behind. A man who is concerned about his wife will not have his mind on the battle.”
“But surely you worry about my father?”
“Yes, child, every minute that he is gone. But his fate rests with Maheo. All I can do for him is pray for his safe return. Worrying will not help. Crying will not bring him back to me any sooner. Your father is a brave warrior. He is wise. He does not take foolish risks. And so I wait and hope for the best. That is all you can do.”
“Thank you, my mother.”
“Culhane, too, is a brave and courageous man. He will fight well and wisely, for he is anxious to return to you.”
Winter Star nodded. Her mother was wise. In truth, there was nothing she could do but hope and pray that the two men she loved above all else would return in safety.
* * * * *
At last, the men came home. They did not ride into the village laughing and shouting this time. Six paint ponies carried lifeless burdens across their backs. Four men had been wounded.
Winter Star did not see Culhane and her heart went cold within her breast. Her feet were like lead as she made her way along the line of returning warriors, her gaze darting anxiously from face to face. She saw her father and breathed a small sigh of relief, but still she did not see Culhane.
Tears were welling in her eyes when she saw a rider in the distance. Heart pounding, she stared at the lone horseman. It was Culhane. Her legs went weak so that she had to grab hold of a nearby drying rack to keep from falling.
When her legs again received their strength, she ran down the valley to his side.
“What is it?” he asked, seeing the tears in her eyes.
“Nothing. I was... I’m just glad to see you.”
Winter Star glanced at the warrior lying on the travois being pulled by Culhane’s horse. It was Beaver Woman’s husband, Bear Killer.
“He’s badly wounded,” Culhane remarked.
“Will he live?”
“I hope so. He saved my life.”
Reaching down, Culhane wrapped his arm around Winter Star’s waist and lifted her onto his horse. “I missed you,” he said softly. “I’ve never missed anyone so much in my life.”
His words washed over her like sunshine, filling her whole body with warmth and light.
Beaver Woman’s face was as something carved from stone when Culhane carried Bear Killer into her lodge.
“He has an arrowhead lodged in his back,” Culhane explained. “We did not want to remove it until we were home. He has lost a lot of blood, but I think he will recover. I will send Yellow Shield to look after him.”
“Again, we are in your debt,” the warrior woman said solemnly.
“No. Bear Killer was wounded while saving my life. This time I am in your debt. I will send Yellow Shield to you.”
The village was quiet that night as the Cheyenne mourned their dead. Though they had lost several men, the People had succeeded in avenging themselves against the Crow.
Days later, when the wounded had recovered from their wounds, the Cheyenne held a victory dance. There was a feast, and then the warriors related how they had defeated the Crow.
In dance and pantomime, the warriors told how they had gone to the land of their ancient enemy, taking them by surprise as the sun rose on a new day. Many Crow warriors had gone to their ancestors, many Cheyenne had counted coup.
Elk Hunter told how Bear Killer single-handedly charged four Crow warriors who had surrounded Culhane, killing three of them. The fourth warrior shot Bear Killer in the back before Culhane had dispatched him. Elk Hunter paused dramatically. And then, his voice filled with pride, he told how Culhane picked up the unconscious Bear Killer and carried him off the battlefield. It was an act of bravery that was appreciated by every warrior, and the people cheered Culhane, both for his bravery in risking his life to carry Bear Killer to safety, and for his modesty in not boasting of the deed.
When every act of bravery had been told, the warriors began the victory dance. Culhane sat on the sidelines, watching, until Elk Hunter motioned for him to join in the dancing. Feeling a little foolish, Culhane joined the warriors in the dance. At first, he felt like he had two left feet and neither one knew what it was doing, but gradually, he got the hang of it and as his blood warmed, he felt another layer of civilization melting away.
Later, the women moved into the center of the village, forming a circle. Feet moving in time to the music, they circled to the right, then to the left. Abruptly, the music stopped and each woman went to the man of her choice and tapped him on the shoulder before returning to the circle.
Culhane felt his heartbeat increase when Winter Star chose him for her partner. Joining her in the circle, he followed the steps of the dance, all self-consciousness gone as he gazed into her face. She was beautiful, graceful as a young doe. Her hair caught the light of the fire, shining like a black flame; her eyes were deep, dark, and mysterious, hiding the secrets of womanhood behind the veil of her lashes, tempting him to wonder anew what it would be like to hold her in his arms, to crush her body close to his and satisfy every yearning she aroused.
Sometime later, he saw Winter Star leave the gathering. Slipping away from the crowd, he followed her into the shadows beyond the village.
She was waiting for him, and they came together eagerly. They had not been alone for a long time, and Winter Star thought she would die from the sheer pleasure of being in Culhane’s arms again. She was hungry for the taste of his mouth on hers and she pressed her lips to his, savoring the taste and the touch and the smell of him. Her hands caressed his arms, loving the way his muscles bunched beneath her fingertips, the rough satin of his skin.
