Savage Illusions

by Cassie Edwards

  Not al­lo­wing her­self to even co­nj­ure up the pos­si­bi­lity of her brot­her and lo­ver clas­hing over who pos­ses­sed whom, Jole­na smi­led softly and kept her eyes stra­ight ahe­ad. The wind whip­ped her long black ha­ir back from her sho­ul­ders, and her cle­an, fresh blo­use, which she had put on af­ter her bri­ef bath in the ri­ver this mor­ning, clung to her bre­asts as the wind pres­sed aga­inst the cot­ton fab­ric.

  As the wa­gons be­gan tra­ve­ling on a path that had be­en cut out of a to­we­ring fo­rest, the wind was si­len­ced. Ever­y­t­hing in the fo­rest was still in the mo­ist he­at of mid-mor­ning, as if every le­af of every tree was bre­at­hing slowly in the mo­ist air, tas­ting its frag­ran­ce.

  Thin shafts of sun­light fell in criss-cross pat­terns bet­we­en the gently ri­sing tree-trunks. So­me tre­es we­re gi­gan­tic. So­me we­re small. So­me we­re ro­und and smo­oth, ot­hers gnar­led and co­ar­se, so­me rot­ting and re­ady to drop.

  It was li­ving so in­ten­sely, this fo­rest, that Jole­na felt as tho­ugh she da­red not bre­at­he lo­udly or gi­ve signs of her ani­mal res­t­les­sness. All aro­und her, sap­lings, shrubs, flo­wers, and gras­ses rus­hed to clo­se the ho­le that had be­en torn in the fab­ric of the fo­rest ro­of. Slen­der growths stret­c­hed up­ward. The so­il burst with ir­rep­res­sib­le ve­ge­ta­ti­on, and mas­ses of pa­ra­si­tic fo­li­age we­re en­t­wi­ned with the glo­ri­o­us blos­soms of cre­epers, la­ced and bo­und and in­ter­wo­ven with in­ter­mi­nab­le tan­g­les of vi­nes.

  The air hum­med with flying cre­atu­res, with birds as bright as but­ter­f­li­es, star­t­ling Jole­na in­to thin­king that fi­nal­ly she was go­ing to find the elu­si­ve, ra­re but­terfly.

  She wat­c­hed mo­re in­ten­sely for any signs of but­ter­f­li­es as the sun­light stre­amed thro­ugh many tints of gre­en over­he­ad on­to the black mas­ses of mol­de­ring wo­od and le­aves be­ne­ath the tre­es.

  But still the­re we­re no signs of but­ter­f­li­es, and when this stretch of fo­rest was left be­hind and they we­re tra­ve­ling over a mo­re rocky ter­ra­in, whe­re ne­it­her tre­es nor grass grew, Jole­na set­tled down, sig­hing re­so­lu­tely, now wor­rying mo­re abo­ut the sun that was be­ating down upon her, scor­c­hing her as if a he­ated iron we­re be­ing held only in­c­hes away from her flesh. She fan­ned her­self with one of her hands, whi­le with the ot­her she grip­ped the se­at of the wa­gon, the jo­ur­ney ha­ving be­co­me slow and ro­ugh as the whe­els of the wa­gon rol­led and bum­ped over the rocks.

  Out of the cor­ner of her eye, Jole­na saw Spot­ted Eag­le dis­mo­unt, then be­gin tra­ve­ling on fo­ot, his hor­se's re­ins held limply in his fin­gers as his ste­ed fell back away from him at a much slo­wer ga­it.

  Jolena shif­ted her ga­ze and wat­c­hed Spot­ted Eag­le as he wal­ked tall and pro­ud be­si­de the wa­gon, so clo­se she co­uld re­ach out and to­uch him if she wis­hed to.

  But she da­red not to­uch him, for it might start a cha­in re­ac­ti­on of fe­elings tum­b­ling thro­ugh her­fe­elings she co­uld not act on un­til pri­vacy was on­ce aga­in gran­ted to her and her han­d­so­me war­ri­or lo­ver.

  She smi­led to her­self, fin­ding it hard to be­li­eve that her li­fe had chan­ged so dras­ti­cal­ly sin­ce she left Sa­int Lo­u­is. She had ho­ped for many things as she tra­ve­led up the long stretch of the Mis­so­uri, but ne­ver had she ima­gi­ned that she wo­uld find lo­ve, and that she wo­uld be ta­ught the true me­aning of be­ing a wo­man whi­le loc­ked wit­hin her lo­ver's po­wer­ful em­b­ra­ce.

