J.T. stared into the sun. Perspiration sluiced down his body, stinging the wounds in his chest. His heart pounded in rhythm to the drum, which was like the heartbeat of the earth, pulsing with life.
Pain sliced through him. Blood dripped down his chest. Lifting the whistle to his lips, he gave voice to his agony, the bittersweet notes of the eagle bone whistle drifting away on a passing breeze. And like a tender caring mother, the Sun enveloped him in her arms, her warmth soothing his pain.
He stared into the golden depths of the Sun’s all-seeing eyes, and he saw a red fox walking down a dusty road. The creature paused when it came to a snare.
The fox glanced over its shoulder and J.T. saw a vixen hiding in the shadows. The two creatures gazed at each other for stretched seconds and then, deliberately, the fox put its head in the snare and allowed itself to be caught so its mate could escape.
J.T. groaned deep in his throat as he felt the fox’s sadness and pain, and then he saw a dazzling white light encompass the creature.
“No!” J.T. lurched backward, away from the vision, gasping in pain as the skewers tore free from his flesh.
“No, no.” He sobbed the words as he fell to his knees.
Brandy was there, beside him, cradling him in her arms. “It’s over, J.T.,” she murmured soothingly. “It’s over.”
Chapter Eighteen
There was a great deal of rejoicing when the last dancer freed himself from the sacred pole. Relatives came forward to congratulate those who had participated in the Dance. Gifts were given to those who had taken part in the ceremony.
Tasina Luta presented J.T. with a doeskin shirt. Bleached almost white, it was as soft as velvet. Long fringe dangled from the sleeves and the hem; there was a small red fox painted on the right shoulder.
Later, alone in their lodge, Brandy treated J.T.’s wounds. He had been strangely silent since the conclusion of the Dance. She had attributed it to the pain he must be feeling, but now, studying his face as she cleansed the blood from his chest, she wondered if there was something else troubling him.
“J.T., are you all right?”
He grunted softly, his expression distant.
Chewing on the inside of her lower lip, she spread the healing salve Wicasa Tankala had given her over J.T.’s wounds, then wrapped a length of soft cloth around his chest. That done, she offered him a cup of willow bark tea.
Sitting back on her heels, she watched him drain the cup and set it aside.
“J.T.?”
“I think I’ll turn in,” he said, not meeting her eyes.
Brandy nodded. She tried not to be hurt by his refusal to talk to her, but she couldn’t help it. Couldn’t help feeling that he was keeping something from her.
Her gaze moved over his long, lean body as he slipped, naked, under the buffalo robes.
She was staring into the fire, feeling strangely melancholy, when she felt him watching her.
“Brandy, I…” J.T. held out one hand. “Come here, love.”
She went to him quickly, eagerly, sliding under the blankets to lie beside him. Tears burned her eyes and she blinked them back.
J.T.’s arm curled around her, holding her close.
“Can’t you tell me?” Brandy asked softly. “Can’t you tell me what’s bothering you?”
J.T.’s arm tightened around her. “Not now.”
“I love you,” she said, a hint of desperation in her voice. She wanted so badly to help him, but, not knowing what was troubling him, she could think of nothing to offer him but the assurance that she loved him.
“I know.” His lips brushed her cheek. “I know.”
She remained awake long after J.T.’s even breathing told her he had fallen asleep. Staring into the darkness of the lodge, she felt her heart swell with love for the man lying beside her. Images of her husband flashed through her mind:
J.T. standing tall and straight while Wicasa Tankala pierced his flesh, his blood dripping down his chest like crimson tears. J.T. dancing around the sacred Sun Dance pole, his feet churning up little puffs of dun-colored dust, his muscles taut, his skin glistening with perspiration. She had felt the pain splintering through him as he pulled against his tether, had felt the heat of the sun beating down on his head, smelled the blood, the dust, the sweat.
In her mind, she heard his anguished cry as he freed himself from his tether and dropped to his knees and she knew, deep within her soul, that he had seen a vision, and that whatever he had seen had torn that anguished cry from the depths of his heart.
