"Thank you," she murmured.
The old woman, Deer Woman, finished with Skylar's feet and looked at her. She went away for a moment and then returned and hunched down before her, pressing the beautiful garment she had been working on into Skylar's hands and talking to her. Skylar looked at her, listening. The woman spoke kindly, but Skylar had no idea of what she was saying.
Hawk's grandfather interpreted for her.
"Deer Woman says you must take the dress."
"Oh! It's beautiful. But I couldn't accept it—"
"You must accept it. You have brought us ponies and cattle. The ponies are survival, the cattle are a feast. You will wear the dress and accept the other presents the woman have made for you."
"The women?"
She heard a giggling. There were a number of women at the entrance to the tipi. They had been there, peeking in, watching her, she realized.
The pretty girl who had kept the children occupied while she ate rose, laughing. She drew Skylar to her feet and led her out of the tipi.
The women touched her, spinning her around. For a moment, there were so many of them, reaching for her hair, her gown, that she felt a rise of panic. She'd heard what Sioux women could do when torturing prisoners or stripping the bodies of dead enemies.
But these women were giggling, not hurting her. Perhaps, somewhere in the village, there would be those who might despise her for what she was. But these women offered her no malice. They were curious. She wished desperately that she could speak with them, know them, know their lives.
Suddenly, her arms were caught and she was led forward.
And shown her present.
She gasped, amazed, touched. She thanked them profusely. And she was certain that they understood.
* * *
Because they were Sioux—Sioux who were also wasi- chus, white—and because they had just come from their other world, Hawk and Sloan, who was called Cougar-in- the-Night among his father's people, spent several hours engaging in the purification rite of the sweat bath, inipi. They atoned there for whatever wrongs they might have committed and cleansed themselves of outside forces.
When they were done, they dressed in breechclouts, leggings, and moccasins, and prepared for their official visit to Crazy Horse.
Crazy Horse awaited them with He Dog, one of his closest friends and supporters. They all greeted one another as old friends, with restrained pleasure, as was the Sioux way.
Because they had come to speak, Hawk and Sloan sat on either side of Crazy Horse. Willow, Ice Raven, and Blade joined the circle as well. First, Crazy Horse lit his pipe, which he shared with the others in the spiritual way. After they smoked, Crazy Horse's wife, Black Shawl, and her mother, who lived in the tipi as well, served the guests food, well-prepared buffalo meat which was sweet and rich. Only when they had finished and complimented their host on his hospitality did it become time to talk. And it was Crazy Horse who began.
"I know why you have come; Sioux have come from the agencies as well. Men from Red Cloud, who once fought the whites so vigorously, now tell me that we can never best their numbers."
"Red Cloud has been in Washington, and yes, he has seen that the whites are incredibly numerous," Hawk said.
"The white settlers are a wave, a great wave, spilling over the country," Sloan said.
"Throughout my life, we have gone through one treaty with the whites to the next. We have told them where they must not build their railroads, then we have watched as their railroad builders have come anyway, protected by the white soldiers. We have often asked before attacking why they are where they have promised that they will not be.
The Black Hills are Sa Papa. The whites were not to be there. Cougar-in-the-Night—your army was to keep the whites out of the Black Hills."
"My army despairs. They attempt to stop the settlers. But there is gold in the Black Hills. When white men get gold fever, they can't be stopped."
"Red Cloud's opinion is that the Black Hills are already lost," Hawk told him.
Crazy Horse waved a hand in the air. He looked from Sloan to Hawk. "You live at the base of Indian lands. Your father, the man we called the white Sioux, lived there in peace. He made use of the gold he found only where he knew he did not trespass on holy land. Why can't the rest of the whites understand this? We've listened when they speak. 'The railroad must be here.' They bring their railroad. We've watched them, we've waited. Nothing is ever enough. They always demand more. They claim that they are at peace and raid Indian villages. Where will it end?"
"It won't end," Hawk told him truthfully.
