“You are so beautiful, Walking Grass,” he whispered, untying the rawhide belt at her waist. He pulled it away and let the dress fall to her feet, his breath catching at the sight of her. Seeing her this way was much more pleasing than when he had seen her naked the day of the Crow battle; this time she was his wife. He looked her over, her full, delicious breasts, slender waist and flat belly, the small patch of hair covering what he desired most, her slim thighs and firm bottom. He turned and retrieved his knife from his weapons belt, then turned to her and held it to the chastity rope, quickly cutting it.
After putting his knife away Blue Hawk picked her up and lay her on the bed of robes she had prepared for them. When he straightened and removed his loincloth, he saw her swallow with wonder and apprehension. He knelt down beside her, reaching over to a bowl of scented oil and dipping his hands into it.
“Soon it will be over,” he told her, rubbing the oil onto his hands and then placing them on her shoulders, gently rubbing, massaging in circular motions down and over her breasts, her stomach, his fingers coming daringly close to her secret place.
She wanted to curl up in bashfulness, yet his gentle touch made her lie still, glad that she saw great satisfaction in his eyes at the sight of her nakedness.
“There will be some pain,” he told her. “I will not lie to you. But that is always the way it is. And then the pain goes away. This I promise. Once, twice, three times I will make love to you before it goes away completely.” His hands moved over her thighs and then her calves, all the way to her feet and up again.
“Turn over, my wife,” he told her. She obeyed, her trembling lessened by his relaxing massage. Again he oiled his hands, and again he placed them at her shoulders, moving down her back and over her bottom, thighs and calves. “Soon you will want me as eagerly as I want you this moment. Sometimes it will be you who comes after me in the night.”
His hands moved up again, and she gasped as he gently moved one hand between her legs. He felt the warm moistness that told him she shared his desire. He bent down and kissed her bottom, and fire swept through her in a raging inferno.
After that everything seemed like a strange dream. He turned her over again, and then he was hovering over her, his mouth gently sucking at her breasts, drawing out her wild desires. His hands were searching, his fingers pushing inside of her and making her cry out in eager, youthful desire until a great explosion ripped through her insides, a glorious wave of heated ecstasy making her cry out his name. In the next moment he was on top of her, his manhood pressing against her belly, his mouth searching her own, whispering beautiful words of love, apologizing that he would hurt her. But it didn’t matter.
And then came the surprising pain that made her gasp. He grasped her bottom and pushed, knowing he was hurting her but unable to stop himself. It must be done. And this was not like anything he had experienced with Emily Stoner. This was so much more fulfilling, for he loved this woman, and she loved him. They had fought side by side and saved each other’s lives. He had killed the man who would have claimed her, and the thought of Fire Wolf doing this to her brought forth a jealousy that made him push deeper.
He moved gently but rhythmically, allowing his life to spill into her quickly so she did not have to endure the pain for too long.
It was over then. She was his wife in every sense, and never in his life had Blue Hawk been happier. He was in love, and he had claimed the virgin he had wanted since the first day he rode into her village many months before. It seemed this was the seal of his vow to stay in this land forever, with these people. He would never go back to the white man’s world.
Chapter
Twelve
THE winter of 1811–1812 brought to Blue Hawk what seemed to be his final peace, his final home, his final family. He forgot Bo’s words about how young he was, how he would experience many things in life. Walking Grass was all he wanted to experience, and through that late winter her belly grew with his child. His joy knew no bounds. She was more than he could have ever hoped for, and it seemed their passion only grew with time. Now it was Walking Grass who wore the blue quill necklace, a love gift from Blue Hawk. It seemed all his life he had been searching to belong, and now he did, here in the wilds that bordered the Great Plains, with the Cheyenne, with Walking Grass.
But he did not forget his promise to Tom Sax, and in the spring he made a very difficult decision. Walking Grass was with child and could not make the trip with him, but he could not allow Tom to go to the meeting place and find no one there. He had hurt the man enough. Blue Hawk had received nothing but love and devotion from Tom Sax, and he couldn’t simply walk out on Tom without a word. Tom would go to meet him, and Blue Hawk must go, too. Walking Grass understood, and she sent him off with her prayers and a good supply of food.
