Savage Illusions

Savage Illusions Page 31

by Cassie Edwards

  "Very much so," Brown Elk sa­id, lif­ting his chin pro­udly. Then he pla­ced a firm hand on Kirk's sho­ul­der. "You will co­me with me now. The­re is no ro­om any lon­ger in Spot­ted Eag­le's dwel­ling for you. You will co­me to my te­pee un­til you are ab­le to tra­vel to the lar­ge whi­te ca­noe for yo­ur tra­vels back to Sa­int Lo­u­is."

  For a mo­ment, Kirk sto­od as tho­ugh fro­zen to the flo­or, then star­ted bac­king up, as tho­ugh trap­ped. "Jole­na, help me to un­der­s­tand all of this," he sa­id, his vo­ice tiny and des­pe­ra­te. He ga­ve a ple­ading sta­re to Mo­on Flo­wer and re­ac­hed a hand to her. "Mo­on Flo­wer, help me…"

  Moon Flo­wer step­ped up be­si­de Brown Elk and ga­ve Kirk a firm, un­wa­ve­ring sta­re, sho­wing her lo­yalty to a man who had ta­ken her in af­ter she had be­en ba­nis­hed by her pa­rents.

  Jolena went to Brown Elk and ga­ve him a soft kiss on the che­ek, then went and sto­od be­si­de Spot­ted Eag­le, sho­wing her cho­ice of lo­yal­ti­es. "Kirk, Spot­ted Eag­le and I are go­ing to be mar­ri­ed as so­on as pos­sib­le," she sa­id, her he­art po­un­ding as she wat­c­hed her brot­her's eyes be­co­me misty with te­ars.

  She went to Kirk and em­b­ra­ced him. "Kirk, I lo­ve you," she whis­pe­red. "Ple­ase lo­ve me no less now that I ha­ve fo­und my true pla­ce in li­fe. Help me whe­re our fat­her is con­cer­ned. Only you will be ab­le to ma­ke him un­der­s­tand."

  Kirk ga­ve her a pit­ying lo­ok, then brus­hed past her and went out­si­de.

  Moon Flo­wer shuf­fled her fe­et ner­vo­usly, then went af­ter Kirk.

  Brown Elk went to Jole­na and en­fol­ded her wit­hin his arms. "My da­ug­h­ter, Kye, li­fe be­co­mes con­fu­sed, then it pas­ses, and to­mor­row co­mes with smi­les and sun­s­hi­ne," he sa­id, pat­ting her back. "I will go to yo­ur whi­te brot­her. I will talk with him aga­in. He will see what is best for you, his sis­te­rand that is for you to stay with yo­ur true pe­op­le and ha­ve many chil­d­ren in the ima­ge of the Blac­k­fo­ot."

  Jolena re­ve­led in her true fat­her's clo­se­ness, then step­ped back to Spot­ted Eag­le's si­de as Brown Elk de­par­ted with dig­nity from the te­pee.

  Spotted Eag­le tur­ned to Jole­na. "Ever­y­t­hing that I sa­id to yo­ur brot­her had to be sa­id," he as­su­red her. "It is best for you. It is best for him. It is best for this Blac­k­fo­ot war­ri­or who lo­ves you."

  Jolena's eyes fil­led with te­ars as she mel­ted in­to Spot­ted Eag­le's arms. "Hold me," she cri­ed. "Oh, dar­ling, hold me."

  Spotted Eag­le held her clo­se, then eased away from her. "Ti­me so­on co­mes for yo­ur man to le­ave for the buf­fa­lo run," he sa­id, ben­ding over to gat­her up his fancy leg­gings in­to his arms aga­in. "You see the­se?"

  Jolena wi­ped te­ars from her eyes and nod­ded as she ga­zed down at the leg­gings. She had no­ti­ced ear­li­er how pro­udly he had held and ga­zed at them. They we­re be­a­uti­ful­ly em­b­ro­ide­red with por­cu­pi­ne qu­il­ls and bright fe­at­hers.

  "These are my hun­ting leg­gings," Spot­ted Eag­le sa­id, slip­ping in­to them. "They are gre­at me­di­ci­ne. Yo­ur man will bring ho­me much me­at for the long win­ter."

