The Angel and the Warrior

by Karen Kay

  “Yes. What else must I do? Twice I have battled with the Crow. In each fight, though I won, I showed them mercy. I helped the enemy by healing their wounds. Three times I have done battle with the Cree. Each time, though I could have counted coup, I did not. I helped them, instead. Twice I have met the Pawnee in battle. And three times I have stood against the Shoshone. Again, I have shown mercy. Tell me, I have always done as I have been instructed to do. Why does the curse remain?”

  “I do not know. I can only say that you must continue to follow your vision. You know that the elders would tell you this, were they here. Therefore, I, in their place, must say it in their absence. We all are aware that a man who is not following his vision is only half alive. But with you, because of the task that you carry, it is even more imperative that you remain true to that which you have been shown in your vision quest.”

  Swift Hawk nodded. His friend was right. Did he not know it in his heart? Was this not the same wisdom he had been taught all his life? He was thankful that the Creator had given him a vision, a path to travel to enlightenment. He must remain loyal to it.

  Still, a man was allowed time to come to terms with the world around him. Swift Hawk had given himself seven days to stew over his loss. Perhaps that was enough.

  Pride was an interesting thing, he thought. For seven days, it had kept him from following his vision; kept him here, out on the prairie, when he really wanted to be with her.

  It was an odd thing, this sense of denigrated dignity. Especially since he had come to realize days ago why the angel had done as she had. He had even come to see her actions as noble, for she had considered the good of all in her plan—himself, her brother, herself.

  Though seven days ago he had accused her of flirtation, upon reflection, he knew this could not be true. It was not so because he had touched, had been touched by her spirit. And when this has happened to a man, there are no barriers.

  He understood her.

  Alas, he understood why she had given herself to him physically. She had said she had done it as a gift, a return favor. Though he suspected there was more to it than that, this action demonstrated that hers was an unselfish heart.

  But her gift had not been a gift alone. For him to believe that, he would have to forget that she had melted in his arms, that she had wanted his embrace, that she had begged him for it.

  These were things no man could forget.

  No, he was fairly convinced her problem was something else, that she was withholding something from him, something important—and worse, it was almost without doubt he knew what it was.

  She loved him. He would be a fool not to recognize it.

  It was there in her gaze, in her gentle touch, in the way she rejoiced in his embrace. Indeed, it was there in the way she returned his advances.

  Yet what did he have to offer her in return? The hallowed place of being second, third or fourth in his thoughts?

  What she didn’t understand, and what he could not tell her, was that he was a haunted man—haunted by a duty to his people, haunted by a curse that would mark him for the rest of his days if he failed in his quest. Moreover, he could not confide his problems to her so that he could bring her to understanding.

  “My friend,” Red Fox interrupted Swift Hawk’s thoughts, “you know the truth of what I say. You must continue following the path that has been shown you by the Creator.”

  “Haa’he,” said Swift Hawk, “you are right, and I am glad that you have spoken to me about this.”

  Red Fox nodded. “It is to be regretted that you are not free, like other men. That you cannot bestow your favor upon whomever you love. But know this. You are entrusted with a grand purpose, you were selected. I, for one, envy you that.”

  Swift Hawk came up onto his feet and placed his hands on Red Hawk’s shoulders. “You are a good friend. Your counsel is always wise, and I am lucky that you have chosen to help me. With you here, I am not alone.”

  Red Fox nodded, he too taking Swift Hawk by the shoulders.

  At that moment, the wind rushed into Swift Hawk’s face, reminding him that a storm, one that looked to be deadly, was headed this way. “Perhaps we have lingered here too long. The storm is coming quickly, and you can see the signs as well as I. It is a bad one.”

  “Haa’he.” Red Fox whistled for his pony and stuck out his hand to receive it. “Let us separate that we might finish our work as fast as the winds that chase us. I will ride to the north and finish cutting the meat there. If we work swiftly enough, it will be done.”

  “Haa’he,” said Swift Hawk. With nothing more to be said at the moment, Red Fox, with a final nod, set his mount off toward the north.