* * * * *
The camp returned to normal the following day. The ceremonial circle was broken, and during the next two weeks, the people began to disperse, the various Lakota bands going off to their favorite hunting grounds for the autumn hunt.
Wicasa Tankala’s band was the last to leave. To Brandy, it seemed as though the hallowed pole, still bearing its bright red banner, was waving a sad goodbye as they rode away from the campsite. Tasina Luta had told Brandy the Sun Dance pole was always left behind, to be blown down by the winter winds.
As the day went on, Brandy noticed that, as a man who had endured the Sun Dance, J.T. was now accorded a new measure of respect. The scars on his chest were a visible symbol of courage, marks of honor, a permanent reminder of his fortitude and selflessness.
On this day, as they embarked on the long journey toward the Black Hills, Brandy thought she had never seen a more beautiful sight in all the world than the man riding at her side. Dressed in a buckskin clout and the fringed shirt his grandmother had made him, and mounted on the big bay gelding, he was every inch the warrior, the epitome of what a Lakota male should be. His long black hair fluttered in the breeze, the afternoon sun caressed his broad back and shoulders. His profile was strong and proud.
He had changed since the Sun Dance. There was a new air of confidence about him that had been missing before, as if, at long last, he had discovered who he truly was, and where he belonged. His blood had watered the earth. He was a part of the land now, she thought, her throat swelling with emotion, a part of the People.
She had stopped fretting over whatever it was that had been troubling J.T.. He had not mentioned it again, and she had decided to let it go, telling herself that he would share it with her when he was ready.
The people traveled leisurely, stopping in one place or another for several days at a time. Occasionally, a group of men would go hunting, and then there would be a feast, with dancing and storytelling.
They spent a week cutting new lodge poles, and another week gathering vegetables and nuts. Tasina Luta showed Brandy how to make pemmican, how to dry venison and store it for winter use when meat might be scarce. With the old woman’s help, Brandy learned to cook deer and elk, porcupine and beaver. Wild potatoes, turnips, and onions were a welcome addition to a diet that relied heavily on fresh meat.
Tasina Luta taught Brandy how to cook fish in a small pit lined with leaves. She had her first taste of turtle soup, though she adamantly refused to even sample the squirrel stew that Tasina Luta served up one afternoon.
For Brandy, it was a whole new way of life. Living in Cedar Ridge had never been truly hectic, not when compared to the hustle and bustle of living in a big city like Los Angeles or Chicago, but there had been days when she felt as though she would never accomplish everything she had to do—days when she was so busy with teaching and meetings, with grading test papers and preparing class lessons in addition to finding time to do the cleaning and the shopping, that she hardly had time to find a moment to herself, to read a book, or simply sit and daydream.
How much more relaxed her life was now. There were no shopping malls or restaurants, but neither were there bills to pay, or phones to answer. There was no TV, but Wicasa Tankala had an endless supply of stories to tell. There was no stereo, but sometimes, late at night, she heard the plaintiff wail of a coyote, or the bittersweet notes of a flute as a warrior serenaded his lady love. Tasina Luta had told her that not just any flute
would do. It must be a special instrument, prepared by one of the Elk or Buffalo Dreamers. The big twisted flute was especially desired. Made of cedar and decorated with the likeness of a horse, it was believed to possess the most power.
However, a flute alone was not enough to win a woman’s heart. It must be accompanied by the magical music of love, the notes of which the shaman received in a dream.
Tasina Luta had told Brandy how her husband had courted her, following her to the river in hopes of seeing her alone for a few minutes, nights when he had sat outside her lodge and played his flute, the sweet trilling notes telling her of his love, of his hopes for the future. How romantic, Brandy had thought wistfully, to lie in bed and listen to the man you loved serenade you in the still of a quiet summer night.
When she wasn’t learning the ways of the Lakota, or listening to Tasina Luta tell stories of the old days, Brandy often wondered what was going on in Cedar Ridge. Who had taken over her class? What had happened to her house, her pets? What did her parents think about her mysterious disappearance?