  Jolena's tho­ughts we­re ca­ta­pul­ted back in ti­me, to when he had fo­und the be­a­uti­ful buf­fa­lo rock, and its me­aning. "I no lon­ger ha­ve the buf­fa­lo rock," she con­fes­sed. "It was lost to me the sa­me day my jo­ur­nals and but­terfly col­lec­ti­on we­re des­t­ro­yed. I'm so sorry, Spot­ted Eag­le. Ha­ving it with you co­uld ha­ve do­ub­led yo­ur chan­ces of a go­od buf­fa­lo run."

  "The Sun will fol­low me all the day and bless my hunt," Spot­ted Eag­le sa­id, then knelt and be­gan go­ing thro­ugh his bun­d­les of clot­hes aga­in.

  When he ro­se to his fe­et aga­in, with anot­her buc­k­s­kin out­fit ac­ross his arms and han­ded the­se to Jole­na, she lo­oked up at him with won­de­ring eyes, not su­re why he wo­uld want her to put on the clot­hes of a man.

  "You we­ar the­se with me to the buf­fa­lo run," he sa­id. "I see it now that it is im­por­tant that you ac­com­pany me the­re. You ri­de hor­ses?"

  "Somewhat," Jole­na sa­id, still stun­ned by his chan­ge of he­art abo­ut al­lo­wing her to go. Yet the mo­re she tho­ught abo­ut it, the mo­re she did un­der­s­tand.

  It was be­ca­use of Kirk.

  He didn't want to le­ave her alo­ne with Kirk!

  He did fe­el thre­ate­ned by him!

  "Then you will ri­de at my si­de and watch yo­ur man kill his first bull buf­fa­lo of this buf­fa­lo run," Spot­ted Eag­le sa­id, for­cing the clot­hes in­to her hands. "Dress qu­ickly. The sun ri­ses ste­adily in­to the he­avens. It so­on will be ti­me to go."

  Her he­art po­un­ding, the ex­ci­te­ment bu­il­ding wit­hin her, Jole­na be­amed as she scram­b­led in­to the clot­hes. She gig­gled when she lo­oked down at how lo­osely the bre­ec­hes fit her.

  Spotted Eag­le so­on re­me­di­ed that. He ti­ed a ro­pe aro­und her wa­ist and sto­od back smi­ling at her.

  "Let us go, my wo­man," he sa­id, re­ac­hing a hand out to her. "You ha­ve much to le­arn to­day."

  No lon­ger thin­king abo­ut kirk, or an­y­t­hing el­se that sto­od in the way of her be­co­ming Blac­k­fo­ot in all ways im­por­tant to her, Jole­na left the te­pee hand in hand with Spot­ted Eag­le, fe­eling very much ali­ve­and ne­eded!

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Jolena felt aw­k­ward on the black ma­re, yet ma­na­ged to stay on the soft sad­dle blan­ket as she ro­de be­si­de Spot­ted Eag­le. The ot­her wo­men ro­de eit­her on pack hor­ses or on tra­vo­is be­hind the hor­ses rid­den by the­ir hus­bands.

  After eno­ugh buf­fa­lo we­re kil­led, the­se wo­men wo­uld do most of the but­c­he­ring and tran­s­por­ting of the me­at and hi­des to camp. The wo­men who re­ma­ined in the vil­la­ge wo­uld not be id­le. All day long they wo­uld tan ro­bes, dry me­at, sew moc­ca­sins, and per­form a tho­usand and one ot­her tasks.

  Holding se­cu­rely to the re­ins, her kne­es pres­sed in­to the si­des of the hor­se, Jole­na lo­oked aro­und her, on­ce aga­in ad­mi­ring the sharp con­t­rasts of the Blac­k­fo­ot co­untry. The­re we­re far-st­ret­c­hing grassy pra­iri­es, af­for­ding rich pas­tu­ra­ge for the buf­fa­lo; ro­ugh bad lands for the clim­bing mo­un­ta­in she­ep, wo­oded but­tes lo­ved by the mu­le de­er, and tim­be­red ri­ver bot­toms whe­re the whi­te-ta­iled de­er and the elk co­uld brow­se and hi­de.