  Swift Hawk worked with all due speed, until at last it was done, and the meat was ready to take to the wagon train. Having loaded the meat onto a pack horse, Swift Hawk stepped sprightly to his pony, and jumping up to his seat, reined the animal in the direction toward Red Fox.

  The heavens overhead growled, their voice a challenge.

  Swift Hawk responded to that challenge, and clutching spear in hand, he thrust his right arm up to the sky, shouting, “Thunderer, are you a woman, that you fear to meet me man to man? I grow as tired of these petty games as I grow tired of fighting an enemy I cannot see. I would free my people if you will only let me have an enemy that I can feel beneath my lance. Then, Thunderer, we will see who is the better warrior. Then we will see.”

  The thunder rolled again, the dark clouds parted, but no answering challenge came.

  “Humph!” Swift Hawk swore in frustration. Yet, before he left to find Red Fox, Swift Hawk turned back to face the Thunderer one more time.

  It was then that it happened.

  There in the clouds came an image, an image of a man, a white man. With black boots, black mustache, black hat, red plaid shirt and buckskin trousers, he looked as though he were as rugged a man as any of the white men connected with the wagon train. However, there was yet another image…another white man, this one shorter, fatter than the other. He was a man, also, with little hair.

  And there was more. A vision of his enslaved people, stationed on the open prairie—standing free, smiling. They were crowded around him, happy for him. For he was free, his people were free. Swift Hawk had accomplished his task.

  As quickly as it had come, it was gone.

  Sitting atop his pony, Swift Hawk stared upward, hoping that the clouds might part again, might show him more, that he could understand this better. But it was not to be.

  What did this mean? Who was this new enemy?

  Show kindness to an enemy. Help him. The words from long ago came back, as though to haunt him, causing him to realize that Angelia and her brother were no enemy, had never been so. Further, because of this, they were not the key to breaking the spell.

  And yet they were a part of it. But what part?

  Briefly, the wind rushed in his face, blowing back his hair and stinging his eyes, as if it would grab his attention, as if it had something to say to him. He shut his eyes, and there before him was a memory. A memory of Angelia, of that day beneath the tree—that one morning.

  It was a beautiful memory—one he would keep with him always.

  That was it. Like a shot of lightning, he realized that it didn’t matter if she was the angel to end his curse or not. She was his own personal destiny.

  He would aid her in any way that he could, he would help her brother as well, and he would come back for her when the spell was broken. Perhaps, if he were lucky, he might discover what he needed to do that she might call him by what he really was to her, her husband.

  But first, he figured he needed to get himself back into her good graces.

  So it was to this end that Swift Hawk whipped his pony in a direction to the north, there to meet Red Fox where they would load and run this meat back to camp.

  It meant he would see her again. Soon.

  For a moment, the realization stopped him, his breath catching in his throat. Haa�
�he, he would see her again.

  Despite his earlier thoughts on the matter, despite thinking there was no hope for them, his spirits lifted.

  Under howling and gusting winds, and an ever-blackening sky, Swift Hawk and Red Fox led their ponies—which were laden with buffalo meat—into camp. Wind whipped at the two men, severely blowing their hair and their clothes. Bits of dust and tufts of grass flew through the air, while an occasional bush broke off from the rest, only to sail through the atmosphere.

  From the west, little whirlwinds were kicking up dust as they sprinted across the prairie. Swift Hawk, as well as Red Fox, had tied a strip of leather over the lower part of his face for protection. But there was nothing to shield their eyes from the debris, nor their ears from the noise.

  Yet, as the wind whipped around him, Swift Hawk stood stock-still, bewildered. Stunned, Swift Hawk could barely believe his eyes.

  Not only did the camp look deserted, the white-covered wagons still stretched out in lines across the prairie. There would be no cover for them against the storm.

  Looking closely, he saw that the white men had turned their wagons so that their mules’ backs were to the wind. He recognized the position as being one that the white men used when they meant to sit out a thunderstorm.

