Across the Sweet Grass Hills

by Gail L. Jenner

  “Not today. Crying Wind has asked me to accompany him to Heavy Runner’s camp. He will introduce me to him today.”

  “I wish you wouldn’t go,” said Liza. What if Mountain Chief or Owl Child are there?

  But Liza knew her father would go. She watched him pick his way carefully, lifting his knees with each step so that he wouldn’t push through the snow.

  She turned in the opposite direction and headed for the riverbank. She had discovered a half-hidden spot where she could disappear. Protected by a rocky outcropping and a large brush area, it even boasted a log where she could sit and dream.

  As she eased down the slippery slope leading to the river, she heard a familiar voice. Turning, she smiled. “Hello.”

  She bit her lip as she looked up into his dark face. His horse pawed at the fresh snow, tossing its head as he reined it around. He looked magnificent.

  Red Eagle slid off the mare and stood two feet from her. “I went to your lodge to retrieve your father, but he has already gone.”

  “Yes, he and Crying Wind are to visit Heavy Runner today.”

  “And where are you going?” he asked, leading his horse through the snow. The horse whinnied softly.

  Liza took a deep breath, only too aware of Red Eagle’s nearness. His wide, dark eyes drew even the last bit of strength from her. “For a walk,” she said at last.

  He reached out and wrapped a loose strand of Liza’s hair around her ear. His touch sent a shock wave through her, and she hesitated, turning her face to his.

  Then it happened. He moved toward her and gathered her into his arms. The smell of leather mixed with smoke and his own manliness was intoxicating. Liza’s breath came halting­ly and, even through his cloak, she felt his heart beating in rhythm to her own.

  His mouth was warm and gentle and she returned his kiss. He drew her closer, her body sheltered in his. Suddenly, frustrated by the layers of clothing that separated them, he unwrapped his cape and pulled her inside. She slipped her arms about his neck and buried her hands in his long hair. Her heart leaped as she heard him moan, his hands moving down her back and around her hips.

  An explosion of desire left her weak. “Mekotsepetan.” His name was like velvet.

  Then his lips grazed her earlobe and moved greedily down her neck. She trembled as he brought his lips back to hers and her emotions whirled and skidded inside her, pleasure and pain rolled into one.

  She didn’t want to move, ever.

  She felt tears burning her cheeks. Drawing back, she watched the play of emotions on his face and knew it reflected her own.

  “Liza Five Shots,” he said slowly. She tingled as he repeated her name, only this time it was but a whisper. “I must go,” he said then. “Crying Wind said I must go with him to Heavy Runner’s camp.”

  “Is he waiting for you now?” she asked, fumbling awk­wardly with her cape.

  Red Eagle nodded and pointed. Turning, Liza gasped.

  On the flat, just beyond the camp, Crying Wind, her father, and Running Antelope were mounted and waiting. “Dear God,” whispered Liza, “did they see us?”

  Red Eagle touched his finger to the tip of her nose. “Oh, yes,” he said. “I hope so.”

  “Oh,” she breathed and, fighting her tears, rushed down to the river to hide.

  CHAPTER 20

  December was a dark month. It snowed continually, and Liza spent most of her days with Crow Woman and Come Running. But as snow piled up, they became more and more confined. It was the worst December anyone could remember.

  Still, the women trekked to the river to bathe and the men spent hours in the sweat lodge before and after swimming in the icy water.

  Crow Woman had just returned from her time of separa­tion, those days, Liza had learned, when a woman could not be near a man. Thankfully, Liza was not expected to follow the same tradition.

  On the day Crow Woman returned, Come Running called many women together, including Liza.

  She entered the lodge and Come Running greeted her with a wide smile.

  Crow Woman grinned proudly. “Come. Eat.”

  Liza nodded and sat down in the place that was offered her. After filling her bark plate, she looked around the circle. Everyone was happy, content, smiling. She turned to Crow Woman and asked, “Tsanistapiwats?”

  The old woman patted Come Running’s belly and grinned.

  “A baby?” laughed Liza. She turned to Come Running. “You are with child?” She clapped her hands together. “That is wonderful. A baby. May God bless you both.”

  Come Running, looking keenly at her, nodded vigorous­ly. She rubbed her tummy and said something in Blackfeet. Everyone else laughed.