When neither Tom Sax nor Bo Sanders showed up at the meeting place, Blue Hawk knew something was wrong. A feeling of doom settled over him. If not for Walking Grass, he would have gone to Fort Dearborn to find out what had happened, but that was impossible. He waited as long as he could, then headed back to the Cheyenne, his heart heavy. It hurt to think he had never seen Tom after the night he fled, leaving the already devastated man even more alone. When he thought of it, he also thought of Emily Stoner, and he hated her all the more. Now he would have to wait another whole winter to find out what had happened to Tom. Already two years had gone by since he had fled Fort Dearborn. At eighteen he looked and felt much older. Tom Sax would be ageing. Was he even alive? What would he do if the man again did not show the next spring? He could not go all the way back and leave Walking Grass alone for so long, nor could he take her to that place. He could only hope and pray that Tom would be there when he came back again, and pray that in the meantime the man knew Blue Hawk was with him in spirit.
The feeling of doom would not leave him, not even after he returned to find Walking Grass well and unharmed; not even when she gave birth to a fine, healthy son. Although the boy was born a Cheyenne among Cheyenne, Blue Hawk chose to call him Tom. He was born in late June of 1812 during the Moon of the Ripening Strawberries. The tribe left the next month to travel north for the Sun Dance. Sixteen-year-old Walking Grass rode proudly beside her husband on the gray gelding, the papoose on her back. For a wife to ride on her own horse was a sign of prominence, the woman of a good warrior who had many horses. Since their belongings were packed on their other two mounts, they did not even need a travois.
Walking Grass had only been delivered for three weeks, but she felt strong and enjoyed the journey. It was a good time, a happy time, but Blue Hawk could not stop thinking about Tom, nor shake the dark feeling that hung over him. It was on a morning just as they were awakening to break camp and keep traveling that the darkness fell.
The Crow came to reclaim some of their own women, to win back their horses and avenge Cheyenne attacks on their villages. It was a neverending saga, and no one knew where it had started. This time there was no opportunity for Caleb to grab even his weapons belt. A horse thundering by and their tipi being sliced with a hunting knife was what woke them.
Blue Hawk grabbed his tomahawk, the same trusty Chippewa weapon Black Antelope had given him.
“Out! Get out,” he yelled to Walking Grass, who grabbed up the baby and ran, stark naked, out of the tipi. Blue Hawk followed, wearing only his loin cloth.
This time there were many Crow, and their attack was well planned. They seemed to be everywhere, and Cheyenne men, women and children were running helter-skelter, screaming, heading for a ravine not far away. Men scrambled for weapons and horses, and Blue Hawk saw Proud Eagle go down.
Blue Hawk ducked and leaped, swinging his tomahawk in every direction. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Walking Grass suddenly grabbed by the hair and lifted, still clinging to her son. Sweet Seed Woman ran past, knowing what must be done. She had no hope of helping Walking Grass, so she grabbed the baby from the young woman’s arms and ran with him toward the ravine, while a Crow warrior, his fa
ce painted grotesquely in black, hung on to Walking Grass.
Blue Hawk ran toward the Crow warrior who was trying to get Walking Grass onto his mount. He grabbed at Walking Grass but could not get a good hold on her because of the Crow’s swinging tomahawk, which Blue Hawk feared would end up hurting his wife. Her slender body was tossed and battered, but she kept screaming and reaching up, trying to scratch at the Crow man. The grinning warrior kept moving his horse in different directions, dodging and teasing Blue Hawk while dragging Walking Grass by the hair. Blue Hawk kept going for him, oblivious to the screams and fighting going on around him while the entire village was savagely attacked, oblivious to the fact that their own beautifully painted tipi was burning to the ground.
He finally managed to land his tomahawk in the horse, digging into the animal’s rump to make it fall. Horse and warrior went crashing down, and the animal landed full force on Walking Grass. Blue Hawk’s eyes widened in horror, and he dove into the Crow man, slamming his tomahawk into the man’s face, then striking again and again like a madman.