Except for worrying about her parents and her animals, she was utterly content to be where she was. Sometimes, it seemed as if she had always worn a doeskin tunic and moccasins, as if she had always lived in a hide lodge and cooked outside over an open fire, as if the Lakota language was her native tongue, as if the vast open plains had always been her home.
Caught up in her love for J.T., she was content to let the days slip by. There was much to learn, to see, to do. And always J.T. was there. J.T., whose dark eyes caressed her, who whispered words of love and passion to her in the middle of the night. J.T.. He had become the center of her life, her world, making each day more precious than the last.
It was the first of October, the time of the year the Lakota called the Moon of Colored Leaves, that Brandy’s world turned upside down and Brandy realized that what she had only suspected was true.
She was pregnant. Only now did she realize that she hadn’t had a menstrual period for over a month.
She spent the next several days holding her secret close, trying to decide how to tell J.T., wondering what his reaction would be.
Two weeks later, she still hadn’t decided how to tell him. Had she been home in Cedar Ridge, she might have prepared a special dinner, complete with candles and wine and soft music. Since she couldn’t do that, she decided to improvise and that night she took J.T. on a picnic down by the river.
She spread a blanket near the water, and they ate venison and wild cabbage and berries. The water was beautiful in the moonlight.
“This was a good idea,” J.T. remarked, lying back on the blanket and drawing Brandy into his arms. “All that’s missing is a good bottle of whiskey and a cigar.”
“Sorry,” Brandy said, grinning, “but the local grocery store was all out of double bonded bourbon and Havana cigars.”
J.T. laughed softly. “You’re intoxicating enough for me, Brandy girl,” he murmured, his hands running up and down her spine. “I don’t need anything but you.”
She shivered as his lips slid along her neck, his breath feathering across her skin, making her shiver deep inside.
“Are you happy here, Brandy?” He kissed her shoulder, pressed his mouth to her breast.
“Very happy,” she murmured, suddenly breathless. “Are you?”
“You know I am.”
Brandy took a deep breath, and then said, in a rush, “Would you still be happy if I told you I was pregnant?”
J.T. went very still. “Are you?”
Brandy nodded, unable to speak past the lump of uncertainty in her throat.
J.T. swore softly. A baby. She was going to have a baby.
“How far along are you?”
“I’m not sure. About eight weeks, I think. Maybe a little less.”
Taking a deep breath, J.T. closed his eyes. It was mid-October. In his mind, he counted backward, then ticked off nine months. Assuming she’d gotten pregnant in August, the baby would be born sometime in… He swore softly. May.
“J.T.?”
May, he thought bleakly. He’d be cold in his grave by then.
“J.T., say something.”
“You asked if I’d be happy,” he said, slanting a glance in her direction. “What about you?”
“I’m glad about the baby,” Brandy said. “How can I help it? I love you. I want to have your children…” Her voice trailed off.
“I’m afraid you’ll have to settle for just one,” J.T. remarked, an edge of bitterness in his tone.
“J.T., what can I say? What can I do?”
“Nothing.” He sat up and pulled her into his arms. “I’m happy about the baby, Brandy, really I am. I kind of like the idea that there’ll be a part of me left behind when I’m…when I’m gone.”
The tears came then and she buried her face in his shoulder, railing at fate. It wasn’t fair! It just wasn’t fair.
“Have you told my grandmother?”
“No.” She sniffed back her tears. “I thought you’d want to tell her.”
“We’ll tell her tomorrow, together.”
* * * * *
J.T. woke in the darkness of early morning, plagued by a sense of foreboding. For a moment, he stared at the small slice of sky visible through the smoke hole, wondering what had roused him. Brandy stirred beside her and his arm tightened around her. Brandy. His woman. His wife, pregnant with his child.
He closed his eyes, wondering how it was possible to feel such joy and such misery at the same time. She was going to have a baby, and he would not be there to share it with her. He would never see his child, never see it smile or laugh, or walk or talk. Never know what it was like to wrestle with his son, or tuck his daughter into bed at night.