  That night, Liza gave her father the good news.

  “Yes, he’s struttin’ around like a turkey gobbler in a hen pen,” he said. “I understand his only other surviving children, two daughters, are married off and live in other bands. However, Crow Woman is not past child-bearing age, as Crying Wind staunchly reminded me today.”

  She laughed. “Well, it will be nice to have a baby under foot. The world is always a happier place when babies are around.”

  Her father cleared his throat. “Elizabeth, are you saying you will be here when it’s time? Likely as not, the child won’t come for at least seven more months. I thought—”

  She shrugged. “I’m just talking about babies in general.”

  But later, as she rolled up in her buffalo robes, listening to her father’s snores and the popping fire, she couldn’t help but wonder where she would be come spring.

  ****

  It was late the next day that Riplinger came to trade with several of Crying Wind’s braves. Leading two pack mules, he arrived just as Liza and Crow Woman were preparing supper. He hobbled his animals and lumbered through the snow, an enormous sack on his back. This was his second trip in the last month.

  Liza liked the big man. She had first met him when they were still at Fort Shaw, so when she saw him again in the village, he was surprised and she delighted. He was a jovial, kind man, in spite of his crude manners.

  Sitting back on her haunches, she laughed aloud. “If you don’t look like St. Nick himself,” she said.

  Riplinger smiled, spitting a long stream of tobacco across the white snow. “As a matter of fact, I do have somethin’ for you, Miz Ralston. In the spirit of the season, it’ll be a gift. I got it in trade from an old cowboy, but where the hell he got it, God only knows.”

  Still laughing, Liza led him into Crying Wind’s lodge. Come Running and Crow Woman immediately crowded around, anxious to see what the trader had in his bag. He spoke quickly to each of them, handing them a pouch. “Beads,” he said to Liza. “All squaws love beads. But for you,” he added, dig­ging through the contents, “I have somethin’ else.”

  She waited impatiently. She hadn’t received a gift since her twentieth birthday, almost a year ago. For that austere occa­sion Grandfather had given her a beautiful ivory pen set and sealing wax; her parents had given her a Bible and a locket. Thinking she would return sooner than later, she had placed all four items inside the drawer of her secretary stored in Grandfather Poole’s home.

  Riplinger interrupted her daydream as he dropped the bag to the ground. “Damn mess. I gotta always be carryin’ more than I can handle,” he muttered. “Ah, here it is.”

  Taking out a small package wrapped in burlap and tied with a string, the trader handed it to Liza. “The moment I seen it I said, that ’Lizbeth Ralston oughta have this.’”

  She smiled. “Don’t tell me you made a special trip. And in this weather?”

  “Nah,” said Riplinger. “But it made it a nicer jaunt, just the same.”

  She carefully unwrapped the package. She could tell that it was a book, but when she saw that it was a collection of poems by the finest English poets, she pressed it to her breast and sighed. “This is, without a doubt, one of the nicest gifts I have ever received. Thank you, Mr. Riplinger.”

  Riplinger, his
mouth full of spittle, smiled. “Well, I’m pleased that’s so,” he replied gallantly. “You are prettier than a picture and deserve somethin’ special. Now, I better get going ’fore the rest of the squaws come pushin’ in here. I told Long Tooth I’d be out here today. He says he’s got prime hides for trade and a squaw that’s ready to skin him if he don’t get her some gewgaws.” He grabbed his sack and threw it over his back.

  Just like ole St. Nick, she thought.

  Crow Woman and Come Running, still wanting to bar­gain, followed the trader outside but Liza, anxious to be alone with her treasure, dipped out of the lodge and ran to her own tipi.

  For many nights, she read poetry aloud to her father. One evening, while he was visiting Crying Wind, she discovered a poem by Sir Edward Dyer. Entitled “A Modest Love,” it stirred her deeply.

  By the time her father returned, she knew the lines by heart: “The firmest faith is in the fewest words; The turtles cannot sing, and yet they love; True hearts have eyes and ears, no tongues to speak; They hear and see, and sigh, and then they break.”

  Rolling toward the fire, she sighed. Why did the poem bring Red Eagle to mind? Was it because his was a heart that spoke volumes without uttering a sound?

