Fireblossom

by Wright, Cynthia

  He wore paint: a lightning streak on the side of his face and hail marks on his body. A single spotted eagle feather at the back of his head substituted for the innumerable feathers he could have claimed if he were counting coup for each enemy he had struck down in battle. Around his neck, Crazy Horse wore a war whistle fashioned from the wing bone of an eagle.

  Hanging back with the other women, Maddie was struck by his manner of dignified intelligence. A kind of weary valor seemed to radiate from his bronzed body. His burdens were many, but Crazy Horse's courage and strength appeared to be unflagging.

  Fox, who stood a short distance from Maddie, spoke as if to himself, "An extraordinary man."

  The children were crowding near now, and Crazy Horse smiled, lifting two large skin bags from the assorted items that included his Winchester rifle, a war club, and an artfully crafted bow and quiver of arrows. Now, opening the bags wide, everyone could see that they bulged with raisins, which he invited the children to eat. Their little hands plunged in to gather samples of the treat, but they were careful not to be greedy in the presence of this man whose stubborn bravery sustained the entire village.

  Strong, Maddie's new friend, had come up beside her. "He loves the children more because his own daughter died," she said.

  Maddie looked over in surprise. "How sad! What happened to her?"

  "One of your race's sicknesses..." Her brow furrowed as she tried to remember the word. "Cholera? Yes. So sad, but grief made Crazy Horse stronger in his will to fight back against the whites. And grief brought him closer to his wife, Black Shawl." Strong nodded toward the woman who stood waiting outside Crazy Horse's tipi. Maddie recognized her as one of those who'd been making hash that afternoon. It surprised her somehow to think of Crazy Horse as a family man. As if reading her mind, Strong added, with a small smile, "Black Shawl's mother lives in their tipi, too. They take very good care of their man."

  Maddie found that she wanted to know more about this side of Crazy Horse. "Was his daughter very young when she died? What was her name?"

  "She was called They-Are-Afraid-Of-Her. I believe that Crazy Horse made her name," Strong replied. "She was at the age when a child is easiest to love when death took her. Crazy Horse was a devoted father. He heard her first words and delighted in watching her learn to walk, then teaching her to dance."

  Strong sat down beside a cottonwood tree, as if waiting for the excitement to subside, and Maddie joined her. Strong related the story of another occasion when Crazy Horse returned to his village from a raid against the whites. In his absence, the village had moved from a spot near the Little Bighorn River to a site by the Tongue River. He and the other members of his war party tracked them there only to learn that They-Are-Afraid-Of-Her had fallen sick and died before the village moved.

  "How long ago was this?" Maddie asked.

  Strong shrugged. "I only learned about your time when I stayed at the agency. It was in the time you call summer, when Long Hair and his bluecoats were making the Thieves' Road to Paha Sapa. I think it was Crazy Horse's grief that kept him from fighting more to keep Long Hair from invading our sacred ground."

  "Custer's expedition into the Black Hills was in 1874," Maddie said. "Two years ago."

  "A dark time for us," Strong replied. "And Crazy Horse... when he learned about They-Are-Afraid-Of-Her, he made his father tell him where the little girl's scaffold was. It was far away, a dangerous place in Crow country, but he went there all the same. When he found it after two days, Crazy Horse climbed up beside They-Are-Afraid-Of-Her and lay beside her for three nights and days. She was very tiny, wrapped in a buffalo robe..."

  Maddie's eyes brimmed with tears. "That is a very sad story."

  Shrugging again, Strong said, "Yes, but it made Crazy Horse a bigger man. He has never wanted power, only to fight for his people. Every blow that he has suffered as a man has made him stronger, quieter, and more modest, yet wilder and rasher in his acts of defiance against the whites." Standing again, Strong brushed off her butter-soft buckskin skirt and added, "So you see, Crazy Horse is not an easy man to know. Yet without him, I do not know what would become of all of us who are not only from his band, the Oglala, but all the other bands of Lakota as well as Cheyenne and more. Anyone who wishes to fight rather than surrender meekly to the whites can join forces with Crazy Horse. He makes miracles...."

