Savage Illusions

by Cassie Edwards

  She en­vi­si­oned her­self back in Sa­int Lo­u­is and re­cal­led how she had lis­te­ned to the so­unds of the one gi­ant cot­ton­wo­od tree that sto­od just out­si­de her bed­ro­om win­dow. On days when she was ca­ught up in won­de­ring abo­ut her he­ri­ta­ge, and whe­re her true fat­her might be, she had lis­te­ned to the cot­ton­wo­od tree, al­lo­wing it to so­ot­he her in her mo­ments of lo­ne­li­ness for a li­fe that she had be­en de­ni­ed.

  Her sto­mach rum­b­led, and the gna­wing ac­he at the pit of it drew Jole­na's eyes back open. She knew that she must tra­vel on­ward, if not to find ci­vi­li­za­ti­on of so­me sort, at le­ast to find fo­od. She had be­en ab­le to qu­ench her thirst in the cle­ar, spar­k­ling stre­ams, and an oc­ca- si­onal blac­k­ber­ry bush had of­fe­red her so­me res­pi­te from her hun­ger as she had gob­bled up han­d­s­ful of the ber­ri­es.

  But now, even that me­al was far be­hind her and she knew that she must eat so­on or col­lap­se from we­ak­ness.

  She co­uld fe­el it al­re­ady be­gin­nin­g­t­he trem­b­ling in her kne­es and the slight diz­zi­ness.

  "I must mo­ve on­ward," she whis­pe­red, pus­hing her way thro­ugh knee-high pra­irie grass. "I must. I must."

  The sun se­emed to be bran­ding her as it be­amed its he­ated rays down upon her. She wis­hed the day away, hun­ge­ring for the co­oler bre­ezes of eve­ning, yet fe­aring the un­k­nown aga­in in the de­ep, pur­p­le sha­dows of night.

  Jolena stop­ped to ta­ke a qu­ave­ring bre­ath, and to use the hem of her skirt to spon­ge the per­s­pi­ra­ti­on from her fa­ce. As she drop­ped the skirt down aga­in, so­met­hing grab­bed her at­ten­ti­on. Her he­art se­emed to skip se­ve­ral be­ats when aga­in she he­ard so­met­hing waf­ting thro­ugh the air.

  "Is that chil­d­ren's la­ug­h­ter?" she whis­pe­red, then stif­fe­ned when she he­ard the fa­int bar­king of dogs and ne­ig­hing of hor­ses.

  Then she crin­k­led her no­se as she pic­ked up the won­der­ful aro­ma of me­at ro­as­ting over an open fi­re.

  All of the­se things co­uld only me­an one thing.

  She was ne­aring eit­her a set­tler's ca­bi­nor an In­di­an vil­la­ge! The tho­ught of fi­nal­ly fin­ding so­me­one­an­yo­ne­o­ut he­re in the mid­dle of now­he­re ga­ve Jole­na the in­cen­ti­ve she ne­eded to go that one mo­re mi­le, if ne­eded, to fi­nal­ly be sa­fe from the dan­gers of be­ing alo­ne, and to eat. Each step she to­ok now was a true ef­fort, as tho­ugh it just might be her last.

  Suddenly she saw them!

  Her eyes grew wi­de and her he­ar­t­be­at went wild with the dis­co­very.

  Through the cot­ton­wo­ods she co­uld see dark, smo­ke-blac­ke­ned te­pe­es, the­ir pe­aks re­le­asing drif­ting, lazy smo­ke up in­to the bre­eze. Every open pla­ce in the val­ley was co­ve­red with te­pe­es!

  The hills clo­se by the vil­la­ge we­re dot­ted with hor­ses gra­zing in a lar­ge, wi­de cor­ral.

  She shif­ted her ga­ze and wat­c­hed chil­d­ren scam­pe­ring abo­ut ba­re­fo­ot and in bri­ef bre­ec­h­c­lo­uts, cha­sing one anot­her in what se­emed mock bat­tles, with limbs for lan­ces and rif­les.

  Dogs fol­lo­wed on the­ir he­els, yap­ping.