  And yet, were their hearts, like those in the poem, doomed to break?

  ****

  The next afternoon, as Liza crossed the sun-baked snow, Red Eagle stepped out from the trees to meet her, a smile across his rugged, handsome face. The bright sunlight lit his features, especially his dark eyes, and the whiteness of his new buckskin shirt was as blinding as the field of snow surrounding him. Crow Woman had designed and stitched the tunic, adding a multitude of tiny stitches and colorful beads down the front.

  “It’s a beautiful day,” she said. “I have never seen such snow. I believe it’s the whitest thing I’ve ever seen.”

  Red Eagle looked out across the wide-open plain and then turned to her. “Yes, beautiful.”

  She blushed.

  He raised his eyebrows. “Where are you going?” He pointed to the brush patch ahead. “I have seen you disappear several times into this brush.” He smiled. “Are you hiding?”

  “No,” she blushed again. “It opens up, just enough to slip inside. I like to read and think here.”

  “Then I will leave you,” Red Eagle said.

  “No, please. It’s not important.”

  “Thinking is important. And reading, too.”

  “Yes, I suppose it is. Do you read?”

  Red Eagle turned his gaze to the snow-capped mountains. “My father taught me to read. But I do not read much. What do you read?”

  “Oh, anything,” said Liza, “but I have only this volume of poetry. Mr. Riplinger gave it to me.”

  He looked at the book she held out. “Poetry?”

  “Poems,” she whispered. She smiled at Red Eagle’s look of bewilderment. “A poem is like a song.”

  Red Eagle nodded. “My mother sang many songs. She sang all day long.”

  Liza wondered what White Weasel Woman had been like. “What kinds of songs?”

  “In the Pikuni world, there are songs for almost every­thing.”

  “My mother sang, too. She had a lovely voice.”

  “Your mother is in St. Louis?”

  “No, she died. She is buried outside Fort Shaw.”

  “I am sorry,” Red Eagle said quickly. “It is hard to remember.”

  “No, it’s good to remember. I think about her often.”

  “Was she like you?”

  Liza shook her head. “No, she was a quiet woman, and very well-mannered.”

  Red Eagle smiled. “You do not have manners?”

  She stammered for a reply. “Well, yes, but not always when I should. At least, that’s what my father says.” She turned the book over in her hand, suddenly feeling foolish.

  “Hmm,” he said, taking a step away. “You want to sit and think and read your poems.”

  Liza shook her head. “No. I mean, I’d rather walk. Would you walk with me?” She stamped her feet against the hard snow. “It’s difficult to sit still. The air is so cold.”

  Red Eagle reached down and wrapped his fingers around Liza’s. His touch thrilled her and she started walking so as not to reveal her disheveled emotions.

  They walked for a while without speaking. An eagle, soar­ing in the distance, seemed to float in the air. In the silence, its immense wings could almost be heard as it turned and flew to the top of a tall cottonwood tree.

  “It’s so peaceful here,” sighed Liza. She had left her hand cupped inside Red Eagle’s and the intimacy she felt made her tremble.

  “Winter is a good time for the Pikuni,” he said. “A time of peace and long nights. And if there is plenty of food, it is a time of celebration.”

  Their moccasins squeaked on the dry, packed snow. The world around them glittered like a field of diamonds, but it was Red Eagle’s presence that filled Liza with contentment—unlike anything she’d ever experienced. Her very contentedness frightened her.

  Everything about her feelings for Red Eagle frightened her.

  He led her across a frozen pond. Slipping and sliding, Liza began to giggle. Unexpectedly, Red Eagle grabbed her hands and pulled her around in a large circle. Losing her bal­ance, Red Eagle wrapped his arm around her waist just before they fell, laughing, to the ice.

  Hearts pounding, they sat, not moving, not speaking. Liza faced Red Eagle and giggled.

  “It’s cold,” she whispered, lips turned up in a smile.

  “I’m not cold,” said Red Eagle softly. Slipping his hand under her chin, he raised her face to his. “My heart is on fire, Liza Five Shots.”

  Frightened by the intensity of his gaze and overwhelmed by his confession, she pulled back. She had not expected him to speak about feelings when hers were so perplexing and powerful.

  “Must I not talk to you of my heart?” he asked, suddenly serious. His eyes narrowed and he waited.