  * * *

  Maddie loved the cozy interior of the tipi she shared with Fox, especially now that night had fallen. She enjoyed the small tasks that let her feel she was taking care of him: folding his clothes, arranging their food and supplies, and keeping things tidy. They had just finished a satisfying meal of dried meat and one of the prickly pears the women had brought back from the prairie, and now, as she watched Fox laze on their bed, bathed in the golden light of the fire, she told of her earlier conversation with Strong.

  "I wish you would stop making your nest and come and sit with me while you talk," he suggested at length.

  Maddie was delighted to comply. Putting away the supplies, she reclined against him and basked in the feeling of his warm, strong arm circled around her waist. Softly, she continued her story, ending with Strong's final words: "He makes miracles..."

  Fox listened quietly, his smile tinged with irony. "Miracles, yes," he agreed ruefully, "but I fear that even miracles and Crazy Horse can't hold off the army forever. There simply are too many soldiers."

  "But what about his raids into the Black Hills? And what if the army can't find Crazy Horse and his people?"

  Fox ran his hand over the buffalo fur that cushioned their bodies. "These raids are annoyances to the whites more than anything. Do you think Crazy Horse can really change anything by stealing an occasional pack mule or bolts of cloth for summer leggings or beads for moccasins? It's all for show. Even the other warriors have tired of going with him. They want a rest from fighting, but Crazy Horse cannot rest."

  "Fox-With-Blue-Eyes," a voice said quietly outside their tipi flap, which was partially lifted.

  Maddie leaned over to admit Kills Hungry Bear, who apologized for the interruption before announcing that the important warriors were gathering in the council tipi to meet with Crazy Horse. Fox was invited to join them.

  "But, if he hates the whites so much, is it safe for you to appear?" Maddie asked worriedly after the Lakota words were translated.

  Fox was already getting up, running a hand through his hair and straightening his clothes. "Crazy Horse is too intelligent to punish me for the sins of my race. One of his best friends over the years is a white scout—I don't think I have anything to fear."

  * * *

  "I have already asked Crazy Horse. He suggested that you come after we told him that you have been living in the town you call Deadwood," Kills Hungry Bear told Fox as they walked toward the huge council tipi. "He hopes that you can give us help to decide how to get your people to leave Paha Sapa."

  Fox said nothing, although privately he wished the solution were that easy. Crazy Horse knew better, too. Overhead, the moon was full and bright, casting its glow over the countless tipis in the shadow of Bear Butte. Suddenly Fox was reminded of another night not so very long ago when he had been called out of a tent to attend a council meeting. A chill prickled the back of his neck as memories returned to him of the officers gathered in George Armstrong Custer's bivouac, and of Custer himself, his hair tamed by cinnamon oil and his sunburned face and short beard set off by a scarlet cravat.

  I didn't belong with them; I shouldn't have been there, Fox thought now as he looked down at his soft buckskin trousers and the moccasins Kills Hungry Bear had given him this morning. They were nearing the council tipi; raised voices clashed in the night air. But if I don't belong with the whites can I claim to be one of these people? Would I adopt the identity of the Lakota and risk my life for their sakes?

  He was spared having to answer the question as He Dog appeared beside the two men and led the way into the large council tipi.

  * * *
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  It was warm inside the council tipi and the air was heavy with the scents of woodsmoke, tobacco, and the sweet grass and herbs that were placed in the fire as a sort of incense. As the Pipe Ceremony came to an end and all the men were silent, searching their hearts for words of truth, Fox felt almost disembodied. Dreamily he took in the wonderful, vivid scene; a scene that was nearly extinct now, or at least conducted more for ritual among the agency Indians than for any functional purpose. The agency Indians had little say in their destiny, but these men here tonight clung proudly to their ability to make decisions about the future; it was a key aspect of Lakota life. The tribal consciousness that guided the course of their society and behavior was the reason they could live together so harmoniously: the council made decisions for the entire village, and those superceded the wishes of the individual.

