by Karen Kay
At this rallying cry, warriors bounded to their feet, whooping and brandishing their weapons. Drums burst out their rhythms. Young men, hungry to prove themselves, surged to their feet, shouting.
Tahiska sat still. He was uneasy. It was his father who lay slain, yet this talk was not good. There was no honor in this. He, too, desired revenge. Anger stirred in his blood, and he, probably more than anyone here tonight, required a white man’s scalp to atone for the death of his father. But not from these whites at the post. They had committed no crime of murder. No good would come of it.
Hawonjetah strode to the center of the council. “Is there no one else to speak? Shonka speaks with the fire of the young. I, too, desire revenge. But from these people at the trading post? Must we, too, become murderers? What will become of us if we begin to kill people who had no part of another’s murder? Do we not ourselves become like them? What do you say?” Hawonjetah spoke directly to Tahiska. “Was it not your father who was slain?”
Tahiska jumped to his feet. He tread swiftly into the center of the circle.
“You are right to ask me, chief of the Minneconjou. I, too, believe we must avenge these deaths, but not from the white people here.”
Hawonjetah, satisfied that the young man would speak, turned and resumed his seat at the head of the council.
Tahiska faced the elders of the combined council. “Friends, there are many from my tribe here. My father is dead and I, too, desire revenge. But this revenge is mine to take and none other’s. I will seek out the true murderers. Do we not have their descriptions? I will track them. It is my duty to avenge my father’s death. I do not require all of our men to do this task. The right of revenge is mine and mine alone. I will find these whites who killed my father and his brother. There is a soldier fort a full moon’s journey south and east from our home. I will go to this fort. I will seek out these men and I will bring their white, dirty scalps home to decorate my mother’s tepee.”
Wahtapah flew to his feet and joined his friend in the council circle. “I will ride with my cousin to this soldier fort. I will be part of his glory and I will help slay the evil ones who committed these crimes.”
Neeheeowee, the Cheyenne brave who had just recently arrived at the Sioux encampment, sprang to his feet and joined his friends in front of the fire. “I, too, will ride with my friends from the Lakota tribes. Together we will kill these murderers.”
Only a few wars whoops still sounded. The elder chiefs talked in conference, while the women whispered to one another and the young warriors gazed with envy upon the three in the center.
At length, Hawonjetah rose. “All look upon your bravery and your honor with admiration. It is good that you seek the death of these murderers yourselves. It honorable and just. We ask one other thing of you when you are in the soldier fort. Investigate their trade. If it is worthwhile, we will bring our furs and our horses no more to this post on the Teton. I have spoken.” Hawonjetah tapped the ashes of his pipe upon the ground, signaling the end of the council. Gradually all arose to return to their homes.
The three in the middle of the circle, however, stood quietly, until the gathering had cleared.
Tahiska glanced solemnly at his friends. “Tomorrow we will prepare to go, but tonight, Wahtapah, you must work quickly for your love. We may be away a long time, but perhaps she will wait for you if you are man enough. I will tell you what to do.” He smiled at his friend. “Do you think you can do it?”
Wahtapah grinned. “I will try.”
Chapter Three
Fort Leavenworth
July 4, 1833
The sun had scarcely been up an hour. The grass was still glistening with dew. The scents of early morning and of breakfast permeated the air.
Kristina brushed her forearm over her brow, her hand gripping the musical tuning fork. She was glad she had already consumed her morning meal. This tuning of the piano was requiring more time then she had anticipated. Soon the fort would come alive with soldiers and traders. She would like to have the piano tuned before it became too crowded.
She was seated at the piano in the open air, on an erected, foot-high platform. As with most young women her age, Kristina had been taught music at a young age. But while others played only at small, quiet gatherings, Kristina openly defied convention and played with the cavalry band.
The piano had been moved out of the church last night and set here at the head of the main courtyard, but she’d had little opportunity to tune it last evening. Besides, she had justified to herself, it was better to let the piano sit overnight. The tuning might hold better.
She worked as quickly as she could. Because it was the Fourth of July, there would be a grand celebration today and the piano was needed to fill in with the band, not only for the raising of the flag, but also for the party afterwards.
She glanced toward the sun in irritation. Already she was warm and the day had just barely started.
She leaned over the instrument, played a middle C, then a C one octave higher, turning the wooden peg till she was pleased with the sound. She hit the tuning fork once again and struck the two notes. Satisfied, she advanced to C sharp.
The sound echoed through the fort, creating a hollow twang whose eerie song had never before been heard by the three pairs of Indian ears.
Tahiska and his two companions were awake and alert long before the sun became a red orb in the eastern sky. The journey to the soldier fort took usually a full moon, but the three young warriors, anxious for revenge, had traversed the distance in three weeks, traveling into the night by horse and sleeping little.
Tahiska’s heart was saddened still, and though anger coursed through his veins, he couldn’t deny that there was something exciting about this day. Perhaps he would meet his own death today. Perhaps. But he did not think so. Something important was to happen. He knew it. He could feel it. He had felt it even as he hunted and ate a breakfast of berries and fresh meat. Yes, today was a good day.