  “It’s just that—I don’t know,” she said, her glance drawn to his hands. “I’m so confused—”

  Red Eagle got to his feet in one swift movement.

  Extending a hand, he helped her up. The moment was gone. She tried to speak. “You don’t understand. I want—”

  “I will walk you back to your lodge,” he interrupted, not looking at her.

  “No.”

  “It’s cold and getting colder.”

  “Red Eagle, please. I’m sorry. I—”

  “It is for me to apologize. I do not have the right to say more. I have not earned the right,” he added abruptly.

  “No!” cried Liza, but it was too late. He was moving away, his shoulders squared, dark head bent. She took a step to follow but then stopped.

  Holding back tears, Liza pressed the book of poems to her lips, her hands cold in spite of the pounding of her heart. Didn’t he understand that she wanted desperately to love him? That she was dumbfounded by her response to him?

  She wiped away the tears that filled her eyes.

  But turtles can’t sing.

  ****

  Her father was waiting by the lodge when she returned. He wore a worried expression and did not notice her tear-­streaked face.

  “Liza, there’s trouble with the army.”

  “Has Mountain Chief attacked?”

  “Not yet, but there are rumors a war council has been called. And Heavy Runner and Standing Wolf suspect the army is out for Indian blood.”

  “No.” She followed her father inside their lodge. “Where’s the war council being held? Here?”

  “No. But several Pikuni braves, some who trade in whiskey, have left. And Mountain Chief and Owl Child are call­ing for a war council. No one knows where the renegades are hiding, maybe up north in the British possessions, maybe here in the Montana territory. They have stolen more horses and guns and burned some settlements. One hunter was ambushed on Deep Creek, so the army says it must take action if it is to restore peace.”

 
Liza’s stomach rolled. “But if the army attacks, innocent people will get hurt.”

  “People will die.”

  Liza paced back and forth. “Perhaps Heavy Runner or Standing Wolf will send someone to talk with the army. Lieutenant Cole—he seemed like a reasonable man. He knows how these Indians think.”

  “The lieutenant has no authority and General DeTrobriand is as much a pawn as his own soldiers. It’s the men higher up making these decisions. The agent at Fort Benton has already been petitioned but Crying Wind fears he isn’t willing to listen.”

  “Oh, Father, the army has to understand that it’s not all the Pikuni who have done these things. Owl Child and the oth­ers, they’re the criminals, even in the eyes of their own people.”

  “I wish it were that simple, Elizabeth. Heavy Runner and Escape Man already traveled to the Teton agency, but no one there would listen and it’s well-known that General Sherman himself considers all Indians fair game.”

  “How ridiculous!” she cried, throwing her book onto her sleeping pallet.

  “Yes, and the army is demanding all renegades be turned over, including those accused of killing Four Bears. If not, there will be trouble. How Crying Wind or the other peacekeeping chiefs can do this, God only knows. A chief is not responsible for those who go their own way, even if he’s a holy man like Crying Wind. It’s not the Pikuni way.”

  Liza sat down, fear wrapping around her like a heavy cloak. She studied her father’s worn and worried face.

  “There is talk of another meeting at Fort Benton. If Crying Wind agrees, I will go. Maybe I can help resolve the situ­ation, get them to listen.”

  “What?” She turned on her father, heart sinking. “You can’t be serious. You aren’t fully recovered. And you have never traveled in weather like this. With the storms and snow, you’ll never make it alive. Father, how could you even think of doing anything so preposterous?”

  “I have to go.”

  “No.”

  “I won’t argue with you.”

  “But this isn’t your fight. The Pikuni have their own leaders.”

  “Daughter, I will not turn my back on these people. They are innocent and cannot fight this battle alone any longer. How many times did I preach against slavery from the pulpit, yet I never chose to fight in the war. Well, I’m here now. Even if I still had a pulpit, I would step down. My place is with Crying Wind and his people. Elizabeth,” his voice dropped almost to a whis­per, “each of us has his Macedonia. Mine is here, with these people. If I die standing with them, it would be an honorable death. I couldn’t wish for more. As Crying Wind says, a warrior knows that to die for his family and his people is a good death. Isn’t that what Jesus preached, and finally did in His life?”