Savage Illusions

by Cassie Edwards

  "He is no lon­ger a cap­ti­ve of the Cree," Do­ub­le Run­ner sa­id.

  "If you did not see the Cree, how do you know the fa­te of the whi­te man?" Spot­ted Eag­le sa­id, for­king an eyeb­row as he le­aned clo­ser to Do­ub­le Run­ner.

  "The whi­te man still hangs on the sta­ke, alo­ne whe­re the cam­p­si­te has be­en de­ser­ted," Do­ub­le Run­ner ex­p­la­ined. "I did not ven­tu­re to go to him alo­ne. I fe­ar this might be a trap."

  "Yes, a trap," Spot­ted Eag­le sa­id, rub­bing his chin tho­ug­h­t­ful­ly. Then he lo­oked over his sho­ul­der at his war­ri­ors as they ro­de up be­hind him and drew re­in, wa­iting to see what his next com­mand might be. "We shall see. We will be pre­pa­red for an am­bush, if one is plan­ned."

  He ex­p­la­ined ever­y­t­hing to his war­ri­ors and then they all ro­de ca­uti­o­usly on­ward, eyes dar­ting aro­und them, wat­c­hing gu­ar­dedly for any mo­ve­ments.

  Spotted Eag­le ga­zed he­aven­ward, no­ti­cing that the mo­on was now hid­den be­hind a thick, black clo­ud.

  Spotted Eag­le and his com­pa­ni­ons tra­ve­led on­ward, and when they ca­me clo­se to the Cre­es' aban­do­ned cam­p­si­te, they ro­de up in a ra­vi­ne be­hind it and bro­ught the­ir hor­ses to a halt.

  Dismounting, Spot­ted Eag­le se­cu­red his hor­se's re­ins to a low tree limb, his war­ri­ors fol­lo­wing his le­ad. With his qu­iver of ar­rows se­cu­red to his back, and clut­c­hing his bow, ke­eping the we­apons re­ady in ca­se they we­re ne­eded, Spot­ted Eag­le crept in­to a lar­ge bunch of rye grass to hi­de as he sur­ve­yed the aban­do­ned camp with slow, in­ten­se eyes.

  He co­uld tell that the Cree had torn down the lod­ges and pac­ked the­ir dog tra­vo­is in has­te, for they had pac­ked in such a hurry that they had left many lit­tle things lying in camp.

  Spotted Eag­le co­uld see kni­ves, awls, bo­ne ne­ed­les, and moc­ca­sins scat­te­red aro­und on the pac­ked earth.

  When the clo­ud fi­nal­ly scur­ri­ed on past, and the mo­on's glow aga­in il­lu­mi­ned ever­y­t­hing as tho­ugh it we­re mor­ning, it re­ve­aled the sta­ke on which Kirk was ti­ed, his he­ad bo­wed, mo­ti­on­less. Do­ub­le Run­ner eased him­self clo­ser to Spot­ted Eag­le. "He is de­ad?" he whis­pe­red, the rif­le bar­rel he car­ri­ed shi­ning be­ne­ath the mo­on's bright rays.

  Fearing its ref­lec­ti­on might cast it­self whe­re it did not be­lon­g­per­haps in the eye of a Cree wa­iting to am­bush tho­se who wo­uld res­cue the whi­te man, Spot­ted Eag­le pla­ced his hand on­to Do­ub­le Run­ner's rif­le and qu­ickly lo­we­red it to his sco­ut's si­de.

  "We might be de­ad if you do not use mo­re ca­uti­on," Spot­ted Eag­le war­ned, gla­ring at Do­ub­le Run­ner. "Even you think this might be a trap. Act ac­cor­dingly."

  Double Run­ner nod­ded, then pe­ered at Kirk aga­in. "And what do we do now?" he whis­pe­red.

  Spotted Eag­le lo­oked over his sho­ul­der at his ot­her war­ri­ors. He ma­de a wi­de swing in the air with his free hand. "Ever­yo­ne spre­ad," he flatly or­de­red. "Go with much ca­re as you sur­ro­und this cam­p­si­te. If you find the Cree, si­len­ce them with yo­ur kni­ves be­fo­re they can alert ot­hers. For this a rif­le is use­less. Ta­ke yo­ur kni­ves!"