  Her mid­night dre­am had co­me true, she tho­ught. Now if only the ot­her thing that she had pra­yed upon the stars for each night wo­uld hap­pen­t­hen she wo­uld fe­el ful­fil­led. She wo­uld be who­le. As long as she ne­ver knew her true fat­her and pe­op­le, she was only half a per­son.

  It was not fa­ir, ha­ving be­en che­ated of a li­fe­ti­me of be­ing with her pe­op­le and be­ing lo­ved by her true fat­her.

  But now she had ho­pes that even this wo­uld so­on chan­ge. If she co­uld find the co­ura­ge to ask Spot­ted Eag­le the im­por­tant qu­es­ti­ons that we­re bur­ning wit­hin her he­art, per­haps then she wo­uld not ha­ve to se­arch any fur­t­her for an­s­wers!

  As Spot­ted Eag­le wal­ked qu­i­etly be­si­de the wa­gon whe­re his wo­man was so clo­se he co­uld re­ach out and to­uch her if he so de­si­red, he was lost in me­mo­ri­es of the mo­ments he had spent alo­ne with her. So­on he wo­uld tell her many things that wo­uld thrill her he­art. He was pro­ud that he wo­uld be the one to put back to­get­her the pi­eces of her li­fe that had be­en wren­c­hed apart all tho­se ye­ars ago when the whi­te pe­op­le had ta­ken her from her be­lo­ved mot­her. On­ce he re­ve­aled this truth to Jole­na, she wo­uld be Blac­k­fo­ot in­s­te­ad of li­ving the pre­ten­se of be­ing whi­te.

  His he­art le­apt when, up ahe­ad, a fox emer­ged from the fo­rest. When the fox cros­sed Spot­ted Eag­le's path from left to right, Spot­ted Eag­le smi­led, kno­wing that me­ant go­od luck.

  At this mo­ment in his li­fe, he felt bles­sed, for of la­te ever­y­t­hing go­od had be­en hap­pe­ning for him and the Blac­k­fo­ot of his vil­la­ge.

  The only thing that wor­ri­ed him was his fat­her's fa­iling he­alth. He was suf­fe­ring a slow des­cent in­to a stran­ge, de­bi­li­ta­ting il­lness which wo­uld qu­ickly ta­ke from him the abi­lity to think or re­mem­ber whe­re he was or who he was.

  These epi­so­des had be­gun to be mo­re fre­qu­ent, gi­ving his fat­her ca­use to tell Spot­ted Eag­le that so­on he wo­uld be chi­ef in­s­te­ad of Chi­ef Gray Be­ar. Spot­ted Eag­le was sad­de­ned over his fat­her's ne­ed to gi­ve up his tit­le of chi­ef be­ca­use of the re­ason it was go­ing to ha­ve to be do­ne, yet he knew that it wo­uld be ne­ces­sary if his fat­her's mind ce­ased to fun­c­ti­on as a le­ader's mind must.

  Spotted Eag­le was re­ady to le­ad his pe­op­le.

  He had be­en an as­tu­te stu­dent of his fat­her's te­ac­hings!

  Something spar­k­ling be­ne­ath the be­ating rays of the sun in his path drew Spot­ted Eag­le's eyes. He smi­led bro­adly when he re­cog­ni­zed what the obj­ect was. It was an I-nis-ki­ma buf­fa­lo sto­ne. This was the Blac­k­fo­ot's stron­gest me­di­ci­ne. It ga­ve its pos­ses­sor gre­at po­wer with the buf­fa­lo. One who fo­und the sto­ne was re­gar­ded as very for­tu­na­te.

  ''Twice in one day I ha­ve re­ce­ived go­od signs," he whis­pe­red to him­self, stop­ping to bend and pluck the buf­fa­lo sto­ne from the rocky ter­ra­in.

  Smiling, cir­c­ling the sto­ne in one of his hands, Spot­ted Eag­le con­ti­nu­ed on his way, then stop­ped and ga­zed gu­ar­dedly at an ap­pro­ac­hing hor­se­man. When he re­cog­ni­zed the man in the In­di­an sad­dle as Whi­te Mo­le, a war­ri­or of Spot­ted Eag­le's ne­ig­h­bo­ring vil­la­ge of Blac­k­fo­ot, he re­la­xed his sho­ul­ders and awa­ited his ar­ri­val.