He would not be there to share Brandy’s happiness, to lend her his strength in times of trouble, to comfort her when the sad times came. She wouldn’t have a husband to provide for her, to protect her and the baby. Brandy would have to be both mother and father to their child, solely responsible for providing food and shelter.
Ah, Brandy, love, he thought, forgive me. Please, forgive me…
A sound from outside, faint yet ominous, drew his musings back to the present.
J.T. bolted upright, suddenly certain that something was wrong.
“What is it?” Brandy asked, blinking up at him.
“I don’t know. Stay here.”
He pulled on his clout, grabbed his rifle, and headed for the door.
It was then he heard it, a warning shout followed by a rapid burst of gunfire. And then the clear, ringing notes of a bugle pierced the night.
Cavalry!
J.T. glanced over his shoulder. Brandy was watching him, a look of alarm on her face as she started to get up.
“Stay here!” he ordered brusquely.
He was out the door before she could argue.
J.T. paused in front of his lodge, his gaze taking it all in a long sweeping glance. The far end of the village was under attack, and even as he watched, he saw soldiers riding through the camp, shooting at anything that moved.
Thunder accompanied the staccato bursts of rifle fire.
A woman ran screaming from a burning lodge, a baby cradled to her breast.
Wicasa Tankala stood in the doorway of his lodge, sighting down the barrel of a rifle.
A blue-clad trooper was engaged in hand-to-hand combat with a naked warrior.
The sounds of the battle grew more intense as the fight grew nearer.
And then there was no more time to watch, or to think, as a dozen soldiers came into view. Lifting his rifle, J.T. sighted down the barrel and squeezed the trigger, firing steadily.
Time lost all meaning. The faces of the men he killed blurred together, no longer individual faces, but the face of the enemy.
From the corner of his eye, he saw a soldier ride down an old woman. He saw Chatawinna plunge a skinning knife into a soldier’s back, saw Wicasa Tankala shoot one of the cavalrymen out of the saddle.
>
His nostrils filled with the scent of smoke and blood and death. His ears rang with the cries of the wounded, the keening wail of a woman, the sound of gunfire.
He felt his rage grow as he saw one of the troopers shoot a young girl in the back. The man was smiling when he pulled the trigger.
With a savage cry, J.T. launched himself at the man, dragging him from the back of his horse. With the Lakota war cry on his lips, J.T. ripped the man’s pistol from his hand and shot him. Blood sprayed over J.T.’s hands and face, bright red blood. The color of death. Of vengeance.
Caught up in the heat of the battle, he drew his knife and grabbed a handful of the man’s greasy blond hair. He was wholly Indian then as he took revenge for every lie, every act of betrayal perpetrated by the whites.
Rising, he glanced around the village, the demon within him wanting to strike again, to draw more blood.
But the battle was over. He stared at the bodies sprawled in the mud and realized, for the first time, that it was raining.
A convulsive shiver racked J.T.’s body from head to foot as he glanced around. The surviving soldiers had retreated, leaving their dead behind.
He whirled around, the knife clenched in his hand, as he sensed someone coming up behind him.
“J.T.?” It was Brandy, her face pale, her eyes wide with horror as she stared at him.
Slowly, he followed her gaze to the bloody scalp clutched in his hand.
“Are you all right?” she asked.
He nodded, sickened by the grisly trophy he had taken in the heat of battle.
Muttering an oath, he flung the scalp aside, then stood there, waiting for her to condemn him, but there was no censure in her eyes, only a growing expression of sadness and grief.
“J.T..” She stared up at him, tears forming in her eyes.
“What is it?” He forced the words past his lips, his body tensing as he waited for her to go on.
“Your grandmother…”
He didn’t wait for her to finish. With a wordless cry, he ran toward Tasina Luta’s lodge. She was lying outside, a gaping hole in the middle of her chest.
The Angel and the Outlaw Page 20