by Shirl Henke
While Hawk settled into a routine he had not lived since adolescence, Wind Song waited and dreamed. She stood in the back of the crowd that had gathered to welcome him home, shyly holding herself aloof. There would be a time when it was right to speak with him, but this was not it.
As the weeks flew by, the bitter northers of late winter kept her confined to the camp, making an accidental encounter with Hawk nearly impossible. The harsh weather did not keep Angry Wolf from plaguing her, however. He came offering gifts—fresh game, soft pelts, even a new iron cookpot.
At one point, Sweet Rain teased her older sister mercilessly. “Why don't you want Angry Wolf for a husband? He would be a good one. He is brave and handsome.” She paused to consider teasingly, “Of course, not so brave and handsome as the half-blood, Hunting Hawk.”
“Be still!” Wind Song admonished the irritating child while Bright Leaf sat quietly, stirring the stew pot over the fire. She had heard this conversation often before.
“Wind Song is right, Sweet Rain,” her childishly high voice piped. “Hunting Hawk is the best choice. Someday I will marry him. Of course, I will be a second or third wife by the time I'm old enough,” she finished sadly.
Wind Song whirled angrily between her two young tormentors. “The white men take only one wife! Have you learned nothing? If—when he marries, he will choose only one.”
Sweet Rain giggled, but Bright Leafs eyes became suddenly wistful in remembrance. “If that is so, if white men only love once, then he will wait for Carrie.”
Wind Song paled. “She is his father's wife! Don't ever speak such an obscenity! He is Cheyenne now. He will marry here.”
Sweet Rain laughed out loud. “If he is Cheyenne now, he may take two wives. Maybe me.”
Wind Song grabbed a thick buffalo robe, wrapped it securely, around herself, and stormed out of the tepee into the cold wind for some fresh air.
Standing Bear took Angry Wolf’s suit seriously, feeling he was a good match for his eldest daughter, still unmarried at the scandalous age of seventeen. The old man's health worsened steadily, and despite the security Iron Heart's protection offered his family, Standing Bear desperately wanted Wind Song to accept Angry Wolf, who was a tribal leader and .a skillful hunter. He would make a good provider. Standing Bear knew the reason his daughter refused all her suitors. Several times he had tried to speak of it to the girl, had tried to convince her that Hunting Hawk had gone to the veho for good. She had cajoled and pleaded to wait, half convincing the softhearted old man that she had a dream in which she was given to the half-blood. Since white blood flowed in her own veins, he had held his peace. Perhaps it was meant to be.
When Hawk returned to live among the people, Standing Bear waited patiently for him to make some indication of his intent. None was forthcoming for weeks. Finally the old man decided it was time to act. A break in the weather gave him a good opportunity to go hunting with a small group of men, among whom was the object of his daughter's desire.
When Hawk mounted up that morning, he found Standing Bear with the other riders. It was a short excursion, close to camp, but despite the ease of their agreed-upon mission, he felt grave misgivings about taking the ill, older man along. To voice such an opinion would cause Standing Bear to lose face, so Hawk held his peace.
After an hour of slow, careful stalking, Hawk sighted a small antelope. His shot brought it down cleanly, and Standing Bear was the first to arrive at his side, helping him tie it across Redskin's haunches for return to camp.
“This will make a beautiful shirt. I have some fine porcupine quills to trim it. Wind Song is very skilled as a shirtmaker. She could do this for you, since Calf Woman is not trained in that art.”
Hawk smiled at the old man, alarmed at his frail wheezing yet amused at his transparent ruse to be a matchmaker. So that's why he came along on this hunt. I should have known, he thought to himself. Then he said aloud, “Is Wind Song yet unmarried? I expected Angry Wolf to win her hand by now.’'
“He tries, but she does not favor him,” was the disconsolate reply.
Hawk knew this. Iron Heart had hinted as much often in the past weeks. Still Hawk shied away from any commitment. His troubled dreams were still filled with Carrie. I cannot let her hold me in thrall for the rest of my life, if I am to have a life here, he thought bitterly.