Crazy Horse smiled. "You came to ask me to come in and listen to the whites' words about buying the Hills."
"Yes."
"Are you asking me?"
"I'm asking you."
"But you know I'm not coming."
"Yes, I know."
"So the invitation is given, and refused. Cougar, you know as well that this is true. You can return to your army with the assurance that you have done all you could do. I will not see the whites. I will not agree to sell the Black Hills. Perhaps the whites swarm over them. It is not with my agreement. I promise no safety to the whites there. Or here. The white man has asked for war. I try to keep my distance from him. When he steps on me, then I must throw him from my back. That is the way that it is."
"Perhaps bloodshed can still be avoided," Hawk said.
Crazy Horse stared straight at Sloan. "The army wishes us all dead."
Sloan shook his head. "Not the army," he said. "But yes, there are men, some of them generals, who want the Indians gone. They cannot kill the agency Indians because there will be a terrible outcry among Americans back east if they hear that peaceful Indians are being murdered at the agencies."
"And will that matter?"
"Yes," Sloan said, "Because among the whites ... well, among the whites, the Americans, men who want power must be granted some of it by the people around them. To become really great chiefs, they must be elected by the people. To some people, a great victory against the Sioux would enhance a man's favor. But equally, Crazy Horse, there are gentle people among the whites. Many people, like those who said that black men should not be slaves, who don't believe that any human being, living at peace, should be murdered."
"So you think I should try for peace and forget what the whites have done to me and my people?" Crazy Horse demanded.
Sloan shook his head again. "No." He stared at Crazy Horse. "I hate what has been done; I am disgusted by the slaughter that has befallen so many of our Plains brethren. Crazy Horse must fight if attacked. With Sitting Bull, Gall, and others, you are the backbone of our people. Maybe the time will come when the Sioux will be so outnumbered there is no more choice. Now I know that to hold against Ihe whites is the only choice you can make."
Crazy Horse smiled at Hawk. "He is not a white man."
"In his way, he is. The words we bring to you are important, but those we bring back from you are equally so. Cougar will tell the army that Crazy Horse is strong, that many Sioux—and allies!—stand with him. And it is hoped that the army generals will tell the white fathers that they cannot steal the hills as they have stolen so much else. Yes, the whites swarm there now. But perhaps the Sioux will benefit because a line will be drawn and a price will be paid."
Crazy Horse shrugged. "The army will ride against us, but that time has yet to come. When it does, we will make a stand. Hawk, you have brought your new wife?"
He nodded, taken aback by the abruptness of the question. Crazy Horse seemed intrigued, but Hawk was aware that his old friend meant as well that they were done discussing the business of the Black Hills and the council the whites—and Red Cloud—had been so anxious for Crazy Horse to attend.
"I have."
"She came here willingly?"
Well, willingly wasn't quite right, but he hadn't actually dragged her either. He'd threatened to, of course.
They'd bargained. But he wasn't accustomed to lying
in Sioux life, and neither was he ready to speak the truth.
He frowned instead. "We had trouble coming here. A party of Crow warriors attacked. They were very far east. I don't remember the last time I saw Crow so deep into Sioux land. They seized my wife. We followed and seized her back."
"And the Crow warriors?"
"Are dead."
"I'd heard you brought Crow ponies."
"Yes."
Crazy Horse glanced at He Dog. "I don't understand this either, why the Crow would attack a white woman on our hunting grounds, and when she was so close to her own people. The Crow tend to become scouts for the whites— against us. It's very strange to me." He shrugged. "There was an incident, though. Some young Oglala bucks rode out to raid a Crow camp not long back. They stole a number of ponies and the daughter of a Crow war chief. The girl wanted to be stolen; she is now the wife of Stands-Against- Darkness. But perhaps Crow warriors are riding in revenge. They cannot attack our camp here; there are too many of us. But you must take extra care when you ride back. Perhaps you had best gather more braves to ride with you when you leave here."
"Cougar, Willow, and I are accustomed to taking care of ourselves."