  White Mo­le drew tight re­in be­si­de Spot­ted Eag­le. He ga­ve Two Rid­ges, who sat on his hor­se only a few fe­et back from Spot­ted Eag­le, a qu­ick, kno­wing glan­ce.

  "What brings you he­re?" Spot­ted Eag­le sa­id, dra­wing Whi­te Mo­le's full at­ten­ti­on to him. "Do you wish to jo­in the ex­pe­di­ti­on? If so, you are wel­co­me."

  "No," Whi­te Mo­le sa­id. "I ha­ve co­me for ot­her re­asons."

  "Tell me then the true re­ason," Spot­ted Eag­le sa­id, stif­fe­ning as Whi­te Mo­le did not of­fer a smi­le, only frow­ning as if his news was an­y­t­hing but go­od.

  "It is yo­ur fat­her," Whi­te Mo­le sa­id, not me­eting Spot­ted Eag­le's ga­ze. "He is ailing. He has as­ked for you. He wis­hes you to co­me to him qu­ickly."

  "Father?" Spot­ted Eag­le sa­id, fe­ar ri­sing in­si­
de him that per­haps his fat­her was mo­re ill than he had tho­ught. "How do you know this?"

  "While jo­ur­ne­ying to­ward Fort Chan­ce, I ca­me upon a war­ri­or from yo­ur vil­la­ge," Whi­te Mo­le sa­id, the lie slip­ping easily ac­ross his lips sin­ce it was be­ing pa­id for with two hor­ses. "This war­ri­or who­se na­me I do not know as­ked if I wo­uld bring the mes­sa­ge to you. I saw that he was eager to re­turn to yo­ur vil­la­ge, so I sa­id that I wo­uld do this de­ed for you, as a fri­endly ges­tu­re from my vil­la­ge to yo­urs."

  "That is most kind," Spot­ted Eag­le sa­id, re­ac­hing a hand to Whi­te Mo­le and tightly clas­ping his hand as it was ex­ten­ded to him. "So­me­how I will re­turn the fa­vor."

  White Mo­le smi­led smugly, slip­ped his hand from Spot­ted Eag­le's, ga­ve Two Rid­ges anot­her qu­ick glan­ce, then whe­eled his hor­se aro­und and ro­de qu­ickly away.

  Spotted Eag­le was torn, not wan­ting to le­ave Jole­na's sa­fety in the hands of an­yo­ne but him­self, yet kno­wing that his first lo­yal­ti­es we­re to his fat­her. He slowly ope­ned his fin­gers and sta­red down at the buf­fa­lo rock, ha­ving only mo­ments ago felt that much luck was his to­day, es­pe­ci­al­ly af­ter ha­ving al­so se­en the fox.

  Two Rid­ges ro­de up and dis­mo­un­ted. He pla­ced a hand on Spot­ted Eag­le's sho­ul­der. "What news did Whi­te Mo­le bring?" he sa­id, pre­ten­ding con­cern. "It is in yo­ur eyes that so­met­hing has pa­ined you."

  " Ni- nah-ah, my fat­her," Spot­ted Eag­le sa­id, his jaw tight. "I must go to my fat­her. You are now in char­ge. Ke­ep a sharp eye out for the Cree or any ot­her re­ne­ga­des that might be stal­king the ex­pe­di­ti­on."

  "It is do­ne, my fri­end," Two Rid­ges sa­id, drop­ping his hand down to his si­de. His in­si­des glo­wed warm with glee as he wat­c­hed Spot­ted Eag­le glan­ce at the cop­per prin­cess, not re­ali­zing that when he re­tur­ned, she wo­uld no lon­ger be­long to him!

  His ploy was wor­king, Two Rid­ges glo­ated to him­self. To­night he wo­uld fi­nal­ly ha­ve his lusts sa­tis­fi­ed be­ne­ath the mo­on­light, as Spot­ted Eag­le had the pre­vi­o­us night. Just thin­king how soft her skin must fe­el all over was set­ting small fi­res in­si­de Two Rid­ges' lo­ins.