Part of the problem was his continued uncertainty about being Cheyenne. Did he want to live by their tribal, ritualized customs? He found much to admire in the People. They were honest, cooperative, possessed of a sense of humor, bound by a system of laws fairer than the white ones. Their medical treatments were often more advanced than those of the whites. Yet he had existed on the periphery of this society for bits and pieces of his life and been away from it for years, years spent in eastern universities. He knew of a world far beyond the banks of the Yellowstone. He also held the image of a flame-haired woman close to his heart. She would not free him. Could he free himself?
His musings were interrupted by a call from White Owl. “We must make haste. See how the sky darkens?”
Hawk looked up from his task and realized the blue-black clouds rolling in indeed heralded another norther, the sudden terrible winter storms that decimated the high plains. White Owl and Big Elk quickly helped·Hawk finish tying the antelope onto Redskin, and then took off for the village.
Its icy fingers slicing like blades of frozen steel, the norther struck with brutal force, cutting them to the quick. Big Elk, White Owl, and Hawk could have made it. Standing Bear could not.
After a scant half hour, the older man began to slide from his horse. Hawk caught him and attempted to hold his frail form on his mount. At once he could feel Standing Bear's frozen hands and arms. Even he and the other younger men were growing stiff with the cold. Realizing something must be done for Wind Song's father, Hawk signaled the other two men and quickly dispatched them to the village for a travois. He stopped near an outcrop of rock that provided some slight shelter from the wind. There he pulled Standing Bear off of his horse and laid his shivering form down. Then he untied the freshly killed antelope and sliced it open with his knife. He managed to shove the old man's hands and feet into the warm carcass, then lay across it himself, providing what additional shelter he could.
“It is a good day to die, Hunting Hawk,” the reedy voice rasped in his ear. Then he coughed furiously.
“White Owl and Big Elk will return with help soon. We are not far from camp. Do not speak of dying,” he replied impatiently.
“I must speak what I know. I will die. You will live. Wind Song will live. Angry Wolf will live. She wants you for her husband, not him. For too long I let her rule me. Now it passes from my hands. I should have given her to Angry Wolf when I could. Now only the Powers know what will happen to her.” Gasping for breath as he lay on his side, he punctuated the long speech with frequent coughs.
Hawk swore to himself. Trapped. What was he to do? “I promise you I will speak with Wind Song when we return to the—” He stopped short as a convulsion shook the old man. Before Hawk could say anything more, he knew Standing Bear was dead.
When the rescue party arrived, Hawk had tied Standing Bear to his horse. The ride to the village was made with the wind keening a death chant of its own. Wind Song and Sweet Rain followed Cheyenne mourning customs, cutting their arms and letting their hair hang unbound. A burial platform was erected in a staunch willow tree by the frozen riverbed. All of Standing Bear's most treasured possessions were placed on it with him: his pipe, hatchet, a fine hunting bow, and beaded quiver of arrows.
Hawk did not intrude on Wind Song's grief, although he did notice Angry Wolf attempt to speak to her several times in the following days. When he saw Angry Wolf heading for Wind Song's lodge the third day, Hawk intercepted him.
“You intrude on their mourning, Angry Wolf. It is not good to do this thing. Only wait a few weeks.” He kept his voice level and civil, but could see the fierce, burning hatred radiating from the other's eyes.
“Go back to your white father. You do not belong here, Sin-clair,” Angry Wolf said, scornfully drawing out Hawk's white surname.
“I would not quarrel with you, Angry Wolf. You violate the ways of the People, not mine.” He stood before the lodge, daring his old nemesis to pass him.
Realizing that Hawk was right and the tribal elders would agree, Angry Wolf stalked off after grinding out, “We will see who wins her, white man. You are no fit husband!”
Hawk's own thoughts ran along that same course as he turned to leave, but just then a soft feminine voice called to him.
“Wait, Hunting Hawk! Come in and share our fire. It is cold outside.” Wind Song's smile was winsome.