"But you are riding with your wife. Her hair alone, I understand, might be considered a great prize to any man. You are white—and Sioux. You are Thunder Hawk, a brave who took many coup against them, even as a young half-breed. Sometimes, though, that blood can tell. You cannot see danger as clearly as perhaps you should. Your wife would be a very great prize to a Crow."
Hawk inclined his head. "Crazy Horse, you grow richer in wisdom each year."
"His wife counted coup on her own against the Crow," Sloan said. "She fought them, struck them."
Crazy Horse arched a brow at Hawk. "It's good that you killed them all. Is she that fierce? A brave woman. One who fights to protect her home and children. Bravery is as commendable in a woman as in a man."
"Oh, she is brave. She's very fierce!" Willow said, a smile tugging at his lips. Hawk noted that his cousin refused to look at him, but he did refrain from telling Crazy Horse that Skylar had fought him with just as much vehemence as she used against the Crow.
He forced a smile to his lips. "She's a dove," he said. "An absolute dove."
Crazy Horse smiled. "I have learned not to steal wives. I am happy with Black Shawl. I wish you happiness. You, too, have suffered the losses of many loved ones. I am glad of your wife—even if she is white. And your children ... ihey will be so white." He said the words very sadly. "I am anxious to see your wife."
Hospitality was very important. Though Hawk had his own home in the white world, here, among the Sioux, his grandfather's home was considered his as well.
"Will you eat with us tomorrow?" he asked Crazy Horse. Crazy Horse would want to see not just what his wife looked like, but he would want to judge her "wifely" attributes as well. He wouldn't expect her to be an expert tipi maker or skinner, but he would certainly expect her to make a good meal. Skylar was a good cook. She had made a delicious soup the night he had discovered they were married. He just wondered what her reaction would be when he told her they were having Crazy Horse to dinner. And that she was to serve but not eat with them.
Skylar would be receptive, he determined. She had to be. And if not... He remembered the gut-wrenching feeling he'd experienced when the Crows had taken her, the agony of watching her touched by another, fear, fury. Longing. Hurting. Wanting. He hadn't wanted a wife. Truth. He didn't want one now. Lie. He wanted his wife. He was tantalized, captivated by his wife. Holding something... and still not knowing what he held. She had sworn she never meant to hurt his father, and he believed her, believed her to such an extent that he was sorrier than he could ever say for whatever fear and humiliation he had caused her in the certainty that she had. Yet, God! He wanted something from her, something he couldn't shake, drag, or demand. He wanted to understand her, wanted to know what was driving her, what made her ready to cast her fate to the absolute horror of himself. He could still see her face when she had looked up at the Crow who had attacked her. She had looked at him the very same way.
Because he was Sioux. That fact hardened his heart each time he found himself too enamored of the perfect beauty of her face, the softness of her hair tangled against him, the silk of her skin against his own ...
If the Crows had taken her, he would have spent his life killing Crows. Every last one. Until he perished himself. He didn't want to shake her, strangle her. Beat her. Hurt her.
Hmm.
Bribery remained.
He smiled. "I'm very anxious for my friend Crazy Horse to see my wife. You will come?" Even if Skylar proved to be difficult, they'd be in his grandfather's home, with his grandfather's wife, to help.
"I will come," Crazy Horse said. "We've known you would come, of course. Many of the women have wanted to make you especially welcome here, should you bring a wife. They have made a special tipi for your wife. I'm sure that they have shown it to her by now and that she will await you there."
"A special dpi of her own," Hawk said, and smiled. He inclined his head. "How very generous."
Crazy Horse inclined his head in turn, offering Hawk a shrugging smile. "It is our way."
"It's our way," he said.
"No wife yet for you?" Crazy Horse asked Sloan.
"There are too many women for a Cougar-in-the- Night," Willow teased.
Sloan shrugged, his dark eyes inscrutable. "Ah, well, wives and women! They are like the sun, eh? Beautiful, dazzling ... burning. One must always take care. No wife for me, Crazy Horse."
