by Karen Kay
“So what happened?” she asked, receiving no reply except that of the lonesome whine of the wind.
She didn’t know, she just didn’t know, and as she eased up onto her knees, pulling her dress down in the process, she determined that he would not have another chance to dishonor her. She would pretend he meant nothing to her…even if it hurt her to do it. With intuitive insight, Julia thought her withdrawal from him might do just that.
Grimacing at her thoughts, she lay down to rest, and if she didn’t sleep well that night, she was at least comforted by the fact that Neeheeowee spent the night in the most restless fashion she could ever remember.
Served him right.
And with this unpleasant thought, she turned over, pulling the blanket with her, seeking in sleep the solace she had hoped to find elsewhere.
It had been a wet spring so far that year, and for this Neeheeowee was glad. At least there was still water there at the lower end of the Cimarron River. And Neeheeowee, knowing what lay to the north and east of the spring, drank gladly of the milky white substance that oozed into the deep hole he had dug from the river’s dry bed. He filled his water bag to overflowing with the unusual-looking white water and, gazing back at Julia, gestured her over toward the spring. But she didn’t respond, nor did she come forward, and Neeheeowee, looking back at her, debated what to do.
All at once he frowned, twisting his gaze away from her with a jerk of his head. His breathing quickened, his pulse raced, and moisture beaded up over his forehead. He shrugged.
What was he to do about Julia? About himself? The soldier town where she lived was still a moon, maybe more, away, and he realized that if he didn’t do something soon to curtail his response to her, he would not be able to ensure that she would arrive there with her honor still intact.
What was he to do? His action, only a moment ago, had been innocent, yet his gaze, quick though it had been, had looked at her, at all the beauty of her, and his body had responded as though he could make love to her right now, in this spot.
And it was worse: The ache within him was spreading farther and farther afield, the hardening of his body demanding attention. Neeheeowee set his lips together. This craving for her was becoming too constant a companion these past few days, ever since that night he had attended to her, and Neeheeowee had begun wondering if his groin would ever return to its more normal size. As it was, he felt nearly crippled over of this sensual appetite he felt toward her, and he wondered if Julia knew of his discomfort.
He gazed over to her now, realizing his mistake at once, for his body responded with newfound excitement, that area of his body causing him such pain growing larger.
But he couldn’t help it. She looked good, beautiful, and he stared and he stared at her, from the bottoms of her moccasins up farther, over her gown of elk skin and beads. Unable to deny himself, he found his glance lingering there where the beads on her gown, set in round circles, hovered over her breasts.
A force hit him in the gut, and he shot his gaze up to her face, outlined by her dark hair blowing back in the wind.
She looked wild, she looked potent, she looked…Indian.
But Neeheeowee knew she wasn’t. He shook his head and turned his gaze away, attempting not to remember the exact differences in race that were hidden so well beneath that Indian garb.
He silently chastised himself. Why could he not put aside this lust for her?
He looked back to what he was doing, and taking one last drink of the chalky white substance called “water,” he motioned Julia forward once again. But she didn’t move, and he set his gaze back to her, studying her features more thoroughly.
She glanced at the awful-looking stuff in disgust, causing Neeheeowee to wonder about her. Didn’t she understand that there weren’t many places at this point along the river where water could be found, even if dug? Didn’t she know the barren straits that lay ahead of them? The land his people called “land of no water”?
He supposed she might not, even though she had lived close by to this country for at least seven years, perhaps longer. But then, being a woman, maybe she had never traveled this far south and west.
He frowned. It would be his duty to educate her, it being no easy task since they neither one seemed able to deny the passion that sprang up between them whenever they were close.
So far it was a circumstance they mutually avoided. Still…
He glanced over to her, carefully masking any thought or emotion from his expression. Again, he motioned her forward.
“Mahpe,” he said, gesturing toward his water bags. Then, shaking his head, he said, “Hova’ahane mahpe ese’he-tsexe-heseme’enese notama,” and motioning toward the north and east, he tried to make her understand there would be no more water until they hit the big river where all streams flow into it, the river the white man called the Arkansas.
Still she did not come forward, nor did she drink the water, and Neeheeowee struggled to determine what to do. He would not force the water upon her; he could also think of no way to make her understand, which left him little choice. He would have to prepare another water bag, since she would soon come to learn why Indian and white man, alike, drank from this spring, despite the water’s awful appearance.
Straightening, he stepped over to the pony, pulling another bag from his parfleche, and taking it back to the spring he’d just dug, he began to fill it with the white-colored water. Hopefully it would be enough to see both the pony and Julia through this next stretch of land that the Mexicans called the Jornada, a desert march.
He could only pray it would be so. At least, he thought with slight self-disgust, the march up ahead would keep his thoughts from Julia, a condition he would more than welcome.
Also, the hard journey might help to relieve this pressure in his groin, the ache there becoming worse and worse each day.
Yes, he would welcome the hard march, yet he would make the journey across the Jornada as quick as possible. He would have to, he thought as a scowl crossed his face. He would have to because until he reached the end of the Jornada, there would be no further opportunities to take a cold bath.
