Wind Rider

by Connie Mason

  Summer Moon had been invited to share Woman-Who-Waddles’s lodge, and Wind Rider had given permission. She had settled into her new home and seemed to get along well with her Sioux sisters. Mourning rituals demanded that she slash her arms and cut her hair, but the disfiguring wounds she had inflicted upon herself were beginning to heal. Wind Rider also noticed that Coyote was taking an uncommon interest in the young widow.

  But Wind Rider was restless. His heart and body dwelt in different places. Try though he might, he could not forget Hannah. He was torn, torn between his Indian upbringing and his white heritage. Part of him wanted to leave the People and find Hannah, and part of him wanted to forget Hannah ever existed and continue to fight the enemy. Matters did not improve when he could summon neither the passion nor the will to make love to Spotted Doe. He did not want her. Spotted Doe grew so angry over his neglect that she threatened to divorce him.

  The situation finally reached a head when Spotted Doe forced a confrontation. “I should have joined with Runs-Like-A-Deer,” she spat angrily. “He would not become obsessed with a woman who hated him.”

  Wind Rider stared at her. Was it true? Did Hannah really hate him? “Perhaps it would be best if you did divorce me,” he said with a lack of any real interest. “I cannot find comfort in a woman’s body right now. You are beautiful and desirable, Spotted Doe, but another man would appreciate you more than I.”

  Spotted Doe had had about all she could take. After Little Sparrow left she had naturally assumed that Wind Rider would turn to her for comfort, but it had not happened. She searched his face, seeing things she had not noticed before. She had always known he was white, but until now she had never realized just how very much he looked like a white man. He had not one Indian feature or trait. His skin was golden, true, but the color was due entirely to the sun. His eyes were silver, not black or brown, and he was taller than most Indians. It suddenly occurred to her that she didn’t want a child who looked white.

  “You are right,” she said with scathing contempt, “I am sure another man would appreciate me more than you. I was blinded by your handsome features, but I do not want a man who does not want me. You are white. Cut Nose spoke the truth when he said you cannot change the blood flowing through your veins. You fight for the People now, but one day your loyalty will change.” Bitterness made her voice harsh. “I divorce you, Wind Rider. I hope Runs-Like-A-Deer still wants me. Go find your white woman, if you must. I wish you joy of her.”

  Wind Rider said nothing as Spotted Doe gathered her belongings. Once she left his lodge everyone in the village would know she had divorced him. But he did not care. Nothing seemed to matter anymore. The foundation upon which he had built his life lay in shambles. He no longer knew who or what he was: Cheyenne or white, Wind Rider or Ryder Larson. His Indian father was dead. There was only his sister now . .. and Hannah. After White Feather’s tragic death he felt his ties to the Indians unraveling. His thoughts were in turmoil, his mind troubled. Never in his adult life had he felt such overwhelming confusion. Not since he had first arrived at White Feather’s village as a young boy.

  Spotted Doe left the lodge without bidding Wind Rider good-bye. She saw no reason to tell him she had lied about Little Sparrow. Let him go through life thinking the woman he cared for hated him, she thought spitefully.

  Wind Rider watched without emotion as Spotted Doe left his lodge. He felt nothing but relief. He had married two women and made them both miserable. Now he was alone. He had always seen himself as a loner, without a wife or children to mourn his passing. He had hinted as much to his sister many moons ago, before he left the Cheyenne village.

  Tears Like Rain ... Abby. How he longed to see his sister. He would have a niece or nephew by now, he realized abruptly. Abby would have liked Hannah, he thought with a touch of sadness. Bitterly, he shoved the notion from his brain. Hannah didn’t want him. She hated him. She was as far out of his reach as the moon. Or was she?

  “Something troubles you, my brother.” Coyote approached Wind Rider cautiously. Since Wind Rider had returned and found his wife gone he hadn’t been the same man. He had seemed more relieved than annoyed that Spotted Doe had divorced him and was now being courted by Runs-Like-A-Deer.

  “Many things trouble me,” Wind Rider acknowledged.

