by Karen Kay
War Cloud nodded. “I know many families who would welcome them. There are many of my people who have lost children in the wars. They would not only take them in and treat them as a part of the family, the children would be the family.”
“No,” she said immediately.
War Cloud stared at her for the turn of a second. “What do you mean, no?” he asked.
He observed her closely, witnessed her confusion, saw her grappling with the situation. He could sense that she did not wish to offend him, yet…
War Cloud spun around, presenting his back to her. So, he thought, despite the white woman’s talk, she was as prejudiced as were these frontier whites.
However, if he had meant to dismiss her—and he had—he soon found it was not to be so easily done. She scooted around him until she stood face-to-face with him, whereupon she said, “You misunderstand.”
“I do not think so.”
“I know what you are thinking, and it is not completely true. It is not that your people are not good enough for the children,” she persisted, “it is only that I have given my word of honor to place these orphans in Christian homes. The society that sponsors these children has made me pledge that I will do this.”
He shrugged, refusing to look at her.
“Don’t you see?” she asked. “I cannot leave them to grow up without the Christian faith.”
“Humph,” he uttered, grasping her predicament perfectly. However, in light of all the injustice done to his people, he could not give her quarter. And so he said no more.
But she would not let it rest, and she continued to explain, “I must take them to white settlements and see if I can find them good homes. The society also demands that I receive a written contract from the children’s new parents—similar to your treaties—so that we can keep in touch with the children from time to time and ensure that they are being well treated. This is also something I could not do with your people.”
“Humph.”
“Do you understand?”
He refused to answer, presenting her again with his back. But he was not prepared for her soft touch on his shoulder.
“Please try to understand, sir,” she said, and War Cloud realized that, all bias aside, he did not understand what was taking place between himself and this woman. Not at all. Why should her touch make his senses leap? And why did it cause him to want to take her in his arms?
He supposed it was because he had been so long without a woman. Yet, if that were the reason—and he could see no other cause for his reaction—it was something he would have to suppress. It would be a very long time indeed before he would have the opportunity to indulge himself in that fantasy.
He breathed in deeply and uttered, “I do see your problem, but I think you might not be able to keep your promise to your society. There are many of my own people who need children to replace those lost in war. Besides, it is not the custom of the Cheyennes to bring captives back to the same people they stole them from. As it has always been, women and children are often the spoils of war, and according to the laws of my people, you are mine to do with as I see fit.”
“I beg your pardon!” she uttered vigorously, and War Cloud wondered what he had said that should have her reacting so fiercely. He gave her his full attention; he was not long in waiting.
She proclaimed, “I believe the children and I are people, not property.”
Ah, so that was it. He uttered, “You are captives and I will speak no more of it to you.” With this said, and because he was certain he was done with it, he turned to tread away from her.
But he had reckoned without taking her nature into consideration. She followed him, dogging his every footfall, complaining, “I do not agree.”
She had more to say, too, and in due time, War Cloud found he had no choice but to stop and acknowledge her.
Looking down upon her, he said, “You are like the dog that will not stop his pestering until his master gives him a piece of meat.”
“I am no dog, sir,” was her quick response, “and you are no master.”
Though her words had been harshly said, he found himself grinning down at her, for he could not help admiring her. This female was certainly spirited…and entertaining. He agreed easily enough with her and said, “Hova’ahane, you are right. You are no dog. But you and the children are still my captives and you will do as I say.”
“No.”
“You have no more say in it. It is as it is.”
That he had irritated her was without doubt, for she immediately countered him, saying, “Could we expand upon that assumption, sir? It is as it is? I believe it is as you are making it, not as I would make it.”
He decided not to answer her, realizing that mere words would do little to win him this fight. But he had to smile. He could not remember the last time he had more enjoyed such sparring.
“Do not laugh at me, sir.”
“I am not,” he said, this time more seriously. “It is only that I find you…unusual.”
“Is that an insult?”
He caught her eye and with deliberate intention, held it. That this woman did not hold herself in high esteem seemed somehow a crime. And although he cautioned himself not to do it, he found he could not control the impulse to comfort her. Of their own accord, his fingers came up to smooth back a lock of her hair. While a part of him registered the silky feel of those few brown tresses, he said, “Do not take offense, for I do not insult you. Know that I speak the truth when I say that I find you…engaging.” He held her glance for a moment more and then, lowering his hand, made to move around her.
But he was going nowhere. As he took a step to leave, she reached out and seized hold of his arm, causing War Cloud to stop what he was doing, to turn and stare at that hand. Nor did he think he would have been able to move from this spot with any speed, even if a posse of warrior-whites were suddenly to rush their camp.
There it was again. War Cloud drew in his breath and held it. Why did this woman’s touch flood his system with excitement?