  Fox thought disparagingly of the chaos that reigned among the greedy, lawless whites in places like Deadwood. How foolish they were to imagine that they were more civilized than these men who filled Crazy Horse's council tipi.

  "I saw them," Crazy Horse said at last, his tone even. His face, weary yet alert, was set in an expression of forced concentration. "I try not to let fury overcome me when I think of them, digging in the hillsides of Paha Sapa like greedy, tireless prairie dogs. I stood high above them on the top of the canyon and saw how they have cut down the trees and turned the forest to a swamp with their waste. It is desecration. I wanted to snuff them all out. I wished I were a prairie fire and they were field mice...." His black eyes met Fox's for an instant before he added, "But the truth is this: they are the fire and we are the mice. Is this not so, Fox-With-Blue-Eyes?"

  Fox felt light-headed as countless heads turned in his direction. Smoke stung his eyes while conflicting emotions stung his heart. "I—I am only one man. I don't have enough knowledge to offer an opinion that important."

  "Are you not among us as a friend?" Crazy Horse pressed.

  "Yes."

  "He has brought us many rifles," He Dog told his childhood friend, "in case the bluecoats attack our village."

  "I do not want to sit here, like rabbits grown tired and frightened after being hunted for a long time by dogs, and wait for the bluecoats to strike our village." His voice grew stronger. "Have we not just won a magnificent victory? They thought that we were beaten and that they need only ride into our land and round us up and kill us like their docile spotted buffalo, but they misjudged us. They misjudged us!"

  The "spotted buffalo" so scornfully referred to by Crazy Horse—and looked upon as objects of ridicule among the Indians in general—were, Fox knew, the cows whites had introduced to the Lakota people as an alternate source of meat. Cattle were the source of an unpleasant odor, they maintained, and it was thought that their meat must be impure, a pale imitation offering from the white man.

  Once again Fox felt a twinge of uneasiness, recognizing his tendency to straddle the two worlds, white and Lakota. And as he absorbed the atmosphere in the council tipi, his uncertainty grew. No matter how welcome they made him feel, he couldn't forget that just a few short weeks ago he had hunted these very warriors with the Seventh Cavalry led by George Armstrong Custer. He was also a citizen of Deadwood, one of the white people Crazy Horse wished he could snuff out like so many bothersome, invasive prairie dogs. Now he glanced down at his bare arm, comparing it with that of his friend Kills Hungry Bear. One was tan, the other deep mahogany: the two men were as different as the buffalo and the cow. Why pretend otherwise?

  He Dog was speaking. In the respectful atmosphere of the council tipi, the warriors took turns, listening attentively to one another's opinions before settling on the direction tribal consciousness would take.

  "My friend," He Dog said, looking at Crazy Horse, "you must see that it is pointless for you to make more raids into Paha Sapa. The bluecoats have been shamed by our victory over Long Hair and his men. They are searching for reasons to retaliate against us. If you strike at them without cause, it will be one more excuse for them to break the Laramie Treaty completely and openly take Paha Sapa from us. They will say we did not deserve to have such valuable land. They will say that we are savages—"

  Crazy Horse's body tensed and his black eyes blazed. In a breach of etiquette, he spoke when He Dog paused to take breath. "I cannot live according to what the white man will think or the tricks he will play! When I give my word, it is done, but the whites know nothing of this! Their words are all lies and tricks. Would you have me try to think like they do even if it means betraying everything I believe is right?" Rage and frustration nearly overcame Crazy Horse's usually dignified manner. "I know more about the ways of the whites than I like. I have already studied them in order to triumph over them in battle." His tone dropped to one of calm finality. "I will not muddy our ways with thoughts of theirs. I can only do what is right, what I have seen in the real world."

  "But, what of the safety of the people in this village?" He Dog persisted. When Crazy Horse received this in silence, his friend's broad face grew stormier. "You are past the foolish years of the wild young warrior! You belong to the people now and must think of them, not giving them such uneasiness!"

  Others spoke, their voices blurring in Fox's mind. He could see, and he knew that the others could see, that Crazy Horse would not change the course he had charted. He would fight to the death for what he believed to be right for the Lakota people.