The three young warriors had prepared themselves earlier in the morning and had washed in a creek close by, praying to Wakan Tanka, the God of all, for courage and bravery in the face of an enemy they had yet to meet.
Tahiska had formulated his plans well. He did not intend to wage his war against the entire fort. Though his emotions urged him to kill any white person available for atonement, logic would not allow such a thing. And he schooled himself to think clearly. He would kill the two who had committed the crime and none else. Such was the courtesy he would show the white man. And it was for this reason that he and his friends would not wear the customary war paint into the fort. Only after he had singled out the two murderers would he prepare for battle.
No, first he would meet with their chief and ask for the murderers to be turned over to his own party. If this failed, and he had no way of anticipating the actions of the white people, he had other plans.
They dressed this day for council, not for war, and leaving their horses hobbled in their camp they made their way to the fort on foot. They stood outside the gates, awaiting entry.
They were, each one, dressed richly in elk and deerskins. Their shirts were made of delicate, soft leather, each one fringed and decorated with ornamental porcupine quills. Their leggings were fringed and fell to their moccasins, which in their own turn were adorned with beads and colorful quills. Slung horizontally across their backs were their bows, quivers, and shields. Their lances, they held in their hands. While his two friends were dressed in tan, Tahiska was wearing white, and when the white man acknowledged their presence, it was Tahiska to whom the soldiers addressed their inquiries.
But the white man’s tongue was strange, and only through a long dissertation of repeated signs was Tahiska able to tell the white soldiers that he and his party had come to speak with the fort’s chief. And while Tahiska was stunned to learn that the soldiers were in ignorance of his language, so common and well known on the plains, good manners kept his scorn carefully hidden.
They waited for permission to enter the fort. To an outsider their expressions would seem dour, but courtesy forbid them to show any emotion; their anger, even their contempt at being kept waiting in the ever-increasing heat of the day, was shrouded behind their eyes. They stood patiently, not making a move at all.
It was more than an hour later that the strange notes carried over the garrison walls. The sound was eerie, mysterious, and the Indians began to wonder if Wakan Tanka had heard their prayers this day.
As was the custom at the fur company, so too, at the fort, the Indians’ weapons were placed in an arsenal. Tahiska demanded, and was allowed, possession of his bow. Tahiska sought out the soldiers in the white man’s building and was at last able, through painfully crude sign language, to convey to the soldiers that he desired a council with the white man’s chief. Just as crudely and with great deliberation, the white soldiers told the Indians to return when the sun was at its zenith. Today was the Fourth of July, a holiday. The white chief could see them no sooner. The Indians nodded understanding and turned to leave.
As they strode back into the sun, Tahiska quickly scanned the fort. It took only a second, but his practiced gaze missed nothing—the two women to his right, one hundred yards away; the three soldiers, each carrying one firestick and a long knife; the two guards parading the planks of the garrison walls, each armed with one firestick and another long knife. He sized up the men as opponents, observed that there was no other exit but the gate they had just entered through, and wondered at the buildings along the road. The area around him was practically deserted, though there were sounds of movement elsewhere within the fort.
Tahiska was astounded at the late hour in which the fort commenced to do business. Had he been at home, he could already have hunted for himself and another family. But his thoughts were not revealed on his face, his expression guardedly blank.
There it was again. That sound. The eerie song they had heard over the fort’s walls that morning. It shrieked through the morning air, its sound more disturbing than the cry of a raven. Tahiska’s gaze searched the sky for the cause, but he could see nothing. He had no indication his medicine was bad this day, yet this melody made him uneasy.
“Spread out, investigate each tepee, each home,” Tahiska commanded, “Wahtapah, you on this side and you, Neeheeowee, on the other. I will see what sort of bird sings this song. I will see if it is good medicine or bad. When the sun is high, we meet here. Now go.”
Kristina sat at the piano bench, hunched over the instrument. She had one leg beneath her, one leg on the floor, and her skirts settled around her. The job of tuning the piano was almost done and she was feeling quite pleased with herself. Just two more octave notes and she was finished. She played one, then the other, turning the peg till she was satisfied. This done she moved farther down the piano and began to play a song.
An odd sensation swept over her skin, leaving goose bumps along her arms and a prickly feeling at the back of her neck. She played a few more notes, then cocked her head to the side, her peripheral vision catching a glimpse of a white-clad figure. Thinking her senses were playing tricks on her again, Kristina started to turn away when the clean scent of prairie grass caught at her breath. She stopped, her fingers in midair, as the earth beneath her seemed to reel. To counter the sensation she set both feet on the ground and spun around.
She had to look a long way up to meet the black eyes that were watching her intently. Her breath caught in her throat, and Kristina had to force herself to exhale. Perhaps, she decided, it would be best to stand.
Clutching the piano with her hands behind her, she stood, noting with a mixture of dread, plus an odd sort of excitement, that this Indian stranger stood a good head taller than she.