He stared at that hand as it lay upon him, while at the same time an ultrafine awareness answered his own question. Silently and inwardly he groaned.
In the meantime she asked, “Engaging?”
He wondered if she knew the inherent danger from his ardent nature and decided that she did not. He would not inform her of that risk, either. There was no need.
He was Cheyenne.
Passion was not a new feeling for him, and it would present no threat to her. For not only could he control his own basic responses, he would nurture those feelings and let them simmer beneath the surface. Haahe, yes, rather than give in to its fervor, he would use his eagerness, much like a store of energy. And as the wise men often counseled, the next time he chose to fight, that energy would be there to give him strength.
Eaaaa, it was either that or seek out the attentions of an agreeable widow in the next friendly camp.
He sighed and asked, “Is it so unusual that I might find you attractive?”
Her gaze met his, held his, veered away, finally coming back to recapture his. They were pale, he thought; her irises, that is. War Cloud tried to remember when he had last seen eyes the color of wild prairie grass, but finally decided that he had not ever beheld it. That was not all. He could not help but notice that her body held an answering response to his, mirrored there, in the gentle depths of her gaze. Immediately and without question, every male instinct within him responded to her.
But he held himself back. It was not a sexual hunger he witnessed within her eyes. With the simple logic of a rational being, he realized that the intensity he witnessed in her was rather her own ardor for life. It was not for him.
Yet his body was not so discriminating, and again awareness of her femininity surged through him, causing his blood to surge.
She said, “Sir, I think that you flatter me.”
Innocence, he thought. She stood before him completely unaware of her own worth; she fair
ly radiated virtuousness and purity. War Cloud allowed himself the luxury of staring at her for the beat of several moments, captivated, for there was so much beauty in her guilelessness, so very much, indeed. At last he remarked, “I think, Nahkohe-tseske, that you do not prize yourself as highly as you might.”
“Sir, really, I…I…” As though she, too, became suddenly aware of the allurement between them, she let go of his arm. “I…I think that we leave the point, sir. Let us return to it.”
“I have no more to say on it. It is done.”
“I beg to differ,” she persisted. “I cannot sanction these children going anywhere but where they were originally intended. Sir, please, I beseech you to help me.”
War Cloud’s heart went out to this woman and he took a moment to say a silent prayer of thanks for his Cheyenne training which allowed him to keep his emotions hidden. For he could not relent. He must not. And so he said, “Be content in the knowledge that you are still alive.”
She hesitated, but only for a moment, before she reiterated, “I cannot do that, sir.”
He crossed his arms over his chest and glared down at her, his countenance full of menace. He said, “You will have to.”
“But, sir, please, you don’t understand. I have pledged my word to find homes for these children as I have told you.”
“Then you were unwise. You should have realized that something might come between you and the realization of your accomplishment. You were traveling into a country that was and is at war.”
“But, sir,” she persisted, “we were told that the war was over. That it was safe to travel.”
“Then you were misinformed.”
“Yes,” she acknowledged at last. “We were misinformed. But it was either that or turn around and take the children back to New York.”
He did not understand the abrupt sadness that colored her words, and he scrutinized her features, that he might know her thoughts more exactly. When, after a moment, he still did not understand, he asked, “What do you mean?”
His question seemed to bring on an even greater gloominess within her, and he could not help likening the shift he witnessed to that of a storm cloud passing over a brilliant sky. She did not speak for some moments, nor did she look at him, but in due time, she began, “We left New York with eighty children, sir. We placed most of them in homes as we made our way farther and farther west. These children who remain with me are the ones that were not chosen.”
He still did not understand and he raised an eyebrow in query.
She said again, “They were not chosen.”
“Not chosen? You are telling me that these children were rejected by the whites?”
“Not exactly rejected,” she defended. “They were simply not picked.”
“It is the same thing, I think.”
“Almost,” she conceded. “We—myself and my other two companions—had no choice but to go farther west, in the hopes of finding more homes.”
“Two companions?” he asked. “I see no one else.”
The color drained from her cheeks as she said, “Our agent, Mr. Bilsworth, died while we were in Kansas City.” Here she turned her face away from him before continuing, “And the only other adult who was accompanying the children was…killed today at the train fight…”
Her voice trailed away as though she might have expected him to apologize.
War Cloud, however, remained steadfastly silent, and after a time, she added, “I could not, then, in good conscience, take the children back to New York and see them left once more on the streets.”
“On the streets?” he queried. “What is this?”
She took a deep breath. “Have you no orphans in your camps?”
“Haahe, we have orphans, but they are not looked upon as a problem. Each child is also the son or daughter of the entire tribe. The children are never without aid or assistance or food, for all of our young belong to the tribe and are the responsibility of all. Besides, usually a family will adopt them.”