  * * *

  Maddie was awakened by a deafening crack of thunder. Raindrops were pelting the covering of the tipi and the steady, musical sound was immediately reassuring.

  The storm, which had been threatening all evening, had arrived at last. It felt like the middle of the night, but Maddie remembered that she had curled up to sleep early, waiting for Fox, thinking just to rest for a bit. Where could he be?

  Thunder boomed again, sounding as if it were rolling across the prairie, perhaps destined to collide with Bear Butte in an explosion of silvery light. The rain beat harder on the tipi; droplets found their way past the smoke flap at the dwelling's apex, sizzling as they plopped into the molten embers of that night's fire.

  Maddie shivered, drawing her buffalo robe up to her chin.

  She felt more lost and alone than at any other moment since she had stolen away aboard Fox's wagon the night he'd left Deadwood. As a little girl she'd been scared of storms, and childhood didn't seem so far away at the moment.

  Tearfully, she thought that her mother wouldn't know her. Then she smiled, realizing that she hardly knew herself these days. At length, as she listened to the rushing of the rain and the mournful wail of the wind and the aching thud of her own heartbeat, Maddie found her way back to sleep.

  * * *

  When Fox ducked into the tipi, rain dripping from his hair, he was mesmerized by the sight of Maddie asleep beneath the buffalo robe. Even Crazy Horse had noticed the bright-haired white woman traveling with Fox-With-Blue-Eyes, and had mentioned her to him when they had a moment alone at the end of the council. The name Crazy Horse used for her was new to Fox, however, who was uncertain whether it had been coined by the great warrior or repeated to him by someone else in the village. Whatever the source, it was perfect for Maddie, especially as she lay with her hair splayed over the buffalo robes, framing her delicate face and echoing the color of the embers.

  "Fireblossom," he whispered, tasting the name tenderly.

  Tonight, "Madeleine Avery" seemed as distant as "Daniel Matthews." Even the mere intrusion of his Christian name made Fox burn inside. He began to tear off his wet clothing, fighting the frustration in his gut that festered and poisoned him, demanding resolution.

  Fox went to Maddie like a drowning man to shore. His body was damp, shivering, tense. Naked, he drew her against him and inhaled the wildflower scent of her hair. She wore one of his shirts; Fox pulled it from her, embracing her completely.

  Maddie's first sense of panic was swept aside by the tidal wave of Fox's need and her own yearning response. Her arms clasped h
is shoulders and back, but she was so slight against him that she seemed insubstantial. One of his hands cupped her bottom, drawing her fully against the hard throb of his manhood. She ached as she strained to meld with him; her breasts swelled and her rib cage arched to make a hollow where her tummy usually curved softly. Every ounce of her was taut and eager.

  Fox ran his other hand down the length of Maddie's slim, tantalizing form. Her flesh was pale and glowing against his dark, rugged body. She was smooth, her symmetry broken only by the coppery curls between her legs and the pink crests of her nipples. True, there were freckles sprinkled here and there, but in the burnished light it appeared that her body was dusted with fire sparks. Fox thought that she was the most extravagantly lovely woman he'd ever seen.

  "Fireblossom..." Whimsy and rich passion infected his voice, and before Maddie could question the endearment, he was kissing her and she sank giddily into a sea of sensual pleasure. He grew more ravenous by the second, and she met him kiss for kiss, ravishing his delicious mouth with equal hunger.

  She did not notice when Fox's lovemaking crossed the invisible danger line. At first, the edge of roughness in his touch thrilled her and allowed her to vent her own pent-up ardor. Their ragged breathing mingled with the slashing gusts of wind and rain outside the tipi. Maddie was flushed, digging her nails into his back as they kissed and touched and their need for consummation grew. Then, Fox's hand twined in her mane of marmalade hair until he held it, wound around his fist like a rope. She couldn't move her head and that made her try harder. That's when the first splinter of alarm pricked her. Fox's kiss felt... out of control somehow, his driving need no longer in sync with hers. Her first protest was muffled by his hard male mouth. She was confused; still aroused, still wanting and loving him, yet aware that something was wrong.