  Sit out this storm? Were they crazy?

  Hadn’t Julian told these people to seek shelter? And if he had, why were they still here?

  For an instant, Swift Hawk experienced a feeling of unreality. Did the white men believe that their wagons would protect them from the whirling winds? Or did they simply not believe Julian?

  Whatever the truth, every person in the caravan should be in action, not sitting here like rabbits awaiting the kill. Did they not know that even if the whirling winds did not touch down here, the debris kicked up by the storm could maim or kill animals, could destroy property, could take lives?

  “Red Fox,” said Swift Hawk, “take these ponies and secure them in that coulee that we passed on our way here. Tie them well, my friend, and then return here at all speed.”

  Red Fox nodded. “I saw you send off the white scout, Julian. Did you not tell him to warn these people?”

  “I did. But something is wrong. I will find the wagon master and see if I can discover why the white man is still here.”

  Nodding, Red Fox said, “E-peva’e,” and turning, he darted away as quickly as the fast winds would allow him to proceed.

  Swift Hawk reined his own pony toward the front of the caravan where he hoped to find the wagon master. He was not disappointed. There was the man, Kit Russell, who was not only in the grips of turning his mules against the winds, he was cursing so loudly he could be heard over the upheaval of Nature.

  Notwithstanding, Swift Hawk sought him out at full gallop, controlling his pony until he was within an arm’s distance of the man. Abruptly, he stopped.

  “Whoa, there!” It was Russell speaking. Reaching forward, he grabbed hold of Swift Hawk’s leather reins.

  Swift Hawk didn’t lose a word of explanation but came directly to the point. “Why are you still here?”

  Russell cursed. “I don’t have time ta answer yer questions, Injun. I got work ta do. Leave here!”

  When Swift Hawk didn’t go away and instead stood his ground, Russell removed his hat and slapped it against his thigh. “Don’t ye know, savage, that we never run the mules durin’ a storm?”

  Swift Hawk ignored the word “savage”. This was no time for prejudice, his own or Russell’s.

  Swift Hawk said, “Did not the white man tell you? You must seek shelter at once.”

  “What white man?”

  “The scout we call Julian.”

  “Naw,” said Russell. “Ain’t seen him.”

  Swift Hawk registered this in an instant, but there was no time for speculation. “You must seek low ground at once and wait out the storm there. This is not the same kind of thunderstorm that comes upon you every day, showers you, and then meekly limps away. These are the whirling winds of the prairie Wind Spirit.”

  “The what?”

  “The whirling winds.” He pointed toward the west. “Do you see the low clouds there and how fast they are moving? Do you see the lightning, hear the thunder that swiftly approaches? And there, do you observe that cloud in the west? Can you see how it tries to dip down to the earth?”

  Russell looked westward. “Good God, are ye saying a twister is comin’? Here?”

  “Yes.” A brisk gust blew at him, and Swift Hawk’s pony began to dance. Calmly Swift Hawk pulled on the reins to settle the animal. “Your caravan, your wagons, your animals and perhaps some of your people will be destroyed if you do not seek low ground at once. There is a coulee, a short ride northeast of here, just over that ridge.” He pointed. “Red Fox has gone there now with meat that will see this caravan through the next few days. You also have enough time to make it there, if you can rouse your men together and start immediately.”

  “I don’t believe it. A twister, here?” asked Russell, as though he hadn’t heard anything Swift Hawk had said. “A coulee, ye say? Northeast? Just over that ridge?”

  Swift Hawk nodded.

  “Naw, it can’t be,” said Russell, almost to himself. “See here, my outriders say it’s only a lightnin’ storm, and we’ve weathered plenty of ’em. Besides, see how fast the clouds are a’coming? Don’t think we’d ever make it to some damn-fool coulee in time. If we stay here, at least we’re prepared. Better that than to get caught out in it.”

  Swift Hawk sent the man a derogatory frown, and warned, “Stay here at your risk. If you stay, you will be caught out in it. If you start for the coulee now, at least you might have some protection, for I think that most of you should make it.”