  "Your rif­le will gu­ard this war­ri­or as he go­es in­to the camp alo­ne," he sa­id to Do­ub­le Run­ner. "If you so­on see that the­re is no thre­at of a Cree am­bush, co­me to me and help me with the whi­te man. If he is ali­ve, he will ne­ed no­uris­h­ment qu­ickly and a tra­vo­is ma­de for his re­turn to our vil­la­ge. You will help Spot­ted Eag­le do the­se things. Do you un­der­s­tand?" Do­ub­le Run­ner nod­ded.

  Spotted Eag­le wa­ited un­til he tho­ught that his men sho­uld be in a wi­de cir­c­le aro­und the aban­do­ned camp, then crept out in­to the open, an ar­row not­c­hed to his bow. With wary eyes, he kept a gu­ar­ded lo­ok on all si­des of him as he mo­ved to­ward Kirk.

  When he ca­me clo­ser to Kirk, he re­ali­zed now how the Cree had go­ne abo­ut pre­pa­ring the­ir whi­te cap­ti­ve for the sta­ke. They had smo­ot­hed a cot­ton­wo­od tree by ta­king off the bark and had pa­in­ted it black. They had then sto­od Kirk aga­inst it and fas­te­ned him the­re with a gre­at many ro­pes.

  After they had Kirk se­cu­red eno­ugh so that he co­uld not mo­ve, they had pa­in­ted his fa­ce black.

  Spotted Eag­le co­uld even now he­ar how the Cree re­ne­ga­des wo­uld ha­ve ma­de a pra­yer, gi­ving Kirk to the Sun.

  And they had left him for the Sun, sky, mo­on and any ani­mals that might hap­pen along.

  Spotted Eag­le to­ok the last step to stand in front of Kirk, shud­de­ring at his ap­pe­aran­ce and the many small wo­unds that had be­en in­f­lic­ted by the Cree wo­men and chil­d­ren. Be­fo­re he had lap­sed in­to a de­ep sle­ep, he had suf­fe­red much at the hands of his ab­duc­tors!

  Thinking of Jole­na wa­iting back at his vil­la­ge, Spot­ted Eag­le he­si­ta­ted to pla­ce a fin­ger to the ve­in at Kirk's neck, fe­aring that he wo­uld dis­co­ver that her whi­te brot­her had not li­ved thro­ugh the or­de­al. But he had to know. Lif­ting his free hand to Kirk's blac­ke­ned neck, Spot­ted Eag­le so­ught for a pul­se, for a mo­ment fe­aring the­re was no­ne.

  Then he smi­led and nod­ded, fi­nal­ly fin­ding one, even tho­ugh fa­int and slow.

  Double Run­ner ca­me to Spot­ted Eag­le's si­de as his ot­her war­ri­ors emer­ged from hi­ding, one by one. The­re se­emed to be no Cree an­y­w­he­re. As Cree war par­ti­es we­re wont to do, they had mo­ved on­ward to wre­ak ha­voc el­sew­he­re.

  "Is he ali­ve?" Do­ub­le Run­ner as­ked, le­aning clo­se to Kirk stud­ying him.

  " Kyi. Ba­rely," Spot­ted Eag­le grum­b­led, la­ying his bow on the gro­und. He drew his hu­ge kni­fe from its she­ath at his right si­de. "Lay yo­ur rif­le asi­de, Do­ub­le Run­ner. As I cut this man's ro­pes, you catch him."

  Spotted Eag­le ga­zed aro­und at his ot­her war­ri­ors. "A tra­vo­is must be pre­pa­red," he or­de­red them. " Hai-yah! Qu­ickly! We must not tempt fa­te by re­ma­ining he­re any lon­ger than is re­qu­ired to pre­pa­re this man for tra­ve­ling back to our vil­la­ge. Among us, we sho­uld ha­ve plenty of ro­bes and skins for his bed­ding!"

  Everyone scur­ri­ed in­to ac­ti­on as Spot­ted Eag­le mo­ved his kni­fe to­ward the first ro­pe, then stop­ped with a start when Kirk slowly be­gan lif­ting his he­ad, his eyes so­on fin­ding Spot­ted Eag­le's.