  Jolena step­ped be­hind a tree, sud­denly fe­ar­ful of ap­pro­ac­hing an In­di­an vil­la­ge alo­ne. She wat­c­hed with a shal­low bre­ath as wo­men ca­me in­to vi­ew, sto­oping, tying and ha­uling the­ir gat­he­red wo­od that wo­uld fe­ed the­ir fi­res to­night.

  Jolena lo­oked past the­se wo­men at the blue smo­ke of the co­oking fi­res ri­sing in­to the still air in lit­tle co­lumns from the te­pe­es, so­on di­sap­pe­aring in­to not­hin­g­ness.

  Her eyes wi­de­ned, and her sto­mach grow­led aga­in at the sight of me­at co­oking on a spit over a lar­ge, out­do­or fi­re in the cen­ter of the vil­la­ge.

  She knew that she had no cho­ice but to go on in­to the vil­la­ge. She eased from be­hind the tree, re­ady to ap­pro­ach the wo­men, but fo­und them go­ne, and al­so the chil­d­ren and dogs that had be­en with them.

  Sighing he­avily, Jole­na mo­ved on to­ward the vil­la­ge, cas­ting all fe­ars asi­de, not al­lo­wing her­self to think they might be ene­mi­es, in­s­te­ad of the fri­endly Blac­k­fo­ot. If they we­re the Cree, Si­o­ux, Crow, or Sna­ke she did not know how she wo­uld be re­ce­ived. She did know that Spot­ted Eag­le had be­en ac­com­pan­ying the ex­pe­di­ti­on of le­pi­dop­te­rists in part be­ca­use of the dan­ger of a Cree at­tack. He had most de­fi­ni­tely se­en the Cree as his enemy and the enemy of whi­te pe­op­le.

  Bringing Spot­ted Eag­le to the sur­fa­ce of her me­mory aga­in ma­de a sad lon­ging wash thro­ugh her. She wi­ped te­ars from her eyes and trud­ged on­ward, so­on re­ac­hing the outer ed­ge of the vil­la­ge.

  Limping slightly, Jole­na mo­ved to­ward the clo­sest dwel­ling, a co­lor­ful te­pee ma­de from buf­fa­lo hi­des with stran­ge me­di­ci­ne ani­mals pa­in­ted on it, kno­wing that it sho­uld not mat­ter which one she ap­pro­ac­hed for as­sis­tan­ce.

  As she cir­c­led aro­und the te­pee from be­hind, she stop­ped when she dis­co­ve­red an ol­der man sit­ting in front of the te­pee on a blan­ket, po­lis­hing his ar­row shafts by pas­sing them thro­ugh ho­les dril­led in a thin, flat rock. She had be­en so qu­i­et in her ap­pro­ach that he had not yet dis­co­ve­red her the­re, which ga­ve her ti­me to study him and to gu­ess whet­her or not he might be fri­endly eno­ugh to ap­pro­ach.

  This man, who wo­re a vest of pu­ma skin and frin­ged buc­k­s­kin tro­users had a gre­at, ar­c­hing chest and im­men­se sho­ul­ders. His ha­ir was black and thick and hung in bra­ids down his mas­si­ve, stra­ight back. His fa­ce had li­nes of for­ce and in­tel­li­gen­ce. She felt sud­denly awed in his ma­j­es­tic pre­sen­ce and won­de­red if he might be so­me­one of gre­at im­por­tan­ce.

  Her eyes stop­ped on his moc­ca­sins, ca­using her he­art to jump with re­li­ef.

  They we­re black!

  The Blac­k­fo­ot we­re the only In­di­ans known to we­ar black moc­ca­sins. That had to me­an that she was in a fri­endly camp of In­di­ans!

  She tur­ned her eyes slowly aro­und her, de­ci­ding that this man was su­rely not the chi­ef of this vil­la­ge, for far­t­her in­to the vil­la­ge sat a much lar­ger te­pee po­si­ti­oned on a knoll that over­lo­oked the ot­hers, as she ima­gi­ned a chi­ef's te­pee wo­uld be.