Culhane groaned softly as the flame of her mouth ignited all his senses. She was here, in his arms, at last. He knew he wanted nothing more of life than the love of the woman in his arms. He had thought of little else while he’d been away from the village. When he had been surrounded by the Crow, certain he was about to die, his only regret was that he would not see Winter Star again, that she would never truly be his.
But she was here now. His body urged him to take her, to satisfy the desire that sparked between them, as hot and bright as the bonfire that burned in the center of the village. But he was a warrior now, and a warrior respected the maiden rope.
As he drew away from Wint
er Star, he had a new and deeper respect and admiration for the men who had earned the right to be called a warrior.
Chapter 10
Winter came howling down from the mountains, shrieking like a banshee on the trail of blood as it pummeled the earth, shrouding the world in a blanket of white.
Winter Star spent many hours with her mother, sewing hides together for the lodge Winter Star would share with Culhane. It was wonderfully satisfying, watching the lodge cover take shape, talking with her mother, sharing her hopes and dreams for the future.
Her wedding dress and moccasins completed, Winter Star often removed them from their protective wrapping and caressed the soft doeskin, dreaming of the day when she would stand beside Culhane and become his wife.
Elk Hunter refused to speak of the marriage. Culhane had proved himself an able hunter, a courageous warrior, but Elk Hunter still wished to have Young Hawk for his son-in-law. Eagle Woman had accepted the inevitable. She, too, would have preferred that her daughter marry one of the Cheyenne young men, but the girl’s heart belonged to the vehoe. One had only to see the two of them together to know they were very much in love.
Only Swift Antelope viewed the match with blatant disapproval. He had loved Winter Star for many years, had waited patiently for her to grow to womanhood, had courted her openly and honestly, certain she would be his. And now she turned him away for a white man. It was too much to endure. Of all the warriors in the tribe, Swift Antelope was the only one to speak against Culhane, the only one who continued to regard him as the enemy.
Culhane was well aware of the warrior’s animosity. He ignored Swift Antelope’s insults, turned a deaf ear to his jibes and taunts, until the day Swift Antelope accused him of cheating at one of the gambling games the men played to pass the long winter days.
“I did not cheat,” Culhane said in a cold voice.
“I say you did!” Swift Antelope insisted. “You are too lucky.”
“I do not have to cheat to beat you,” Culhane retorted with a sneer. “You play with all the skill of a child.”
With a cry of outrage, Swift Antelope sprang to his feet, his hand jerking his knife from his belt.
Culhane rose slowly to his feet, his gaze intent on the angry warrior’s face. “I do not want to fight you.”
Swift Antelope made a sound of disgust low in his throat. “So, you are not only a cheat, but a coward, as well.”
Culhane glanced at the other warriors. They were all on their feet now, their eyes alive with interest as they waited to see what Culhane would do.
“A coward and a cheat,” Swift Antelope sneered. “Just like all the white eyes.”
When Culhane still hesitated, Swift Antelope lunged forward, his knife scraping Culhane’s forearm.
Winter Star gasped as she happened upon the scene. The sound, slight as it was, drew the attention of all the men.
“Will you fight now?” Swift Antelope taunted. “Or will you let the woman you want see you for the coward you are?”
“I am no coward,” Culhane replied angrily. He touched his forearm, felt the warm stickiness of his blood. “And if nothing but my blade in your flesh will close your insolent mouth, then come closer, and I will do my best to satisfy you.”
With a triumphant grin, Swift Antelope attacked, his knife hand driving forward. Winter Star watched, spellbound, as Culhane drew his own knife and parried Swift Antelope’s thrust. She was unaware of the other members of the tribe gathering around, did not feel her father’s hand fall on her shoulder.
Eyes narrowed, her expression one of horror and disbelief, she watched Culhane and Swift Antelope circle each other on the snow-covered ground. Drops of Culhane’s blood stained the snow.
The two warriors circled more cautiously now. Slightly crouched, chins down, arms out-thrust, they feinted and jabbed, testing, searching, looking for weakness in the other’s defense.
The crowd murmured its approval as Culhane drew blood. Swift Antelope did not seem to feel the knife cut into his side.
Time and again, they lunged forward, came together, and drew apart. Sweat bathed their flesh now, mingling with the blood of numerous minor cuts. Culhane’s eyes were as cold as death, his movements as springy and light as those of a panther on the prowl.
Winter Star’s heart pounded wildly. She longed to run forward, to stop the fight, but her feet were rooted to the spot.
She whispered, “No!” as Swift Antelope slipped under Culhane’s defenses and drove his knife upward, aiming for Culhane’s heart. But Culhane threw himself backward, rolling over and leaping nimbly to his feet, so that the warrior’s blade sliced through empty air.
With a frustrated cry, Swift Antelope whirled around as Culhane turned to meet him. There was a great silence as Swift Antelope’s momentum carried him forward, impaling him on Culhane’s blade.