  “You mourn your woman.” It was a statement rather than a question.

  “I mourn the loss of my identity. I no longer know who I am,” Wind Rider admitted with self-derision. “I hear voices calling to me and I know not where they come from. My mind is torn, my soul overburdened.”

  “She did not want to go,” Coyote said.

  Wind Rider looked at him sharply. “What!” Was he referring to Little Sparrow? “How do you know this?”

  “She told me.”

  “I find that difficult to believe. Her heart is false. Like most white eyes, she speaks with a forked tongue.”

  “You must find the answer within yourself,” Coyote advised. “Perhaps you should seek a vision. I can see that you are greatly troubled. Only the Great Spirit can guide you. If you wish it, I will go with you to the purification hut to pray and fast. I believe it is the only way/’

  Coyote was a medicine man, and Wind Rider recognized the wisdom of his words. He had no idea if a vision would reveal something to him, but for his peace of mind he was willing to try.

  With difficulty, Wind Rider made his way up the wooded hillside to the crest of the hill overlooking the village. He wore only a brief breechclout and moccasins. His cheeks and chest were slashed with white and red paint. When he reached the top he walked to the edge of a ledge, balancing on the balls of his feet as he thrust his arms high above his head. Fervently he beseeched Heammawihio to grant him a vision. Then he prayed for strength, and the courage to follow the sign, should he be fortunate enough to receive one.

  From the medicine bag hanging around his neck he removed tobacco, offering a pinch to the Man Above, to Mother Earth, and to the four directions. The wind snatched it from his fingers and flung it aloft. Then he offered his hunger and thirst, for he would neither eat nor drink until his vision appeared. If that did not prove to be enough, he would pierce his skin with his knife and offer his blood. Having done all that was required of him, Wind Rider sat down on the ledge, crossed his legs, and rested his arms on his knees. He chanted and prayed, staring sightlessly into the sun, and when night came he focused his gaze on the moon.

  At the end of the second day Wind Rider’s lips were dry, his throat parched and his tongue swollen, but he felt neither hunger nor thirst. When no vision came he pulled out his knife and slashed the flesh of his arms, offering his blood as a symbol of his sincerity. But still no sign came from the Great Spirit.

  On the third day he was weak and dizzy. Time lost all meaning as he stared fixedly at the sun, chanted, and prayed for a sign from the Great Spirit. He believed deeply in the magic of a medicine dream. He had experienced one years ago, one that had provided him with his name, and he prayed desperately for another.

  He thought of Hannah, of how deeply she had hurt him by lying to the blue coat. True, she had been his slave, but he had protected her, not harmed her. He had loved her. ...

  It had cut him to the quick when he heard how eager she had been to leave with the blue coat, and he desperately needed a sign to give his life direction. Should he go after Little Sparrow or remain with the People? His heart was Cheyenne, but he could not deny that he was white by birth. Did the Great Spirit want him to leave the People? How could he do it? He hated white eyes. He should hate Hannah for lying about him. He did hate her. If that statement was true, why then was his mind troubled? Why was his heart beset by pain? For the first time in his adult life Wind Rider felt fear. Meeting Hannah McLin had changed him.

  Hunger and thirst carried Wind Rider to the brink of total collapse as he spun in and out of consciousness. He had prayed and fasted for three days and had received no sign, no vision. Perhaps he would die atop the hill, he spe
culated, and the People would know he had not been worthy enough to receive a vision. He picked up his knife and pierced his flesh, once again offering his blood to the gods. His head dropped to his painted chest. He welcomed the chill of the night air against his flesh. Slowly, he raised his eyes to stare at the moon . . . and a vision appeared before his eyes like magic, gradually sharpening until it was spread out before him in its entirety.

  Groggy from lack of food and water, Wind Rider clutched desperately at the vision he had finally been granted. Still seated, trancelike, upon the ledge, Wind Rider saw two paths spreading outward from where he sat, stretching across the dark sky. He saw himself rise and place one foot on either path. Several feet from the ledge the paths curved outward, one to the left and one to the right. A warrior in full battle regalia awaited at the end of the path curving to the right.