"And no children," Crazy Horse noted sagely.
Sloan smiled ruefully. "You're right, my friend."
They rose then, bidding one another good night, all of the guests leaving Crazy Horse's home.
Night had come. The air was crisp and cool, stars dotted what appeared to be a never-ending velvet and ebony sky. It was stunning country, cloaked in a beautiful night.
As they stood just outside Crazy Horse's home, Ice Raven pointed in the direction of the newly made tipi the women had given to Skylar. "Sleep well, cousin!" Ice Raven told him. He clapped him on the back, turned, and started toward his sister's. His brothers followed him.
"Hmm. Nice place. Just a bit different from Mayfair, but then, it is completely hers. I did tell her that the tipi was the wife's property, didn't I? How convenient. You'll get to be alone when you tell her you're having Crazy Horse to dinner!" Sloan told him, smiling.
"Every single god out there will do something evil to you, Sloan!" Hawk muttered.
"It's a hell of a night. A hell of a night! Because just think of it. You've given her one hell of a time," Sloan said.
"I haven't really had much choice," Hawk muttered.
"You bet!" Sloan said. He was still laughing, Hawk thought, but then Sloan suddenly sobered, shaking his head to the sky above them. "Actually, I envy you the night!" he said lightly. "Goodnight, Hawk."
He turned and followed Hawk's cousins.
Fires blazed outside tipis; smoke rose into the night sky. The breeze just stirred the dirt on the ground, and the stars burst down on the river.
Hawk hesitated just a moment longer.
Then headed for his wife's new home.
Eighteen
It was an extremely handsome tipi; the women had done an exceptional job with it. It had been sewn from bleached- white buffalo hides, and someone with great artistic skills had painted his life upon it, his days as a child, his participation in the Sun Dance, his coups against the Crows. Scenes depicted his departure with his father, his "white" war against his own people, his marriage and loss, his years at Mayfair—his arriving home to his grandfather with a new wife. It had all been very beautifully done.
Yet standing in the center of the tipi, having studied the pictographs, he felt a moment's sharp dread and a simmer of defensive anger—he was alone. She wasn't there; she had run somewhere.
But then his eyes adjusted to the ha
zy firelight and he saw that against the wall of his lodge there appeared to a long bundle. It was a sleeping robe, and someone slept within it. His wife. The hour had grown very late, though he had not realized it. He had spent a long time in the sweat bath, and a far longer time with Crazy Horse than he had realized.
He approached the sleeping robe—warning himself that he couldn't just assume that the body was Skylar's—she might have disappeared and an old friend might have found her way in here. But when he knelt down, he saw the stream of blond hair flowing over the buffalo robe and he sat back on his calves with relief. As he did so, she stirred, turning within the robe restlessly, trying to kick it aside. It was warm within the lodge; a fire burned in the center— set there by someone who had known what he or she was doing—and she was dressed in doeskin as well, a beautiful dress, expertly embroidered and cut. As he studied the garment, surely from the talented hands of Deer Woman, her eyes suddenly fluttered and opened.
She stared at him, her eyes widening. For a moment he thought that she was going to scream, and he belatedly realized how he was dressed himself, still in breechclout, leggings, moccasins, and no more.
"It's me, Skylar," he said quietly.
She nodded, staring at him, still struggling to awaken.
"You survived the day, so I see."
She nodded again, still studying him.
"And my grandfather."
"Your grandfather was very kind."
"He is a great man. A wise one." He waited, curious as to what she would tell him. "And his English is much better than he is ever willing to allow others to know, so I'm sure you had no difficulty understanding him."
"I had no difficulty understanding him."
"And no one scalped you."
She shook her head. "But I have seen ..."
"What?"
She shrugged. "I have seen a number of white scalps tied to poles in front of tipis."
"It might surprise you to discover that certain men in the cavalry collect Indian scalps."
No Other Man Page 25