  A shuf­fling so­und and a gasp drew Jole­na's he­ad aro­und in a jerk. She swal­lo­wed hard and pla­ced a hand at her thro­at when she fo­und the ol­der man sta­ring at her, his eyes full of qu­es­ti­ons as he ga­zed in­ten­sely at her fa­ce­as tho­ugh per­haps he knew it well al­re­ady!

  Brown Elk be­gan in­c­hing bac­k­ward, away from Jole­na, then was for­ced to stop when his back ca­me in­to con­tact with the cow­hi­de fab­ric of his te­pee. His he­art was thud­ding wildly and he was fe­eling fa­int, for ne­ver had he ex­pec­ted to see that fa­ce aga­in­not un­til he jo­ined his be­lo­ved wi­ves in the land of the he­re­af­ter!

  ''How… can… it be?" he fi­nal­ly stam­me­red.

  Jolena had al­re­ady ex­pe­ri­en­ced such a re­ac­ti­on from anot­her Blac­k­fo­ot­S­pot­ted Eag­le!

  He had al­so lo­oked at her as tho­ugh se­e­ing a ghost, thin­king that she was her mot­her!

  That had to me­an that this man al­so re­cog­ni­zed the re­sem­b­lan­ce, which had to me­an that he was su­rely from the sa­me tri­be, the sa­me vil­la­ge, per­haps the sa­me dwel­ling!

  "Are you Brown Elk?" she blur­ted out, ho­ping he wo­uld un­der­s­tand her. She might be lo­oking upon the fa­ce of her true fat­her for the first ti­me in her li­fe! It did not se­em pos­sib­le, yet the­re it was in the way he was re­ac­t
ing to her know­led­ge of his na­me!

  "My na­me is Brown Elk," he sa­id in En­g­lish, his vo­ice drawn. "And yo­urs? What are you cal­led? Whe­re did you co­me from? Why are you he­re? How do you know my na­me?"

  His ga­ze swept over her aga­in, ra­ising an eyeb­row at the way she was dres­sed. It was ob­vi­o­us that she was an In­di­an, yet she was dres­sed as a whi­te wo­man!

  He lo­oked at her aga­in with wild, won­de­ring eyes, kno­wing of only one way all of this co­uld be pos­sib­le!

  She was the mir­ror ima­ge of Swe­et Do­ve.

  She was… his da­ug­h­ter!

  It was as tho­ugh it had be­en des­ti­ned for them to me­et in such a way!

  After all the­se ye­ars of won­de­ring, Jole­na was in the pre­sen­ce of her true fat­her, and now she didn't know what to do next.

  She so badly wan­ted to mo­ve in­to his arms and cling to him, to ta­ke from him the com­fort that she ne­eded now to get her past her gri­eving for Spot­ted Eag­le and Kirk.

  But she knew that she had to hold her­self in check. Just be­ca­use he was her fat­her by blo­od did not ma­ke them in­s­tantly lo­ve each ot­her as da­ug­h­ter and fat­her! Lo­ve wo­uld su­rely ha­ve to grow bet­we­en them.

  He was a fat­her who wo­uld ha­ve to ac­cept that the baby he had be­en de­ni­ed was sud­denly a grown wo­man.

  "You are Brown Elk," Jole­na sa­id, her vo­ice trem­b­ling as much as her kne­es and fin­gers. "I am cal­led Jole­na by the whi­te com­mu­nity, but I am not su­re what Blac­k­fo­ot na­me you wo­uld ha­ve cal­led me had I not be­en ta­ken by whi­te pe­op­le in­s­te­ad of be­ing left for you to find on the day my mot­her sac­ri­fi­ced her li­fe to gi­ve me mi­ne."

  Brown Elk's sho­ul­ders swa­yed with the ab­so­lu­te know­led­ge now that this was his da­ug­h­ter, the child he had mo­ur­ned. Even af­ter his se­cond wi­fe had gi­ven birth to Two Rid­ges, this son had not be­en eno­ugh to era­se the sad­ness of ha­ving lost his ot­her child.

  When his se­cond wi­fe had di­ed from a fe­ve­rish ma­lady, he had not mar­ri­ed aga­in, but re­su­med trying to ease his ha­un­ting tho­ughts of whe­re his first child was, and whet­her or not the child was even ali­ve! And now he was bles­sed! His da­ug­h­ter had re­tur­ned to him.