  "Thank God," Kirk whis­pe­red ras­pily, his thro­at dry and par­c­hed. "I… wo­uldn't ha­ve las­ted anot­her ho­ur. Thank you, Spot­ted Eag­le. Thank… you." Kirk's he­ad lo­we­red aga­in and his eyes clo­sed. Spot­ted Eag­le hur­ri­edly cut the ro­pes and so­on Kirk was free. Wo­un­ded and we­ak, he fell to the gro­und be­fo­re Do­ub­le Run­ner or Spot­ted Eag­le co­uld catch him.

  Spotted Eag­le slip­ped his kni­fe back in­to its she­ath and fell to his kne­es be­si­de Kirk. He be­gan rub­bing his limbs in an ef­fort to put li­fe back in­to them.

  Kirk slowly ope­ned his eyes aga­in. "You wo­uld do all of this for me?" he sa­id in a raspy whis­per.

  "I do this for yo­ur sis­ter," Spot­ted Eag­le sa­id, his vo­ice drawn.

  Spotted Eag­le con­ti­nu­ed rub­bing Kirk's limbs for a whi­le lon­ger, then lif­ted him up in­to his arms and car­ri­ed him to a pla­ce whe­re he had se­en many sar­vis ber­ri­es. Af­ter la­ying Kirk down be­si­de the bus­hes that we­re he­avy-la­den with fru­it, he bro­ke off gre­at bran­c­hes of it. He pluc­ked a lar­ge, ri­pe berry from the branch and held it to Kirk's mo­uth.

  "To get strength, eat," he sa­id softly. "The­se will qu­ench yo­ur thirst as well as yo­ur hun­ger."

  Kirk cho­ked on the first berry, then on­ce his thro­at was re­ac­qu­a­in­t
ed with fo­od and li­qu­id, he ate them as qu­ickly as Spot­ted Eag­le co­uld get them in­to his mo­uth.

  Spotted Eag­le bro­ke off mo­re bran­c­hes full of the ri­pe ber­ri­es and con­ti­nu­ed fe­eding them to Kirk un­til a tra­vo­is was com­p­le­ted and at­tac­hed by long po­les be­hind his stal­li­on, se­ve­ral knots in the raw­hi­de thongs se­cu­ring the tra­vo­is po­les to the hor­se's sad­dle. " Tsis-ico­me, whi­te brot­her. We will le­ave now," Spot­ted Eag­le sa­id, on­ce aga­in lif­ting Kirk in­to his arms and car­rying him to the tra­vo­is. "So­on you will be with yo­ur sis­ter aga­in."

  Spotted Eag­le la­id Kirk on a bed of pelts, then wrap­ped him se­cu­rely with the hi­des of the me­di­ci­ne ani­mal, the gre­at be­ar.

  Giving Kirk anot­her lin­ge­ring sta­re, se­e­ing that he was as­le­ep aga­in, Spot­ted Eag­le then swung him­self in­to his sad­dle. With a ra­ised hand, he ga­ve the si­lent or­der to he­ad back to­ward the­ir vil­la­ge.

  Double Run­ner ro­de on ahe­ad of the ot­hers, his eyes ever wat­c­h­ful for an am­bush, gra­te­ful to find the path qu­i­et and pe­ace­ful for the­ir re­turn to the­ir pe­op­le.

  Spotted Eag­le ro­de in a soft lo­pe, to ma­ke the ri­de as com­for­tab­le as pos­sib­le for Jole­na's brot­her as the po­les of the tra­vo­is bo­un­ced and jos­t­led thro­ugh tall gras­ses and along rock-st­rewn co­ule­es. He had not ta­ken the ti­me to re­mo­ve the black pa­int from Kirk's body, af­ra­id that al­lo­wing ti­me for that might gi­ve any pas­sing war party the op­por­tu­nity to at­tack.

  Spotted Eag­le was glad that he had not be­en for­ced to at­tack a Cree camp fil­led with wo­men and chil­d­ren just to res­cue a whi­te man. Al­t­ho­ugh the Cree we­re res­pon­sib­le for Two Rid­ges' de­ath, Spot­ted Eag­le co­uld not bla­me them all for the act of one man­Long No­se! Nor co­uld he bla­me the ot­hers for what this par­ti­cu­lar band of re­ne­ga­des had cho­sen to do to Kirk. It was not for Spot­ted Eag­le to know why they did any of the­se things, but al­ways to gu­ard aga­inst ot­her at­tempts!