  A guttural cry slipped past Wind Rider’s lips when he recognized White Feather, his foster father. Then he shifted his gaze to the path curving to the left. Two women stood at the end of that path. One was Hannah and the other a woman he was certain he had never seen before. She had sable brown hair that surrounded her head in a riot of curls, white skin, and gray eyes. She was smiling; Wind Rider knew that because he could see the skin crinkle at the corners of her eyes, as if she was accustomed to smiling a great deal. Both White Feather and the women were beckoning to him.

  Wind Rider felt keenly the indecision and the physical pain of the man poised with one foot on either path. Then he saw something strange indeed. He noticed that each half of his image was dressed differently, as if his inner self was split into separate beings. His right side was clad in Indian garb and his left side wore white man’s clothing. He grasped the implication of the vision immediately.

  The path leading to White Feather was the spirit path. If he took it, he would remain with the People and walk the spirit path to death. But if he chose the other path he understood instinctively that he could never return to the People.

  On the other hand, Hannah awaited him in the white man’s world, Hannah and another woman he didn’t recognize. She resembled Abby, yet wasn’t Abby. Wind Rider cringed at his choices. Wanting Hannah when she obviously didn’t want him was a weakness, a flaw that he attributed to his white blood. Conflicting thoughts and emotions whirled inside his head as his vision began to fade away. But before the shadowy forms disappeared completely he saw his image firmly plant both feet on the left-hand path and walk toward Hannah.

  He cried out in dismay as the two paths became nothing more than moonbeams and the people beckoning to him slowly evaporated into the misty heavens. The man walking the path merged with the motionless body sitting on the ledge. And when the vision began to disintegrate into shadows and vapors and his soul returned to his body he slumped to the ground, unconscious.

  His mouth was dry, his hunger acute. His swollen tongue flicked out to drag across his cracked lips. The vision was still so clear in his mind, it took several minutes for Wind Rider’s body to react to his mind’s direction that he rise and leave the mountain.

  When he found the strength to return to the village, a promising dawn heralded another day. After Wind Rider had slaked his thirst and appeased his hunger he sat with Coyote inside his lodge and related the details of his vision. The medicine man listened intently, saying nothing until Wind Rider had finished speaking. After the long narration he stared fixedly at Wind Rider for several long minutes, searching the depths of his soul.

  “How do you interpret the vision, Coyote?” Wind Rider asked. Though he was more or less certain what it meant, he nevertheless wanted the medicine man’s opinion.

  “I think you have already guessed that you walk two paths, Wind Rider. You have known for years that the day would come when you would be forced to make a decision.”

  “I’ve tried not to think about it,” Wind Rider admitted. “My heart is Cheyenne.”

  “But your skin is white and you love a white woman. The Great Spirit has shown you your choices, and you may choose the warpath if you wish. Only know that if you do, you will meet White Feather in the spirit world very soon.”

  “And if I follow the path to the white man’s world?”

  Coyote shrugged. “I do not know what lies in store for you.”

  “What about Hannah and the other woman?”

  Coyote closed his eyes, seeing things not even Wind Rider knew. “Your heart is troubled. You are confused. I understand your dilemma but cannot help you. It is something you must decide for yourself. If you choose the white path, your life will no longer be a simple one. If you want Little Sparrow, you will have many problems to overcome.”

  “I’m not sure I want her,” Wind Rider mumbled beneath his breath.

  Coyote smiled knowingly. “If you walk the white path it will be because you want her. As for the other woman, all I can tell you is that she is someone you know.”

  Wind Rider frowned. “I did not recognize her. I know few white women besides Hannah/’

  “You will recognize her when you see her.”

  Weary beyond words, Wind Rider grew introspective, recalling with haunting sweetness how Hannah had taught him to kiss and how wonderfully her body responded to his touch.

  Coyote’s question jolted him back to the present. “Have you made a decision, Wind Rider?”