  Spotted Eag­le's eyes lin­ge­red on Jole­na, then he tur­ned his eyes back to the rock. Wit­ho­ut fur­t­her tho­ught, he went with pro­ud sho­ul­ders to Jole­na.

  "I did not he­ar what the war­ri­or sa­id to you, but the news se­ems to ha­ve dis­tur­bed you," Jole­na sa­id, be­fo­re he had a chan­ce to say an­y­t­hing to her. "What is it? What's hap­pe­ned?"

  She had wat­c­hed with in­ten­se in­te­rest as the stran­ge war­ri­or re­la­yed a mes­sa­ge to Spot­ted Eag­le that had sent qu­ick alarm and con­cern in­to his dark eyes.

  "I must le­ave you," Spot­ted Eag­le sa­id, his vo­ice drawn. He pa­used and lo­oked at Kirk, his spi­ne stif­fe­ning when he saw that that bit of news ma­de Kirk smi­le. It to­ok every bit of Spot­ted Eag­le's will po­wer not to lash out at the brot­her of his wo­man and tell him that he co­uld fe­el as smug as he wan­ted now, but Spot­ted Eag­le wo­uld re­turn. He wo­uld ne­ver al­low him­self to stay far from his wo­man­not af­ter wa­iting a li­fe­ti­me for her!

  Jolena was jar­red by the news. "You must le­ave?" she gas­ped, her eyes wi­de­ning. "But why? Whe­re are you go­ing?"

  "My fat­her is ailing," Spot­ted Eag­le ex­p­la­ined. "He bec­kons me to his bed­si­de. This de­vo­ted son res­ponds qu­ickly to his re­qu­est. I le­ave now, but as so­on as I see that ever­y­t­hing is be­ing do­ne for my fat­her, al­lo­wing me to le­ave him aga­in, I shall re­turn and be yo­ur hum­b­le gu­ide."

  "Two Rid­ges will do just fi­ne in that ca­pa­city," Kirk qu­ickly in­te­rj­ec­ted. "So don't worry abo­ut how long you are go­ne. In fact, Spot­ted Eag­le, I'm su­re we'll get along just fi­ne wit­ho­ut you. I ha­ven't se­en any signs of the Cree." He frow­ned. "Nor of but­ter­f­li­es. I'm be­gin­ning to won­der if you in­ven­ted the story, per­haps to win ap­pro­val from Ralph McMil­len when you re­por­ted it." Jole­na's he­art skip­ped a be­at, and she sta­red wi­de-eyed at her brot­her, who had just in­sul­ted Spot­ted Eag­le. This wasn't li­ke her Kirk. In Sa­int Lo­u­is, he had be­en a kind and gen­t­le yo­ung man who ne­ver ma­de an enemy.

  But it se­emed that the mi­nu­te he had lo­oked in­to Spot­ted Eag­le's mid­nig­ht-dark eyes, he had go­ne on the de­fen­si­ve, just wat­c­hing and wa­iting for Spot­ted Eag­le to say or do so­met­hing that he co­uld po­un­ce on with in­sul­ting re­marks.

  She tur­ned won­de­ring eyes to Spot­ted Eag­le, fe­aring his re­ac­ti­on, yet pro­ud of him for ig­no­ring the in­sult as not­hing im­por­tant.

  Yet per­haps that was not in­ten­ti­onal. The rock that he was hol­ding in his hand, and se­emingly stud­ying as he lo­oked in­ten­sely down at it, se­emed to ha­ve drawn his mind away from Kir­kand per­haps even from Jole­na.

  She sta­red at the rock, se­e­ing not­hing spe­ci­al abo­ut it, ex­cept that it was sle­ek and brown and pic­ked up the rays of the sun, ref­lec­ting a soft light back at her. She was so dis­t­rac­ted by all of this that she did not even see a mo­narch but­terfly drif­ting past over­he­ad.

  Suddenly Spot­ted Eag­le thrust the rock to­ward Jole­na, ca­using her to flinch with the qu­ic­k­ness of his mo­ti­on.

  "Keep this for me," he sa­id, thrus­ting the buf­fa­lo sto­ne in­to her hand. "It will bring me back to you."

  Curious, Jole­na won­de­red what the va­lue of the rock was. She star­ted to ask, but just as she ope­ned her mo­uth with the qu­es­ti­on, Spot­ted Eag­le was al­re­ady wal­king away from her.