  The mor­ning ca­me with a fa­int tint of pink to the sky as Spot­ted Eag­le ro­de in­to his vil­la­ge. The so­und of the­ir hor­ses drew the Blac­k­fo­ot pe­op­le from the­ir te­pe­es, Jole­na among them as she clut­c­hed a blan­ket aro­und her sho­ul­ders.

  Jolena's eyes we­re wi­de and her pul­se ra­ced as she ran from her fat­her's te­pee, half stum­b­ling in her eager­ness to get to Spot­ted Eag­le and the tra­vo­is that he pul­led be­hind his hor­se.

  When she re­ac­hed the tra­vo­is and Spot­ted Eag­le stop­ped his hor­se, Jole­na fell to her kne­es and gas­ped with shock when she fo­und her­self lo­oking down at Kirk, his fa­ce the only thing vi­sib­le. She was stun­ned spe­ec­h­less by the black pa­int that had be­en ap­pli­ed to his fa­ce and his ap­pa­rent li­fe­les­sness.

  "Kirk," Jole­na whis­pe­red, gently fra­ming his fa­ce bet­we­en her fin­gers. Te­ars sprang from her eyes. "Oh, Kirk, what did they do to you?"

  Spotted Eag­le dis­mo­un­ted and knelt down at Jole­na's si­de. A com­for­ting arm slip­ped aro­und her wa­ist as he ga­zed at her. "He is ali­ve, but we­ak," he ex­p­la­ined softly. "And the pa­int you see is al­ways pla­ced on Cree cap­ti­ves. It will wash easily away. But the­re are ot­her things than pa­int that I must warn you abo­ut."

  Jolena glan­ced qu­ickly at Spot­ted Eag­le, his war­ning ca­using fe­ar to en­ter her he­art. "What el­se is the­re?" she sa­id, her vo­ice drawn. She eased her hands from Kirk's fa­ce and clut­c­hed them to­get­her ner­vo­usly on her lap.

  "You shall see so­on eno­ugh," Spot­ted Eag­le sa­id, slowly un­fol­ding the co­ve­ring of be­ar pelts.

  He co­uld fe­el the ten­si­on in the air be­hind and all aro­und him as the Blac­k­fo­ot pe­op­le in­c­hed clo­ser, wat­c­hing.

  He co­uld he­ar Jole­na's shal­low bre­at­hing.

  Out of the cor­ner of his eye he saw his chi­ef­ta­in fat­her co­me wal­king slowly and he­avily to­ward him, sup­por­ting him­self with his tall shaft.

  Brown Elk and Mo­on Flo­wer al­so ca­me and sto­od be­hind Jole­na, Brown Elk's hand on her sho­ul­der as a re­min­der of his ne­ar­ness and to show his lo­ve for her.

  Kirk slowly ope­ned his eyes. At first ever­y­t­hing se­emed a blur to him, but when he be­gan fo­cu­sing his eyes, they wi­de­ned with re­li­ef when he fo­und Jole­na the­re, ga­zing down at him.

  "Sis," Kirk sa­id in a raspy whis­per. "I'm go­ing to be fi­ne. Don't cry. Ple­ase… don't… cry."

  Jolena for­ced a smi­le and aga­in pla­ced a gen­t­le hand on his che­ek. "I can't help but cry," she mur­mu­red. "I tho­ught you we­re de­ad. But he­re you are, Kirk, as fi­ne as a fid­dle."

  "I… wo­uldn't say… that," Kirk sa­id, la­ug­hing softly. "But I will be so­on. I pro­mi­se."

  When the last of the be­ar pelts was la­id asi­de, re­ve­aling the pa­int that co­ve­red every inch of Kirk's body and the wo­unds that we­re scat­te­red ac­ross his legs, ab­do­men, and arms, Jole­na felt a bit­ter­ness ri­se in­to her thro­at and the ur­ge to retch qu­ickly over­w­hel­med her.

  She swal­lo­wed hard, over and over aga­in, un­til the bit­ter­ness sub­si­ded. She to­ok the blan­ket from aro­und her sho­ul­ders and qu­ickly pla­ced it over her brot­her.

  Then she ga­ve Spot­ted Eag­le a ple­ading lo­ok. "Ple­ase ta­ke him to yo­ur te­pee," she mur­mu­red. "The­re I will ca­re for him un­til he is well aga­in."