The fighting had moved toward the ravine, and some of the Cheyenne men had managed to get to their mounts and were beginning to ride after the Crow, who were fleeing with stolen horses and women. The Cheyenne men would pursue and get their property back.
But Blue Hawk would not go with them. He turned and crawled to Walking Grass, who lay sprawled under the horse, one arm flung out away from it. The animal whinnied and struggled wildly, each time kicking at Walking Grass until finally it rolled off her. She lay still, naked and crushed. A horrible wail was torn from somewhere deep in Blue Hawk’s soul, and he began to tremble violently. It could not be. He could not live without Walking Grass. He stared at her young, beautiful face, still in death, then threw back his head and let out a long scream, crying his anguish to the heavens, digging his fingernails into his cheeks in sorrow.
His eyes were suddenly the wild eyes of a crazed man. He stumbled to the charred tipi, blindly sifting through its ruins until he found the knife Tom Sax had given him. It burned his palm when he picked it up, but he felt no pain. He began slashing himself with the knife, growling like an animal. Blood spilled from his chest and arms. How many times he cut himself he didn’t know, nor did he care. He threw himself over Walking Grass’ body, weeping bitterly, numb with the enormity of his loss.
How long he lay there weeping he could not be sure. The sun was high by the time he finally struggled to get to his knees. Others were searching out loved ones, picking through the ruins to salvage what they could. Several had seen Blue Hawk lying in mourning over his young wife, and none dared go near him. Blue Hawk sat looking down at Walking Grass, and it was only then that he saw the blue quill necklace in her hand. She had apparently grabbed it as she ran from the tipi, realizing it might be burned and the necklace might be lost. She had actually clung to it while the Crow warrior dragged and battered her, he realized. She had known how special the necklace was to Blue Hawk, and she had saved it for him.
The realization of her sweet devotion in those last moments of horror filled him with a grief beyond measure. Revenge was already building in his soul, a thirst that would not be quenched for a long time to come. The Crow would pay. If he had to wage a one-man war, they would pay and pay until his own life was smothered out by them.
He stood up, turning at the sound of his name. Sweet Seed Woman stood nearby with his son in her arms.
“The child lives,” she told him.
Blue Hawk just stared at her, covered with his own blood. He threw down the blue quill necklace. “What does it matter.” He stumbled off, disappearing into the forest beyond the camp.
It was the beginning of even more fierce wars between the Crow and Cheyenne, wars that continued into the following spring and summer of 1813. No Cheyenne warrior was more vicious or vengeful than the one called Blue Hawk, who had lost not only his young wife, but also his best friend, Proud Eagle. In a very short time he became a legend among the Crow. Many feared him, for he seemed possessed by a demon, and his thirst for vengeance knew no bounds. Little Tom was left with a nursing Cheyenne woman who had lost her own baby while Blue Hawk went on a rampage that was food for many campfire stories among the Cheyenne and Crow alike. He did not even stop for the spring visit to meet Tom Sax, he was so consumed with a blind need for vengeance.
Blue Hawk led many raids himself, and after only a few weeks, his clothes and belt were decorated with many Crow scalps. He kept to himself, a wild look about him that frightened even the Cheyenne. Nothing, no amount of killings, seemed to satisfy the once-gentle man. All the scalps and blood could not take away the pain of losing Walking Grass, his love, his life, the security and family he had finally found. Hatred burned in his soul like a torch. Again he had lost everything, and now it seemed he had even lost contact with the spirits. There was no peace or joy for him, and he could no longer pray.
Soon he began raiding alone, not waiting for the war dance and other rituals the tribe believed must be performed before going into battle.
“To ignore the proper prayers and sacrifices to the spirits will bring you bad luck, Blue Hawk,” Three Feathers warned him as Blue Hawk painted his face for yet another raid. “You are counting on yourself alone to win the battles, but it is only when the spirits are with us and when we make the proper prayers and sacrifices that we can win the battle. If you displease the spirits, you will die.”
“Then I shall die,” Blue Hawk snapped. “There is nothing left to live for. Why do you think I go out alone? It is in the hope that one day a Crow warrior will manage to sink his lance into my heart and end this misery in which I live.” His voice was cold. “But I have yet to find a Crow warrior who is better than I.” He threw down the colored clay with which he had painted his face and slung his quiver of arrows over his shoulder.