  After all the­se ye­ars, his ple­as and pra­yers to the fi­res of the sun had fi­nal­ly be­en an­s­we­red.

  Brown Elk re­ac­hed his arms out for Jole­na. " Ok-yi, co­me to me, da­ug­h­ter," he sa­id thickly, fig­h­ting back the ur­ge to cry that ma­de men lo­ok li­ke wo­men in the eyes of tho­se who wit­nes­sed such a we­ak­ness. "Let me fill my arms and he­art with you. This has be­en de­ni­ed me long eno­ugh."

  Sobbing with joy, Jole­na eased her­self in­to his thick, mus­cu­lar arms. She hug­ged him tightly, re­ve­ling in the won­der of the mo­ment. "I ne­ver tho­ught this wo­uld hap­pen," she cri­ed, tur­ning her dark eyes up to him. "I ha­ve dre­amed it. Oh, how many ti­mes I ha­ve dre­amed it. I've pra­yed for this. It to­ok a long ti­me, but God fi­nal­ly an­s­we­red my pra­yers."

  Brown Elk pla­ced his fin­gers at her wa­ist and eased her slightly away from him, enab­ling him to get a go­od lo­ok at her. "I, too, ha­ve pra­yed," he sa­id. "The Blac­k­fo­ot cre­ator, Na­pi, has he­ard my pra­yers. He has fi­nal­ly gran­ted them true."

  They ga­zed smi­lingly at one anot­her a few mo­ments lon­ger, then Brown Elk frow­ned. "How is it that you are alo­ne?" he sa­id, his vo­ice drawn. He swept his eyes over her, se­e­ing her com­p­le­te di­sar­ray.

  Then he ga­zed in­to her eyes. "How did you find this Blac­k­fo­ot vil­la­ge?" he sa­id softly. "How long ha­ve you be­en wan­de­ring, lo­oking for it?"

  Jolena was ca­ta­pul­ted back to the tra­gic ac­ci- dent. She lo­we­red her eyes, truly not wan­ting to talk abo­ut it.

  Not the de­ath of tho­se she lo­ved!

  Nor of Two Rid­ges' de­ce­it of a fri­en­dand ne­ar ra­pe of his fri­end's wo­man!

  All of this ca­used a bit­ter ac­he to cir­c­le her he­art, yet she knew that she must tell at le­ast part of the tra­gedy.

  She wo­uld not re­ve­al Two Rid­ges' true na­tu­re to his pe­op­le. That wo­uld hap­pen so­on eno­ugh, when he re­tur­ned to the vil­la­ge and saw that she was the­re! He wo­uld not know if she had or had not told what he had do­ne.

  This wo­uld ma­ke him re­act stran­gely eno­ugh in front of his pe­op­le so that they wo­uld ask what was the ca­use of his be­ha­vi­or. She wo­uld stand back, smi­ling smugly when he tri­ed to in­vent a lie that might free him of all bla­me and sha­me!

  "You show such pa­in in yo­ur eyes," Brown Elk sa­id as he pla­ced a fo­re­fin­ger be­ne­ath Jole­na's chin, for­cing her eyes to lock with his. "What has hap­pe­ned? You can tell yo­ur fat­her."

  Then his eyes wi­de­ned with hor­ror as he on­ce aga­in swept them over Jole­na, re­mem­be­ring that Spot­ted Eag­le and Two Rid­ges had go­ne to gu­ide a gro­up of whi­te pe­op­le. Le­pi­dop­te­rists, he be­li­eved they we­re cal­led. Co­uld his da­ug­h­ter ha­ve be­en among tho­se pe­op­le? If so, whe­re was Spot­ted Eag­le and Two Rid­ges? They had be­en hi­red as gu­ides!

  "Spotted Eag­le and Two Rid­ges?" he cri­ed. "Do you know the­se two Blac­k­fo­ot?"

  Jolena felt her thro­at be­co­me con­s­t­ric­ted at the men­ti­on of tho­se na­mes. "How wo­uld you know that I did?" she sa­id in al­most a whis­per.