She stared into his face. He looked foreign, wild, and yet oddly familiar.
She tried to smile, but it was shaky. “Hello,” she tried.
He said nothing, his expression registering nothing, and he looked her directly in the eye.
Kristina, unused to such open scrutiny, blushed. Where have I seen him before? Nervously, she wrung her hands, then gestured toward the piano. “I…I was just tuning it for the…ce…celebration today.”
His gaze had left her eyes, was now roaming slowly, meticulously over the golden tan of her hair, the soft oval of her face, her nose, her lips, then downward toward her neck, stopping at the material of her gown as it clung to her shoulders.
His gaze jerked back to hers. Quickly he signed a greeting and Kristina visibly relaxed.
She knew the language of sign well, was able to converse in the language as though she, herself, were Indian.
She moved her hands, motioning a response, but also asking, “Where are you from—what tribe?”
He didn’t answer, but instead trod to her side, next to the piano.
Kristina noted several things about him all at once: the fluid way he moved, as though it took no effort; the lone tooth dangling from a leather cord round his neck, the beaded earrings hanging from both earlobes, giving him not an air of effeminacy as one would have expected but a sense of potent strength. His hair was quite long, reaching way past his shoulders, and Kristina was startled to note that it did not detract from his allure. He was probably the most handsome man she’d ever seen.
“What is this?” he signed, indicating the piano. He hadn’t looked at her, but when he turned back to her, catching her scrutiny of him, Kristina felt so embarrassed she couldn’t control the flush that warmed her face. Realizing her cheeks were awash with color, she averted her gaze.
“It’s a piano,” she stated, stumbling over what to sign in reply, finally settling for “song-maker.” “Pi-a-no,” she repeated, pointing to it.
She touched a key; then another and another.
“See, when you touch it, it sings.” She attempted another uncertain smile. “Here, I’ll show you.”
She invited him with gestures to touch a key, but he was not cooperative, and his face revealed no expression whatsoever.
“Here.” She touched his hand. At the contact a sudden tremor shot up her arm, causing her to gasp.
She pulled back, her eyes darting up to his, but she couldn’t read a thing from his gaze. His stare was unwavering, and she wondered if she were the only one who had felt it—the shock.
“I…”
He silenced her with a sign.
Neither one spoke. Neither one moved. And for a moment, a short space of time, she felt her world stop.
The sun beat down its warmth upon them, and its tawny rays caught a fiery red highlight in his hair, reminding her of fire and passion. All at once, Kristina thought she might burst.
She turned away, but this time, he touched her. It was a light graze, its length only a moment, its intent clearly to keep her from leaving. A simple gesture. That’s all it was. And yet Kristina felt a jolt all through her body.
He motioned her to sit.
She complied, almost without thinking.
“Sing,” he motioned.
“Sing?” she asked aloud.
He motioned towards the keys, signing again, “Sing.”
“Oh, I see. You want me to play.” She fingered the keys lightly, not pressing down on them. “Like this?”
With one hand, he motioned “yes.”
She played then, her attention not on the notes, but rather on the man who stood at her side. Without thought, her fingers moved over the cool, ivory keys in the haunting melody of Pachelbel’s “Canon”; Kristina closed her eyes, trying to concentrate on what she was doing, not on the virile Indian watching her intently. It made no difference. Every other sense she had was alerted to him, from the clean scent of him to the muffled sound of his soft, white-bleached clothing as he moved.
Moved? Kristina played the last note and opened her eyes to find the Indian not at her side as she had thought, but in front of her, the height of the piano between them. She gazed up at him, over the piano, catching a look in his eye that might have been—admira
tion? She couldn’t be sure because it was so quickly gone that she wondered if she had only imagined it.
“Kristina,” Julia exclaimed, bursting onto the scene. “Come quickly. There’s news that…there’s…” Julia’s words gradually slowed. “That…there…are wild Indians… Kristina, I think you’ve discovered this for yourself.”
“Yes,” Kristina said. She glanced down as she rose from the piano. She had to get away. She wasn’t sure what had happened to her just now and she needed time alone to consider it. Without stopping to think she quickly signed a good morning to the Indian, smiled unsteadily in his direction, and dashed toward Julia. The tingling sensation at the back of her neck told her the Indian’s gaze had never left her.
What had happened?
Why did he look so familiar?
Tahiska watched the white woman flee. In truth, he was somewhat relieved. He had never seen a white woman before, and frankly he had never paused to wonder at the white man’s woman. He could not be sure if he found her at all attractive—perhaps if the eye adjusted. She was small and slim—slimmer than what he was accustomed to—and she only reached to his chin. Her hair burst with color the same as the sun, her eyes glistened like a spring forest, and her skin filled with a flush not unlike the beauty of the wild rose.
He stared at the empty space where the woman had been and then at the piano itself. Coming around to the side of the instrument, he touched a note and listened for the sound. He had never heard music such as this. He had never seen such a woman. They were good medicine, both the “song-maker” and the woman. Great medicine.