  Looking downcast, Russell shook his head. “Naw, better ta stay put than ta chance it.”

  “Hear me on this. If you do not try to go there now, any death or destruction that comes to this train will haunt your dreams. Think wisely. If you can weather your own nightmares, stay here. If not, get this caravan moving.”

  Kit Russell shook his head, but not with as much gusto as before. Glancing toward the west and back up at Swift Hawk, he capitulated. “Maybe you’re right. Guess we’ll have to try.” Russell hastily jammed his hat back on his head. “Well, there ain’t no time ta lose. I’ll alert the folks here in the front of the caravan, Injun, and you go to the back and get them people there movin’.”

  The words were wasted on Swift Hawk. He had already whipped his pony into a run, making for the rear of the caravan. She would be there.

  Swift Hawk shouted as he rode, “The Wind Spirit is roused. He comes this way. All are to seek shelter at once. Over that ridge, north and east, there is a coulee. Make for it at all possible speed.”

  His cry was almost unnecessary. Somehow word of the twister had traveled more quickly than the storm itself, and what had seemed a deserted assemblage of wagons, canvas and mules only moments ago, was now coming alive with action.

  “Hep, hep, there, get on there!”

  “Fall in!”

  “Hep, hep!”

  The cries came from all around him.

  Talk, shouting, the trampling of hard leather on the ground, the cracking reports of the whips in the air, even the creaks of a few wheels began to be heard over the screaming wail of the winds and the roar of the thunder.

  Swift Hawk raced along, pulling rein at Angelia’s wagon. Already, Pierre stood out in front of the mules, attempting to drag one of them in the direction of the coulee. Angelia was out in front with Pierre, trying to help. Her bonnet had slid back on her head, and her silvery-blonde hair was blowing in all directions. Even her skirts were hiking upward beneath the pressure of the gales, giving Swift Hawk a quick glimpse of tiny ankles and lace-trimmed drawers.

  Swift Hawk barely had time to appreciate her beauty or her undergarments before he hit the ground at a run. Summing up the situation—mules refusing to move—he took hold of the mule not being pulled and tu
gged with all his might. But even that animal refused to budge.

  “If the lead mule won’t go, the other three will not go, either!” cried Angelia over the gales of the wind. “We’ve been trying everything we know—I’m afraid we don’t have anything else to do except to somehow drag the lead mule.”

  Letting go of the one mule, Swift Hawk slowly approached Pierre and the stubborn lead animal, and reaching out a hand, Swift Hawk petted the mule’s nose.

  Swift Hawk said, “He is frightened of the storm. Perhaps if we could all pull him together. He might go then.”

  “We have tried.”

  Swift Hawk nodded. “He might follow my pony, as horses are prone to do with a mare, and I ride a mare today.”

  “You do?” Angelia’s face brightened, and seeing it, an answering gladness filled Swift Hawk’s being. Saaaa, it was indeed true that this woman had attained a place of honor, here within his heart. “Do you think you can tie your pony to the team?”

  “I think so.”

  Whistling, Swift Hawk brought his mare forward and, tying her in front of the mule team, took hold of her reins and led her forward. Like magic, the mules followed her lead, and off they set, across the prairie, toward the coulee.

  “Oui, oui, merci, merci.”

  While Swift Hawk led his pony, Angelia followed close behind, and gazing off behind him, Swift Hawk witnessed her attempts to pull her bonnet back on her head and tie it. But the winds were too furious, and she eventually gave up trying. The rush of the gales was again kicking her skirts up high, and she placed her hands over the layers of petticoats that she wore.

  Despite himself, Swift Hawk smiled at her attempts.

  She called from behind, “Where is Julian?”

  Though not missing a step, Swift Hawk damped down his grin, which quickly turned to a frown. He hesitated. Somehow, he didn’t think that now was the time to tell her, though he knew that eventually Julian’s disappearance must be related.

  But she would not be put off, and she called again, “Swift Hawk? Where is Julian?”