And with Julia’s presence ever beside him, a cold bath was fast becoming more and more a necessity.
Chapter Eight
“Pawnee Rock,” Julia said, looking out upon their campsite which ran from a tree-lined stream up to what was the highest point on this, the flat, boundless plains. Julia knew this place, recognizing Pawnee Rock by its sheer black walls rising a good fifty feet above the flat, endless prairie.
“Did you know,” she asked of Neeheeowee even though she knew he couldn’t understand, “that this place is named for a fight that took place between the Comanche and Pawnee, where the Comanche wiped out a small, but terribly defiant group of Pawnee.”
There were hundreds of names inscribed on that black rock up there, homesteaders passing through the country, leaving their signatures behind to pass into history, but she said nothing of this to Neeheeowee, not sure how to describe the concept of writing.
She remembered hearing that Pawnee Rock was also a prime camping spot for the pioneers, despite the frequency of Indian raids and attacks. Nestled in the shade of the hill, it provided the pioneers’ herds with ample grazing land and the people with water from the nearby Arkansas River.
Food was no problem either. Game abounded here, antelope, wild turkey, deer, and the ever-present scattering of buffalo.
Seated in a safe spot, under a nearby cottonwood tree, Julia let her gaze turn to the south, to the sand hills of the Arkansas valley, as barren and forlorn as the African desert, but seeing nothing there, she looked westward, over the unmarred stretch of prairie, her gaze searching out the herds of buffalo and antelope dotting the landscape.
They had been traveling from that way for some time now, and always, after they had reached the Arkansas River, there had been buffalo. But before that, before they had reached the river, there had been nothing.
She remem
bered again the harshness of the last few weeks of traveling. It had been a cruel trek across what she now came to realize had been the Jornada, or Horn Alley, as the Americans called it: a desert march.
She remembered being glad to drink of the chalky white substance Neeheeowee had called mahpe, not even caring anymore if the water might be contaminated.
It was also during this time that she’d become aware that they traveled the Santa Fe Trail, and she remembered wondering if she might come across white travelers. So far, though, she had seen no one…up until now.
She looked down again upon the scene below her, her gaze taking in the herd of buffalo that seemed to stretch out to the horizon. Sometimes she and Neeheeowee had been forced to move amongst those numerous herds these past few days, Neeheeowee seemingly at ease over it, Julia half-afraid of the huge beasts. Often they would follow a buffalo trail, seeking out the hollows where buffalo had lain down and rolled over and over, these spots dotting the flat, endless land as though they were shimmering aqua beads strung out on a necklace of brown and green grasses.
It was in these hollows that she and Neeheeowee would water the pony and stock up on their own water supply, if low.
She smiled, watching the sun as it began to set in the western sky, the magnificence of color there, the golds and pinks, the reds and oranges, unlike anything she’d ever seen, and as Julia watched it, she experienced a sense of well-being that was as pleasurable as it was unusual. There was something about this limitless space that did something to her: the prairie that looked more silver than green under the hot, spring sun; the grasses that waved in the wind; the expanse of sky and high clouds. Even the air seemed magnified in purity, and she breathed it in now with a satisfied sigh.
She listened to the wind, the breeze blowing the faraway sounds of the trailblazers to her.
She supposed she might have gone down there to them, since they camped so close by, but she didn’t and she wouldn’t, content to continue her travels with her Indian companion, her proud wolf.
Yes, that was how she had come to think of Neeheeowee now: Proud Wolf. It was difficult not to picture him this way; not when he tilted his head a certain way, sometimes looking down his nose at her, although she knew it was all a facade.
She wondered again at how the white man had ever come to think of the Indian woman as a slave. Clearly there were divisions of labor as to the men’s and women’s work, but Neeheeowee did not balk at taking on her tasks when she didn’t know them or couldn’t do them.
And never did he scold her nor make her feel his inferior. Never.
In truth, she had never felt so cherished.
Still, there was something else: She had never asked, she had not thought to, but she had come to understand that Neeheeowee was taking her back to Fort Leavenworth. Another chivalrous move on his part.
She straightened up, away from the tree, looking out upon the camp that Neeheeowee had pitched. Stretched out beneath a canopy of cottonwood trees, their site disappeared into the landscape. And she knew it would take more than a little expertise for anyone, even an Indian, to find their camp.
She had noticed that Neeheeowee made no moves to light a fire this night, and Julia could only assume that was because of the close presence of the pioneers. And though she had come to realize that Neeheeowee did not much fear the white man, he did go out of his way to avoid them.
She glanced over to Neeheeowee now and watched him as he worked at camp chores, untying his bow, working over the wood, even chipping away at an arrowhead and shaft. These actions had become so commonplace to her of late, she barely even noticed him doing them.
As though aware of her scrutiny, Neeheeowee inclined his head just slightly before turning it quickly to his left, a gesture which had become familiar to Julia, and she couldn’t help but believe it an Indian custom, with some meaning to it.
He looked over to her, his expression stoic, unreadable.