  In one le­ap he was in his sad­dle. He co­iled his re­ins aro­und his fin­gers and pa­used to ta­ke one last lo­ok at Jole­na, then tur­ned his eyes ahe­ad and ro­de away, stir­ring rocks and clo­uds of dust in­to the air and bloc­king Jole­na's fur­t­her vi­ew of him for a mo­ment.

  Two Rid­ges wal­ked his hor­se to Jole­na's wa­gon. She was stud­ying the sto­ne aga­in, as tho­ugh mes­me­ri­zed by it. "Do you wish to know the im­por­tan­ce of such a sto­ne?" he as­ked, ig­no­ring Kirk's icy sta­re.

  "Yes, ple­ase," Jole­na sa­id.

  "It is cal­led I-nis-kim," Two Rid­ges sa­id softly. "It is a buf­fa­lo sto­ne. It is strong in me­di­ci­ne. It gi­ves its pos­ses­sor gre­at po­wer with buf­fa­lo. The per­son who suc­ce­eds in ob­ta­ining an I-nis-kim is re­gar­ded as very for­tu­na­te. It has be­en sa­id that so­me­ti­mes a man who is ri­ding along on the pra­irie will he­ar a pe­cu­li­ar fa­int chirp such as a lit­tle bird might ut­ter. The so­und is ma­de by a buf­fa­lo rock. He stops and se­ar­c­hes on the gro­und for the rock, and if he can­not find it, he marks the pla­ce and very li­kely re­turns next day to lo­ok aga­in. If it is fo­und, the­re is gre­at re­j­o­icing."

  "It is so small to be so im­por­tant," Jole­na sa­id, tur­ning the rock from si­de to si­de as she stu­di­ed it aga­in.

  "The si­ze do­es not mat­ter," Two Rid­ges sa­id, re­ac­hing over to stro­ke the rock with his fin­ger­tips. "It is sa­id that if an I-nis-kim is pla­ced in a buc­k­s­kin po­uch and left un­dis­tur­bed for a long ti­me, it will ha­ve yo­ung ones. Two small sto­nes si­mi­lar in sha­pe to the ori­gi­nal one will be fo­und in the po­uch."

  Jolena smi­led at the pretty story, ca­re­ful not to lo­ok as tho­ugh she was po­king fun at the lo­vely Blac­k­fo­ot myth. "Why is it cal­led a buf­fa­lo rock?" she as­ked softly.

  "The one who has fo­und the rock ta­kes it and puts it in his lod­ge clo­se to the fi­re, whe­re he can lo­ok at it and pray over it and ma­ke me­di­ci­ne," Two Rid­ges sa­id, squ­aring his sho­ul­ders pro­udly at the op­por­tu­nity to be the one to te­ach his cop�
�per prin­cess the ways of his pe­op­le. "The next day this war­ri­or will find many buf­fa­lo!"

  "I must re­turn it to Spot­ted Eag­le then," Jole­na sa­id, lo­oking in­to the dis­tan­ce, no lon­ger ab­le to even see dust spra­yed up from the gro­und be­hind Spot­ted Eag­le's hor­se. "When he re­turns, I will be su­re that he has it for his next buf­fa­lo hunt."

  "Isn't that eno­ugh talk of rocks and such non­sen­se as that?" Kirk sa­id sud­denly, dra­wing Jole­na's eyes qu­ickly to him. "We're he­re lo­oking for but­ter­f­li­es, not damn rocks. Two Rid­ges, you are in char­ge now. Let's get on our way."

  Two Rid­ges gla­red at Kirk, then stam­ped away and qu­ickly mo­un­ted his hor­se.

  Once aga­in they ma­de a slow trek over the jut­ting rocks, bre­at­hing in dust. Jole­na clung to the buf­fa­lo rock with all of her might, fe­eling as tho­ugh it was her only link now to the man she lo­ved.

  Chapter Eleven

  The day had be­en long for Jole­na, the ho­urs se­eming to drag by sin­ce Spot­ted Eag­le's de­par­tu­re. The sky was now in blo­om with the splash of the set­ting sun, the cam­p­fi­re crac­k­ling and pop­ping as the gre­enest of the wo­od stac­ked among the cir­c­le of rocks be­ca­me awash with fla­mes.