  "Then you are in the Mon­ta­na Ter­ri­tory se­eking but­ter­f­li­es?" Brown Elk sa­id, his vo­ice gu­ar­ded.

  "Yes, I was," Jole­na sa­id, fin­ding it dif­fi­cult to spe­ak abo­ut it wit­ho­ut re­li­ving in her mind's eye all over aga­in the tra­gedy of it all.

  Brown Elk pla­ced his fin­gers to her sho­ul­ders. "You say that as tho­ugh you are no lon­ger a part of the ex­pe­di­ti­on," he sa­id, his vo­ice drawn. He glan­ced at her dis­he­ve­led clot­hes aga­in and at her tan­g­led ha­ir, sud­denly fe­eling as if he was drow­ning in­si­de at the tho­ught of what this all me­ant.

  "Where is Two Rid­ges?" he sa­id in a rush of words. "Whe­re is Spot­ted Eag­le?"

  Jolena sta­red up at him, re­ali­zing that he had gu­es­sed what had hap­pe­ned, and she dre­aded ha­ving to tell him that what he fe­ared was in part true.

  One Blac­k­fo­ot war­ri­or was de­ad.

  The ot­her…

  Oh, God, what co­uld she say abo­ut the ot­her?

  This mo­ment, when she sho­uld be happy to ha­ve fi­nal­ly fo­und her true fat­her and true pe­op­le, she felt trap­ped­t­rap­ped by so­me­one el­se's li­es and de­ce­its and lusts.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  The sud­den alarm in Brown Elk's eyes ma­de Jole­na awa­re that he per­haps knew her an­s­wer be­fo­re she spo­ke the words out lo­ud.

  Even tho­ugh tal­king of Spot­ted Eag­le's de­ath wo­uld te­ar her he­art apart, Jole­na knew that she had no cho­ice but to tell her Blac­k­fo­ot fat­her the truth. She owed him so much for ha­ving be­en de­ni­ed his da­ug­h­ter for the first eig­h­te­en ye­ars of her li­fe, and she ne­ver wan­ted to be an­y­t­hing but trut­h­ful with him.

  "Spotted Eag­le and Two Rid­ges we­re do­ing well the­ir task of ke­eping the ex­pe­di­ti­on from harm," she sa­id, swal­lo­wing hard. She ner­vo­usly clas­ped her hands be­hind her. "But the­re was not­hing they co­uld do abo­ut the fi­er­ce lig­h­t­ning. It ca­used the mu­les and hor­ses to go wild," she sa­id in a rush of words. She lo­we­red her eyes, fin­ding it even har­der than she had at first ima­gi­ned to tell the rest. It wasn't that she had ac­tu­al­ly se­en Spot­ted Eag­le's hor­se be­co­me spo­oked eno­ugh to carry Spot­ted Eag­le over the cliff. She knew it to be true be­ca­use Two Rid­ges had told her that it had hap­pe­ned.

  Her he�
�art skip­ped a be­at. What if Two Rid­ges had be­en tel­ling a lie, in ho­pes that she wo­uld le­an on him for pro­tec­ti­on in the ab­sen­ce of her be­lo­ved Spot­ted Eag­le?

  Then she felt fo­olish for such a tho­ught.

  Even Two Rid­ges co­uld not be that vin­dic­ti­ve.

  She had to ac­cept that Spot­ted Eag­le was go­ne­fo­re­ver.

  Hands grip­ping her sho­ul­ders, al­most pa­in­ful­ly, ca­used Jole­na to lo­ok sud­denly up, fin­ding her Blac­k­fo­ot fat­her's dark eyes si­lently ple­ading with her.

  "Tell me the rest," Brown Elk sa­id, his vo­ice drawn. "Did Two Rid­ges and Spot­ted Eag­le lo­se con­t­rol of the­ir hor­ses? We­re they thrown and tram­p­led to de­ath? Tell me. I must know the fa­te of my son, Two Rid­ges!"

  Everything that Brown Elk was sa­ying was lost to Jole­na ex­cept that he had cal­led Two Rid­ges his son!