He nodded and entered. Bright Leaf and Sweet Rain sat in the far corner of the lodge, painstakingly scraping an antelope hide with sharp stone tools. He greeted them and squatted by the center fireplace, silently watching Wind Song as she poured hot broth into a gourd and offered it to him. Even in her sorrow she was lovely. Her hair was unbound, flowing down her back like a curtain of midnight satin. Slim copper arms showed through the skein of loose hair. Her strong, handsome face glowed by the firelight. The deep-green eyes haunted him. Jade, fathomless, like Carrie's eyes.
She broke his reverie. “Thank you for sending him away. I did not wish to speak with him again.”
“I should not be here either,” he said, smiling at her.
“But I asked you to enter,” she countered. “Have you now chosen the way of the People, Hunting Hawk? Last summer I hoped you would.”
He shook his head in confusion. “I honestly do not know, Wind Song. There is peace for me here. No violence, no whiskey, none of the evils that tainted my life among the whites.”
“Then why do you hesitate to embrace this life and make it your own?” Her heart leaped at her own boldness. Both of them knew she meant more than her words indicated.
“I have only returned a few months. I cannot give an answer yet,” he evaded.
Looking over at the two younger girls busily at work, apparently ignoring their conversation, Wind Song wanted to speak more, but dared not.
Hawk finished the broth and handed the gourd back to her. “Thank you for sharing the food and the warmth of your fire.” He rose to leave.
She moved over and opened the heavy skin flap to let him out, then abruptly stepped into the freezing air after him. “I will speak plainly and quickly, Hunting Hawk. Now that my father is dead, several men have asked Iron Heart for me, among them Angry Wolf. I do not want any of them. I want you. But I will not wait forever. Choose your path, or else I must choose mine.” With that astounding speech, she whirled and vanished into the lodge.
He grinned in spite of himself. A bold, forthright woman. She was truthful. If he would stay here, he must choose a wife. He needed a woman, and knew his own weaknesses enough to confess he could never live the celibate life of a Contrary. Hawk snorted at that, thinking of Medicine Shield, who was the only Contrary with Iron Heart's band, a maniacal loner who lived in a world of visions. The Contraries were those supposedly touched by the gods and called to live a life of religious taboos. They were chaste, reckless in battle, perverse in behavior to the point of responding to every request by doing and saying exactly the opposite of what they meant. Personally, Hawk felt they were touched by the madness of some dark spirit, not a god. He was grateful they were few among the People and only one lived with his band.
His band. When did he start thinking of himself as belonging? Could he dare hope to become a part of these people? He had never really fit into white society. Could he fit here, or must he end his days in the self-destructive world of outlaws and riffraff?
Always when he became introspective, thoughts of Carrie crept into his mind. Thus troubled in spirit, he walked slowly back to his grandfather's lodge.
Observing his grandson's pensive mien during their evening meal, Iron Heart lit a pipe and pondered. Should he tell Hawk the news he had heard from the white trader? If he had interpreted all of Hawk's medicine dream correctly so long ago, he might be defying the will of the gods. It was difficult to be sure. He only knew that he wanted his daughter's son to spend his days among the People. It was a good life, and Wind Song would be a good woman for him. She could cleanse him of all the sickness and hurt the veho had given him. He made his decision.
“This day I have news from Matthew Clinton,” he began, inhaling on his pipe.
Hawk looked up absently. “That half-blood trader? What's he doing here so early in the spring before the snow has gone?”
The old man shrugged. “He brought word of a thing that you may want to know. Concerning He Who Walks in Sun and your inheritance.” Wisely, he chose not to mention Carrie by name yet.
The reaction was just as he expected, and he knew the reason, although it grieved him. Hawk's face became tense and his eyes darkened in pain. He had an inkling of what the old man was leading up to, and he did not want to hear it. “I have no inheritance with Noah. We both know it,” he said tersely.
“Now that part of your life ends, my son. Soon your ties with him will be, severed forever. Your father's wife is with child.” He spoke the words softly, knowing each one opened a stinging wound afresh. Yet it must be done. If a suppurating sore is not cleansed and cauterized, it will never heal.