She stared at him in silence for so long, he began to wonder if he had said something she did not understand. At length she admitted, “Then your system of handling orphans, sir, is much better than ours.”
He gave her another inquisitive look.
“Our children are not the children of the village. It is hard to find anyone willing to take them in, and most of our orphans are forced to fend for themselves—usually without homes or shelters. There are some places called orphanages which take in the children, but they are so overcrowded that many of the youngsters find themselves cast out and alone.”
This War Cloud could hardly assimilate. Was the white man so greedy that he could not share his wealth with his own children? It somehow affirmed, at least to his own mind, that the white man was not quite human. What kind of creature could not hear the silent cries of his own kind?
But War Cloud wisely kept his opinion to himself.
She continued, “I had and I still have no choice but to find good, Christian homes for these children.”
So sad was her expression that again War Cloud found himself holding back his urge to give this woman solace. What was it about her that made him desire to reach out to her, to hold her until her cares ceased to exist?
Perhaps, he thought, he had better find a friendly village—one with willing widows—sooner than he had expected.
He muttered something beneath his voice, then softening it, he said, “If you and the children live through this journey, it is possible that they might find good homes.”
“If?” she asked. “Sir, surely you are not still considering…our demise?”
He did not answer. Instead, he presented her with his back. The woman was too potent, and he a little too weak to her charm.
However, she scooted around him to confront him once more, face to face. “Sir?”
He paused. He needed to think. That he actually considered her predicament, that he contemplated taking her to the white settlements, despite the danger to himself and to his brother, was testimony to the power of her persuasion.
Another admirable quality about her, he thought. War Cloud began to add them up.
However, it was not within his power to give her all that she wanted. It was enough that he was sparing their lives and taking them to a place that could better handle their welfare. He said, “Know that I cannot give you all that you need.”
“But you will spare our lives?”
He looked away from her. “Perhaps.”
“Perhaps?” she repeated. “Sir, I do not think you are as uncivilized as you might like me to believe.”
He turned her a deaf ear.
She, however, appeared immune. “And I think, sir, that if you intended to kill us, you would have done it already.”
He made no comment.
And after a moment, she said, “I believe that you could at least share with me what you mean to do with us. You must have some plan.”
“A warrior does not talk over his ideas with a woman…and in particular with a white woman.”
“Oh?” she asked. “More prejudice? You believe there is something wrong with my sex now as well as my race?”
War Cloud let out a low growl. The woman did not know what she was doing. He needed no reminder of her sex; he was already all too aware of it.
Helpless to curb himself, he scrutinized the contours of her face, her lips, her shoulders, his glance skimming down even lower.
She was a delicate thing, tall but slender. And the more animated her emotions, the prettier she became. It made him want to tease her, or perhaps to anger her, if only to witness the rush of color to her cheeks.
His gaze met hers, and in that look, he found himself…spellbound.
She was the first one to speak. “Sir,” she said, her voice imploring. “I would do most anything to save these children. Please, isn’t there something…?”
He shook his head. “Know that I cannot take these children where you might like. Besides,
I do not wish to get myself or my brother hanged. At least not yet.”
“Hanged? For what?”
War Cloud could not quite meet her eyes, for the incident was still too fresh in his heart, the injustice of it too hard. It was his turn to gaze away, off in the distance. His attention rested, without seeing, upon the point where the land met the horizon, where, since darkness had fallen upon the land, only the stars in the heavens differentiated the earth from the sky.
Several more moments of silence passed until at last she prompted, “What happened?”
Still he did not answer, although after a time, he began, “It is a sad story. Are you certain you want to hear it?”
“I do,” she said without pause.
He sighed and began, “All right. Four years ago, two Oglala Lakota, Two Face and Black Foot, tried to surrender to the whites. Two Face was married to my cousin and I knew him well. He was a good chief, a good man. But in surrendering, there were some problems. Not always could the white men distinguish between peaceful Indians and hostiles.
“But these two chiefs were determined to surrender. They decided the best way to do it was to ransom two white people, a Mrs. Eubanks and her child. These two whites had been captured by another band of Lakota and were being held at a camp that was some distance away.
“This the two chiefs did; they made the journey to this other camp and ransomed these two white people—at great expense—and took the two captives to Fort Laramie. In repayment for this act of kindness, the officers at that fort, Colonel Thomas Moonlight and Colonel Baumer, hanged those Indians.”
Anna gasped. “No, that must be wrong. It cannot be.”
War Cloud jerked his chin to the left. “I do not lie.”
“Please, no. If this had happened, I would have heard of it.”
“Would you? I am not certain the white people tell the stories of this war with a straight tongue. What I have said to you is so.”