  The Blac­k­fo­ot co­untry was es­pe­ci­al­ly fa­vo­red by the warm Chi­no­ok winds which en­su­red mild win­ters. To­day the wind was so strong that Jole­na had to fight it to stay in her sad­dle. The wind was so brisk, she co­uld fe­el its for­ce aga­inst her body, plas­te­ring her clot­hes aga­inst her. Her ha­ir flut­te­red wildly in the wind, and her che­eks bur­ned as the wind whip­ped hard aga­inst it.

  Suddenly in the wind ca­me the strong stench of the buf­fa­lo, and so­on they ca­me in­to sight. The­re se­emed to be hun­d­reds of the black ani­mals with the­ir long, black be­ards, hum­ped backs, and lar­ge, dark eyes, gra­zing la­zily in a fi­eld of tall grass.

  Spotted Eag­le whe­eled his hor­se aro­und and stop­ped, ra­ising his hand in the air as a si­lent com­mand for ever­yo­ne el­se to sto­pex­cept for the me­di­ci­ne man, who was to le­ad the buf­fa­lo to the­ir de­ath.

  Then ca­me Clo­uds Ma­ke Thun­der's fi­nal pra­yer for a suc­ces­sful buf­fa­lo run to­day.

  "Hear me now, Sun!" he cri­ed in a mo­no­to­ne that se­emed to ec­ho back at him. "Lis­ten, abo­ve pe­op­le! Lis­ten, un­der-wa­ter pe­op­le! Al­low us to re­turn ho­me rich with me­at."

  When he was thro­ugh, it se­emed to Jole­na that no one bre­at­hed as he bro­ke away from the ot­hers and ro­de ahe­ad of them
to­ward the buf­fa­lo.

  Jolena's eyes wi­de­ned, re­ali­zing that the buf­fa­lo sen­sed that dan­ger was ne­ar. So­me ra­ised the­ir short ta­ils and sho­ok them and tos­sed the­ir gre­at he­ads and bel­lo­wed. Ot­hers pa­wed the dirt, snor­ting.

  Spotted Eag­le ma­de anot­her si­lent com­mand to his pe­op­le. They fol­lo­wed his le­ad, le­aving the­ir hor­ses, tra­vo­is, and dogs be­hind and rus­hing to­ward the bluff. Pan­ting with exer­ti­on, the pe­op­le mo­ved up­ward, un­til they ca­me to the top of the bluff over which the buf­fa­lo wo­uld tum­b­le to the­ir de­ath.

  Jolena wal­ked be­si­de Spot­ted Eag­le, who was well ar­med with his bow and qu­iver of ar­rows. She was glad when they re­ac­hed the top of the bluff and ever­yo­ne qu­ickly hid be­hind the pi­les of rocks and bus­hes.

  Jolena knelt down be­si­de Spot­ted Eag­le and bre­at­h­les­sly wa­ited for the me­di­ci­ne man. Af­ter a short whi­le "he who le­ads the buf­fa­lo" was se­en co­ming, ri­ding his hor­se, sho­uting at the buf­fa­lo, brin­ging a lar­ge band af­ter him.

  Soon the buf­fa­lo we­re in­si­de the li­nes. The pe­op­le be­gan to ri­se up be­hind them, sho­uting and wa­ving the­ir ro­bes.

  Now that she saw the buf­fa­lo clo­se up, Jole­na was too awes­t­ruck to par­ti­ci­pa­te. They we­re for­mi­dab­le and frig­h­te­ning lo­oking ani­mals when ex­ci­ted to re­sis­tan­cet­he­ir long, shaggy ma­nes han­ging in gre­at pro­fu­si­on over the­ir necks and sho­ul­ders, of­ten ex­ten­ding down to the gro­und. The cows we­re less fe­ro­ci­o­us, tho­ugh not much less wild and frig­h­t­ful in the­ir ap­pe­aran­ce.

  The Blac­k­fo­ot we­re not in­ti­mi­da­ted by the be­asts, ho­we­ver, and so­on the buf­fa­lo we­re jum­ping and tum­b­ling over the ste­ep pre­ci­pi­ce.

  Jolena scram­b­led down the si­des of the ste­ep hill with the Blac­k­fo­ot, and on­ce they re­ac­hed the pis-kun, the wo­men and chil­d­ren ran up and sho­wed them­sel­ves abo­ve its walls. By the­ir cri­es they kept the buf­fa­lo that we­re still ali­ve from pres­sing aga­inst the walls in an ef­fort to es­ca­pe.