“Ta-naestse,” he said, making a gesture toward her, indicating her voice. With a lift of his shoulders, he gave her to understand that he asked a question and Julia realized she had been humming, something she’d not been aware of until this moment. She stopped, but he motioned her to continue and then, possibly by way of a compliment, he smiled.
Julia was immediately captivated; so rarely did he honor her with such an expression.
She smiled back and continued to hum in tune along with the lazy fiddle, whose notes drifted up to them from the pioneer camp below. She knew the song being played down there and had she felt more at ease she might have sung along, but, being a little self-conscious, she contented herself with a mere hum.
At length, she rose, wandering to the edge of the ridge and there, looked over to the pioneer camp. Dusk had fallen all around her, bringing with it the scent of the pioneers’ campfire, the soft feel of evening air, and the nightly squawk of prairie hawks. Also, too, were the sounds of laughter and of happy music which filtered up to her. All at once, a sense of melancholy overcame her, and Julia wondered at the cause. Perhaps it was only her desire to be near to the things she had once known, or perhaps it was simply the melancholy which she had heard so often attached itself to the prairie traveler.
Whatever the cause, Julia began to recall the dances, the jigs, the excitement of being young, unattached, and in love, the thrill of being asked to dance by the most handsome of beaus.
Caught up in her reminiscence, she swayed to the rhythm of a jig, her feet finding their way into the simple steps of the dance. And all at once, she twirled once, again, until at length she spread her arms, spinning round and round, the leather fringe of her gown flowing outward and swaying like so much prairie grass in the wind.
She smiled as a slower waltz took over the beat and melody, remembering when she’d danced to this very song not so long ago.
And without even thinking about it, she curtsied as though to a suitor.
“Oh, my, yes,” she said to this most handsome of imaginary partners. “I’d be more than happy to accept this dance.”
Her arms came up to rest on her partner’s strong, invisible shoulders as he began to twirl her around and around the carpet of prairie grass, the hard earth beneath her feet her dance floor, the darkened sky overhead her ballroom.
“Are you planning to ask me to walk with you in the garden after the dance?” Julia asked into her shadowy partner’s ear, throwing her head back while the dark curls of her hair fell down around her waist.
She giggled as she pretended her fanciful partner’s reply, deeming it to be a most naughty of answers, and she feigned a blush, saying softly, “Why sir, how dare you speak to me as such.”
But when she smiled, it took the edge off her words, so that the dreamy figure holding her continued to whisper to her, the words so terribly naughty, it made Julia laugh.
She reached down, to sweep the train of her fictitious gown over her arm and then it happened.
Neeheeowee stood before her, stepping into her arms as though he were her fancied prince, his very real arms encircling her, his hand over hers.
His steps were smooth and slow, his look at her intense under the beginning shadows of a softened night.
She matched his steps, looking up to meet his gaze.
The moon appeared as an imperfect disk in the soft hush of evening, its radiance already beaming down, basking them in a glow of silvery light, and, as she looked up to him, Julia thought Neeheeowee more handsome than anyone of her acquaintance, and at this moment he bore more traits of what is considered the civilized man than anyone else, white or red.
Her one hand rested over his smooth shoulder, her other hand he clasped tightly within his own and he twirled her around their ballroom of softened prairie grass and hushed, moon-filled night. They danced as though to the tune of a hundred violins with thousands of spectators watching, yet they danced only for themselves.
The music from below had long ago ceased to play, but not so these two dancers. They swept around the
circle there on the ridge, each twirl bringing her closer and closer into his arms, neither one aware that they danced to none other than the music of their own hearts.
His head came breathlessly close to hers, his lips hovering over her own and Julia, looking up, begged him silently for his kiss, her gaze pleading, her lips trembling.
She didn’t have to wait. As he completed the one last twirl, his lips pressed sweetly over hers and Julia responded as though she had waited all her life for this moment, or more particularly, seven and one-half years.
“Julia,” he murmured, his tongue sweeping into her mouth while his teeth bit gently down on her lip. His breath, tasting minty and sweet, mixed with her own.
Suddenly they stopped, her body thrust up close to his, the imprint of his masculine form forever pressed into her memory. He bent a little lower, his gaze seeking out hers until, at last, he kissed her…once, twice, again, this time raining kisses over her face, then, down to her neck, tracing the pulse at her neck with his tongue.
“Julia,” he groaned again, and she felt the unmistakable evidence of his desire pressed up against her.
“Love me,” she pleaded, and she might have surrendered to him right then. But she didn’t.
A gun fired off in the distance, near to the pioneer camp.
The two lovers pulled apart, Julia barely able to move, her gaze still lingering over Neeheeowee, from the silvery outline of his dark hair down over his chest, still lower to his…
She gasped and he seemed to swell.
He grabbed her hand, bringing it closer and closer to him, until with a shudder, he seemed to realize what he was doing and let her hand go, let her go, and, stepping away from her, he took several deep breaths.
But he didn’t leave. He did nothing, staring at her as though that action alone would fulfill his need.
But it didn’t. He didn’t, and as though he at last gained control over himself, he turned swiftly away, striding so quickly from her that Julia was reminded of the swift movements of an agitated stallion.