For a moment, the young warrior stared at the knife embedded in his chest. And then, ever so slowly, he fell into Culhane’s arms.
Culhane swore softly as he caught Swift Antelope’s body. Laying the warrior gently on the ground, he withdrew his knife, wiped the bloody blade against his pant leg. Slowly, his gaze moved over the crowd, his knuckles white around the handle of the knife as he waited for their reaction. Many had accepted him as an equal, a brother. Would they feel the same now that he had killed one of their young men?
He glanced briefly at Winter Star, felt her love reach out to him.
“It was a fair fight,” Elk Hunter declared, breaking the taut silence. “Braves the Fire tried to avoid it, and when he could not, he fought for his life. It is a sad day when a warrior dies, but there is no one to blame for Swift Antelope’s death except Swift Antelope.”
A murmur of agreement rippled through the crowd as two warriors lifted Swift Antelope’s body and carried it to his lodge. Moments later, the sound of his mother’s grief rose in the air.
A long shudder shook Culhane’s body as he sheathed his knife. And then Winter Star was beside him, her arm going around his waist, her eyes shining with relief that he was alive and not badly hurt.
“I didn’t want to fight him,” Culhane said as they walked to Yellow Shield’s lodge.
“I know. It will be all right.”
“Damn.”
“Do not be concerned. Swift Antelope has always had a bad temper. No one will think the worse of you for defending yourself.”
Winter Star was right. There were no recriminations over Swift Antelope’s death. No one came seeking revenge. No one spoke badly of Culhane behind his back.
* * * * *
The winter passed quickly that year, and the tribe rejoiced to see spring come early. Trees long bare grew overnight, flowers blossomed on the hillsides, foals trotted beside their dams, and the birds began to sing again.
As soon as the snow was gone, the tribe packed up and moved toward the Black Hills in search of the buffalo.
Spring was a beautiful time of the year on the plains. The sky was clear and blue, the grass was tall and green and sweet. The women planted squash and melons and corn; the men hunted the elk, the deer, and the buffalo. There were wild plums and berries and nuts. The horses and dogs grew fat again, the children laughed and played in the sunshine. Life was good.
But as the days passed, a shadow fell over Culhane’s joy, a shadow which grew blacker and more ominous each time Elk Hunter mentioned the Sun Dance that would take place in the summer. The Sun Dance, as Culhane had learned, was an annual rite among all the Plains Indians. All warriors worthy of the name participated in this holy ritual at least once in their lifetime.
Now, sitting beside Winter Star’s father, Culhane listened with growing horror as Elk Hunter told him, in grisly detail, how he earned the twin scars on his chest.
“The shaman cuts here, and here,” Elk Hunter said, touching the thick muscles in Culhane’s chest just above each nipple. “A wooden skewer is inserted into the flesh. Long rawhide thongs are fastened to the skewers and to the Sun Dance Pole. You must
pull against the thongs until the skewers are torn from your flesh.”
Culhane nodded, but said nothing. He had learned of the Sun Dance from Yellow Shield. The old man had told him the Indians believed that, by sacrificing their blood and pain, the Great Spirit would bless the tribe with health and vitality in the coming year. Sometimes men had great visions while they were caught up in the spirit of the Sun Dance.
It was Culhane’s opinion that such visions were merely hallucinations caused by pain and loss of blood, but he prudently kept his thoughts to himself. At the time, he had thought it a rather barbaric custom, but he had never considered that he, himself, might have to endure such a heathen ritual.
“I will never allow my daughter to marry a man who has not proven his worth at the Sun Dance Pole,” Elk Hunter remarked.
He said it nonchalantly, as if it had nothing to do with Culhane, or his desire to marry Winter Star. But Culhane understood. If he wanted to marry Winter Star, he would have to participate in the Sun Dance ceremony.
With a nod, Culhane rose to his feet, bid farewell to Eagle Woman and Winter Star, and left the lodge.
His thoughts were angry as he walked toward Yellow shield’s lodge. How could Elk Hunter expect him to take part in such a brutal ritual? There was no way a white man could be expected to endure such a barbaric ceremony. It was unfair of the man to ask such a thing.
Culhane swore softly. If he had to dance around the Sun Dance pole to win the woman he loved, then he’d dance around the Sun Dance Pole. And if Elk Hunter wanted him to fly to the moon, then he’d do that, too, but one way or another, Winter Star would be his.
* * * * *
Spring seemed to fly by on winged feet, and it was summer. Already, preparations were underway for the Sun Dance Festival. When Yellow Shield called a meeting of the warriors and asked for the names of those who would participate in the dance, Culhane stepped forward.
There were days of feasting and celebration prior to the actual Sun Dance. There were games and dances along with feats of skill and daring. Culhane watched in awe as the Sioux and Cheyenne showed off their riding skills, racing across the plains, vaulting from horse to horse, standing, sitting, riding backwards. They were the most amazing horsemen he had ever seen.
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