  As the sur­vi­ving buf­fa­lo ran ro­und and ro­und wit­hin the en­c­lo­su­re, the war­ri­ors ra­ised the­ir bows and ar­rows.

  Arrows be­gan whiz­zing abo­ut Jole­na, and the buf­fa­lo ma­de lo­ud, thun­de­ring so­unds as one by one they fell to the gro­und, de­ad.

  Although Jole­na un­der­s­to­od the me­aning of a go­od Buf­fa­lo run, she was still ap­pal­led at the sight and was just abo­ut to turn her eyes away when Spot­ted Eag­le fit­ted his elk-horn ar­row to his bow and jo­ined the ot­hers in the mas­sac­re. The but­c­he­ring wo­uld be do­ne in the pis-kun, and af­ter this was over, the pla­ce wo­uld be cle­aned out, and the he­ads and fe­et wo­uld be re­mo­ved. Wol­ves, fo­xes, bad­gers, and ot­her small car­ni­vo­ro­us ani­mals wo­uld vi­sit the pis-kun and wo­uld so­on ma­ke away with the en­t­ra­ils.

  The Blac­k­fo­ot wo­uld re­turn ho­me sin­ging and car­rying gre­at lo­ads of me­at for the long win­ter ahe­ad.

  The wind blew even mo­re fi­er­cely now, ma­king whi­ning, whis­t­ling no­ises and whip­ping Jole­na's ha­ir aro­und her fa­ce. Then so­met­hing el­se blew aga­inst her fa­ce, mo­men­ta­rily blin­ding her.

  With cla­wing fin­gers, she re­ac­hed up and grab­bed hold of a pi­ece of pa­per that was flut­te­ring aga­inst her fa­ce. When she saw what it was her he­art did a flip-flop.

  ''It's a from one of my lost jo­ur­nals," she whis­pe­red, sta­ring down at the pa­per on which her en­t­ri­es we­re sme­ared, yet still le­gib­le.

  Her he­art skip­ped a be­at when anot­her flew past her and was spe­ared by a branch on a tree clo­se be­si­de her.

  With wild, dis­be­li­eving eyes, she sto­od fro­zen to the gro­und as many mo­re s flew past her in the wind.

  "Lord," she whis­pe­red to her­self, her he­art ham­me­ring aga­inst her bre­ast as she tur­ned and pe­ered down the long ave­nue of the val­ley that stret­c­hed out bet­we­en ot­her high but­tes on each si­de of it. She knew that the sce­ne of the ac­ci­dent had to be many mi­les away, yet the wind had pluc­ked the s from her jo­ur­nal and was han­ding them to her to­day li­ke a gift!

  Jolena so­on for­got the wo­men who we­re now busy at work but­c­he­ring the lar­ge ani­mals. She even for­got abo­ut Spot­ted Eag­le, who was now min­g­ling with the ot­her war­ri­ors, go­ing from ani­mal to ani­mal to be su­re they we­re de­ad be­fo­re be­ing but­c­he­red. Fran­ti­cal­ly, Jole­na be­gan run­ning aro­und, grab­bing the s as they blew past her, gat­he­ring them in­to her arms, hol­ding them as tho­ugh they we­re pi­eces of pre­ci­o­us gold. Then when she saw one of the pi­eces of car­d­bo­ard fly by, on which she had pin­ned many of the but­ter­f­li­es that she had ca­ught, she be­gan cha­sing af­ter it.

  Spotted Eag­le tur­ned and saw what Jole­na was do­ing. His he­art skip­ped a be­at when she be­gan strug­gling and clim­bing up the ste­ep hil­lsi­de, in­tent on fol­lo­wing the car­d­bo­ard that he now al­so spi­ed, as it se­emed to be lif­ting as tho­ugh by so­me­one's hand, hig­her and hig­her, abo­ve Jole­na's he­ad, exactly as the nympha­lid but­terfly had do­ne as it had te­ased her in­to dan­ger.