“There is always something to live for. You have a son, Blue Hawk. Already the boy is over a year old, and he hardly knows his father.”
Blue Hawk’s eyes softened slightly. “I know.”
Three Feathers sighed. “It is not such a bad thing to die, Blue Hawk, but it is bad to die with your back turned to the spirits and your heart hard and bitter. Who would bless you and welcome you along the Hanging Road if you deny the existence of Maheo? Do not go out, Blue Hawk. You are being ignorant. Many of us have lost loved ones. But we go on, for we are all one with the spirits and the earth and sky. It is not for us to choose when we die, that is the spirits’ choice. Stop going out alone, Blue Hawk. I care much for you.”
Blue Hawk faced him, fists clenched and shaking. There were tears in the wild, blue eyes. “I cannot stop,” he replied in a hoarse, broken voice. “If I stop, I will go crazy with my grief! Sometimes … I wish that I could stop and find peace again in my soul. But it will not come.” He turned and mounted his roan mare, then looked down at the old man, whom he had learned to love and respect. “I am not ungrateful for all you have done for me, Three Feathers. You gave me a home among the Cheyenne and led me to Sweet Seed Woman. Before the death of Walking Grass, I never knew a happier time than my years with the Cheyenne in this land.” His tears flowed more freely then, but he sat rigid, his face hard.
Three Feathers reached up with a brown, wrinkled hand and touched his arm. “I will pray that you find peace, Blue Hawk. Walking Grass is gone, and you are still young. You must try to find another woman to marry, one who will give you more children. For now there is your son, who needs his father.”
“Perhaps my son needs me,” Blue Hawk replied, “but I do not need him, not now. All I need is Crow blood!” He whirled his horse and rode away.
Three Feathers shook his head. “E-have-se-va,” he whispered. “It is bad, Blue Hawk. It is bad.”
The hoot of an owl penetrated the dark night, and the two Crow men looked at each other across their campfire. How many times had that sound been heard in the night, followed with a vicious attack by one wild Cheyenne warrior? Their blood chilled, and one of them dove for h
is tomahawk, but too late. The swift and sure-footed roan mare was upon them, and a club landed on the side of the warrior’s head. He never even saw the attacker. But the second man did. It was the same one, the Cheyenne who always painted red and black stripes on his face, a blue quill necklace around his neck. Some had seen him close in the light of day, and said he had a long scar on his left cheek.
The warrior grasped his tomahawk. Anyone who could kill this ghostlike Cheyenne who had a habit of raiding after dark would be famous and honored indeed. He whirled, waiting, but the Cheyenne had disappeared again into the darkness. The two Crow warriors had been out alone, scouting. The second man thought of running, but the thirst to be the one to kill the Cheyenne warrior was too great.
He waited, crouched, his eyes darting about the shadows beyond the campfire, his muscles tensed, his heart pounding. There was no sound but the night wind. He turned slowly, studying every angle, his hand squeezing the tomahawk so tightly his knuckles were white. Suddenly his enemy lunged on foot from the darkness behind him roaring like a bear and slamming into the Crow and knocking him face down. Before the Crow could turn and wield his tomahawk, a knife was in his back.
Blue Hawk turned the man over, slitting his throat and slicing off a piece of scalp. It was done. Two more Crow were dead. He fought the sick feeling he was beginning to get with each new killing. He must not let it stop him. He could not spill enough blood in retribution for Walking Grass, and the Crow would learn that. They would regret the day of Walking Grass’ death.
He stood up, shoving the scalp into his belt. He walked back into the darkness, grasping the roan mare by the bridle and leading it away. Why did he have this growing feeling of guilt, so like the emotion he had had after lying with Emily Stoner? Killing Crow men for what had happened to Walking Grass could not be wrong. But perhaps Three Feathers was right. Perhaps his guilt was brought on by angry spirits. But Maheo had not protected Walking Grass. He could not pray to Maheo again. He would continue to go against Cheyenne custom and raid in the night, when all evil spirits came out to do bad things. He would join them.
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