Hawk did not speak, but only stared into the flickering firelight. I knew this must happen someday. Then why, why did his chest feel as if a vise were squeezing the breath of life from him? “I must think, alone, Grandfather.” With that he rose and donned a heavy buffalo robe, then left the lodge to brave the howling anger of the night storm.
Hawk rode for several hours. The winds abated and the stars came out, icy diamonds on the black velvet cloth of night sky. The dry, still air was brittle with cold yet oddly comforting to him. The chill only sharpened his senses. When he returned to the lodge at dawn, he knew what he would do.
The old man was up, standing in the doorway, facing the east to watch the sun rise as he always did. Calf Woman was inside, busily preparing their first meal of the day. Hawk slid from Redskin's bare back with effortless grace and began to remove the headstall.
Watching his grandson tend to the great red beast, the old man sensed a new resolution in him. He waited.
“Do you think I should observe the proprieties and send Calf Woman to you with gifts for a bride-price?” He asked the question with the hint of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.
It was the custom for a suitor to officially request a maiden's hand in marriage by sending an older woman to act as emissary, bearing gifts to the girl's father, brother, or other male guardian.
Iron Heart smiled broadly. “I do not think it will be necessary, under the circumstances. We both know she wants you. I will tell her to start sewing her wedding garments. Building a lodge will take a while, but I am not without influence. New Moon is the most skilled tepee maker in our band. She will begin at once if I request it.”
The marriage was set for one-month hence, in the spring, when the last snows of winter should fade and the first touches of green appear in the fertile valleys of the Yellowstone.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Caleb Rider was a lean, rangy man of medium height, loosely put together and casual in manner. Many men tended to underestimate him. Like a thousand other cowboys, his sandy hair and seamed face bore the stamp of dozens of harsh winters and blazing summers under the western sky. Only his flinty-gray eyes gave him away as a cunning, ruthless killer. He was wanted for horse stealing, cattle rustling, and several murders in Oregon and points east.
Noah had made discreet inquiries through other stockmen at the association meeting and then had his own sources check the man out thoroughly. He had a big job for Rider, and he wanted to be sure the man could handle it. There must be no amateur bungling such as Krueger's man Squires had done.
When Rider knocked on Frank Lowery's cabin door after supper that chilly November evening, he was laconic
and noncommittal. Mr. Sinclair had offered him a job as a range detective at the association meeting in Helena. Frank sized him up shrewdly, noting the strapped-down gun, which was expensive and meticulously cared for. The foreman put Rider in the bunkhouse, giving him Hunnicut's old place. He didn't like the way things were shaping up, not at all. First Hawk and Kyle took off like scalded dogs, then Carrie grieved herself sick, now Noah hired this fish-eyed killer. Sighing, he vowed to keep a close eye on what occurred on the north range near Krueger's land.
* * * *
After Hawk had left her, Carrie continued to lose weight, growing more listless and exhausted. She did not even make any pretense of standing up to Noah, praying nightly that he would not come to her. Then, if he did, she unresistingly submitted to whatever he wanted. What was the use in fighting? Her only salvation lay in conceiving his child. Then he might give her peace. She would raise Noah's son, but would try to make him like Hawk. Hawk. The thought of him still clawed at her, as she alternated between a sense of acute betrayal and a welling loneliness of desire that threatened to engulf her.
There was to be a Christmas dance in Miles City. All the big cattlemen, bankers, and other dignitaries would be there with their wives. One morning before he headed out with the new man, Rider, Noah informed Carrie that she must have a new gown to attend the gala. In compliance with his command, she set out with Frank early the next morning for a two-day stay in town. She dreaded the fittings at the dressmaker's.
“Lands sake, Mrs. Sinclair, you're getting thinner each time I fit you. I know that Mexican cook of your husband's can do better than to let you starve yourself.” Elsie Grummond was as loquacious as she was skilled in dressmaking. Her flying fingers pinned, clipped, draped, and folded. By the time she was satisfied with the results, Carrie was exhausted.