  “Heammawihio has set my feet on the path he wishes me to follow and I will obey, but I know nothing of white men’s customs. I have no money; I own nothing of value. How can I survive in a hostile world? And what about Summer Moon and her child? Who will support her if I leave?”

  “If you tell Summer Moon her mourning is over, I will join with her. I think she will be agreeable. Her son will become my son.”

  Wind Rider felt as if a great weight had been lifted from him. Responsibility for Summer Moon had weighed heavily upon him.

  “You can sell the furs you trapped during the winter. They are prime and should bring a good price. I will help by giving you ten horses as a bride price for Summer Moon. You can dispose of them at the fort.”

  “Ten horses! It is far too generous.”

  Coyote shook his head. “Not generous enough, my friend. Summer Moon is worth the price.”

  Wind Rider closed his eyes, aware that all the obstacles to pursuing Hannah had slowly disappeared. Clearly Heammawihio had set both his feet on the white man’s path. His vision had shown him leaving the Indian Nation. He would find Hannah, he decided. But could he face her without anger? He doubted it. Could he face life without her? He doubted that even more. And even if he managed to reach Hannah, how would he gain her freedom from her cruel master?

  A shudder rippled through him. He remembered her pitiful condition when he had first seen her and wasn’t certain he could keep himself from killing the man who had abused her. The thought of her going back to being an indentured servant made his blood boil. It didn’t even matter that she had lied about him to the blue coat; she was his wife. He had joined with her according to Indian custom; she belonged to him.

  “I have never known such fear,” Wind Rider admitted in a voice he hardly recognized. Cheyenne warriors feared nothing yet here he was, admitting that he feared the future in a world he despised, with people he hated. “But Heammawihio has spoken. Visions do not lie. Heammawihio has set my feet on a path I would not have consciously chosen for myself. He must have a reason, though I cannot see it now. I will obey.”

  Chapter Twelve

  Wind Rider rode into Fort Laramie, surprised to find no wall or stockade surrounding the outpost. He had never been this far north before and was amazed to discover that the fort had not been attacked in its entire history.

  Before he left the village he had taken his knife and cut his hair. It was a symbolic act, and one that caused him a great deal of anguish. As the thick black locks fell to the ground he felt as if he was severing his final link to the Indian Nation. It was a sobering thought that brought him little joy. It was unthinkable that he would desert
his people for a white woman, but Heammawihio had spoken and he must follow. Yet something deep inside Wind Rider told him that the Great Spirit had looked into his heart before granting him a vision. Self-derision was bitter on his tongue. How could he still desire a woman who wanted nothing to do with him, who had deliberately lied about him?

  He wanted to punish Hannah for lying, for leaving him, for destroying his pride, but he wanted something more. Something that only his heart knew.

  Leading a string of horses, one carrying the furs he hoped to trade, Wind Rider roused scant curiosity as he rode through the fort. He exuded a restless, forceful energy that was evident in the proud tilt of his head and his watchful, narrowed eyes. He wore buckskins, for he had no other clothing, but that wasn’t unusual. Many men wore buckskins in this part of the country. The stark angles of his face were shadowed by the slant of his battered felt hat, given to him by Runs-Like-A-Deer, who had taken it during a raid.

  Coyote had contributed a pair of scuffed leather boots that fit well enough but felt strange on his feet. He had contributed the saddle himself, part of the loot he had taken during his months of raiding with the Sioux. He had decided at the last minute that he would raise less suspicion if he used a saddle, though his pony was unshod.

  His eyes moved restlessly from left to right, searching, vigilant. He felt uncomfortable amid so many white eyes, but his innate pride did not desert him as he reined in his mount, dismounted, and tossed the reins over a hitching post. Since he had only a rudimentary knowledge of the written language, learned when he was a small lad, he asked directions to the quartermaster, having been told by Coyote that that was where he should take the horses he wished to sell. Coyote, who had had dealings with white eyes in the past, also mentioned the price Wind Rider could expect.

  “What can I do for you, mister?” The lieutenant behind the desk eyed Wind Rider curiously.