  Spotted Eag­le's ga­ze shif­ted up­ward. He gas­ped, and his he­art felt as tho­ugh it had drop­ped to his fe­et when he saw one lo­ne buf­fa­lo bull that had not fol­lo­wed the ot­hers over the cliff. It pran­ced abo­ut as tho­ugh it sen­sed the sla­ug­h­ter that had oc­cur­red be­low him.

  Spotted Eag­le's ga­ze shif­ted back to Jole­na, who was al­most at the top of the but­te, too stub­born to let the pri­zed car­d­bo­ard of but­ter­f­li­es get away from her. On­ce she got to the top and met the bull fa­ce on, she wo­uld be the one for­ced over the cliff to her de­ath.

  Spotted Eag­le ner­vo­usly not­c­hed one of his elk-horn ar­rows to the string of his bow and aimed, then cur­sed si­lently to him­self when he fo­und that the buf­fa­lo had mo­ved out of eye ran­ge.

  Yet Spot­ted Eag­le co­uld still he­ar the ani­mal's lo­ud, cra­zed bel­lows.

  He co­uld even see it in his mind's eye as it pa­wed an­g­rily at the gro­und, fi­re in his eyes and ra­ge in his he­art! Jole­na bre­at­hed he­avily, and her fin­gers we­re stin­ging as she pul­led her­self far­t­her up the si­de of the hill. She frow­ned when she co­uld no lon­ger see the flying car­d­bo­ard, then her eyes ope­ned wildly when on­ce aga­in it flut­te­red along the gro­und, just at the ed­ge of the but­te over­he­ad.

  "Damn," Jole­na whis­pe­red be­ne­ath her bre­ath. "But I shall ha­ve it. I lost it on­ce. But not a se­cond ti­me. I must ha­ve so­met­hing for Kirk to ta­ke ho­me to fat­her."

  Determination mo­ved her on­ward, kno­wing that she now only had to re­ach up and grab a ro­ot that was gro­wing out from the si­de of the hill and she co­uld pull her­self up on­to so­lid gro­und.

  Spotted Eag­le cup­ped a hand over his mo­uth and sho­uted for Jole­na. He cal­led her na­me over and over aga­in, but she still did not he­ar.

  His mus­c­les cor­ded, his jaw tight, Spot­ted Eag­le slung his bow over his sho­ul­der and star­ted clim­bing the hil­lsi­de. Be­ing mo­re skil­led at clim­bing, he fo­und him­self clo­se be­hind Jole­na just as she pul­led her­self up and out of sight.

  Jolena was so in­tent on what she was af­ter that she had not no­ti­ced Spot­ted Eag­le clim­bing af­ter her. Nor did she pay any at­ten­ti­on to the buf­fa­lo that was eye­ing her with blo­od­s­hot eyes and fla­ring nos­t­rils, a ho­of dig­ging grass up by the ro­ots as it pa­wed over and over aga­in in­to the gro­und.

  Her he­art thum­ping, Jole­na bent to her kne­es and re­ac­hed for the car­d­bo­ard of but­ter­f­li­es. When she had it fi­na
l­ly wit­hin her fin­gers, she ga­zed down at the col­lec­ti­on, he­ar­t­b­ro­ken. Most of the but­ter­f­li­es we­re mis­sing, and tho­se that had sur­vi­ved we­re in­com­p­le­te, only the­ir bo­di­es still pin­ned to the car­d­bo­ard, or per­haps a wing or two, strip­ped of the­ir co­lors.

  "Oh, no," she whis­pe­red, slowly sha­king her he­ad back and forth. "Why didn't I re­ali­ze it co­uld be no mo­re than this?"

  "Do not mo­ve, Jole­na," Spot­ted Eag­le sa­id, swin­ging him­self up to so­lid gro­und.

  "Do not even mo­ve yo­ur he­ad to see what I am do­ing," Spot­ted Eag­le sa­id as he yan­ked the bow from his sho­ul­der and not­c­hed an ar­row on­to it. "It co­uld pro­vo­ke the ani­mal in­to char­ging me be­fo­re I can send an ar­row in­to its he­art."

  Jolena's thro­at went dry and her in­si­des grew numb. She didn't mo­ve a mus­c­le, but not so much be­ca­use Spot­ted Eag­le had told her not to, but be­ca­use she was too frig­h­te­ned even to bre­at­he.

 

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