  She lo­oked over her sho­ul­der at her Blac­k­fo­ot fat­her. He had he­ard and nod­ded his he­ad in a si­lent un­der­s­tan­ding of her de­ci­si­on to be in Spot­ted Eag­le's dwel­ling in­s­te­ad of his. He had had a dre­am this last eve­ning of a be­a­uti­ful wed­din­gof his da­ug­h­ter dres­sed in the fi­nest Blac­k­fo­ot clot­hes as she jo­ined her he­art with Spot­ted Eag­le's for eter­nity.

  He had gi­ven her to Spot­ted Eag­le wit­ho­ut he­si­ta­ti­on, for he was the fi­nest of war­ri­ors, fil­led with com­pas­si­on, co­ura­ge, and lo­ve for hu­ma­nity.

  Spotted Eag­le wo­uld ma­ke a per­fect fat­her for Brown Elk's gran­d­c­hil­d­ren!

  Spotted Eag­le le­aned over Kirk and gently lif­ted him in­to his arms. As his pe­op­le ma­de way for him to go to his dwel­ling, Spot­ted Eag­le car­ri­ed the slight whi­te man with Jole­na wal­king be­si­de him, her eyes ne­ver le­aving her brot­her's fa­ce.

  When they we­re in­si­de the te­pee and Kirk was com­for­tably clo­se to the fi­re on a pal­let of furs, Jole­na hur­ri­edly bat­hed the pa­int from his flesh. She then sat back and si­lently wat­c­hed as Spot­ted Eag­le ever so gently doc­to­red Kirk's wo­unds with a her­bal mix­tu­re that smel­led ple­asant eno­ugh and su­rely to­ok the pa­in away, for Kirk sig­hed he­avily and clo­sed his eyes as he al­lo­wed it to be ap­pli­ed to his flesh.

  When this al­so was do­ne, Jole­na slip­ped a ro­be aro­und Kirk's sho­ul­ders as Spot­ted Eag­le lif­ted him up to ma­ke it pos­sib­le.

  Moon Flo­wer en­te­red the te­pee car­rying a smo­king pot that sent off a ple­asant frag­ran­ce of co­oked ve­ge­tab­les and me­ats. ''Allow me to help?" she mur­mu­red, set­tling down be­si­de Kirk on the op­po­si­te si­de from whe­re Jole­na and Spot­ted Eag­le sat the­ir vi­gil.

  Kirk tur­ned his eyes to Mo­on Flo­wer, and his lips par­ted in a slight gasp when he ga­zed up at her de­li­ca­te lo­ve­li­ness.

  "I am Mo­on Flo­wer," she mur­mu­red, set­ting the pot of so­up down be­si­de her. "Allow me to fe­ed you?"

  "Please… do…" Kirk sa­id, smi­ling up at her. He tri­ed to le­an on one el­bow, but top­pled back down, too we­ak just yet to ma­ke even the slig­h­test at­tempt to fend for him­self.

  Jolena re­ac­hed be­hind he
r for a wo­oden bowl and spo­on and han­ded them to Mo­on Flo­wer, smi­ling a si­lent thank-you for her as­sis­tan­ce.

  Moon Flo­wer lad­led so­me so­up in­to the bowl, then sank the spo­on in­to it, so­on pla­cing it to Kirk's lips. "First the broth," she mur­mu­red. "Then la­ter you can eat ve­ge­tab­les, then me­at." Spot­ted Eag­le pla­ced a hand be­ne­ath Kirk's he­ad and lif­ted it slightly from the pal­let, enab­ling him to swal­low mo­re easily.

  Kirk sip­ped the broth from the spo­on, his eyes ne­ver le­aving Mo­on Flo­wer, to­uc­hed not only by her lo­ve­li­ness, but by her kin­d­nes­ses. "You are as be­a­uti­ful as yo­ur na­me," he sa­id as he tur­ned his lips a frac­ti­on from the prof­fe­red broth.

  Jolena sig­hed de­eply with re­li­ef. Se­e­ing Kirk ac­tu­al­ly flir­ting, es­pe­ci­al­ly with a Blac­k­fo­ot ma­iden, ma­de her re­ali­ze that her brot­her was go­ing to be all right.