by Karen Kay
“Yes, sir.”
Both men saluted.
Major Bogard glanced toward the sun, then back towards the couple. He was not pleased. The couple sat well together. There was a perceivable closeness about them, a bond that said—
Damn!
“More beans, Miss Bogard?”
“No, thank you.” Kristina smiled briefly at the young galley hand before she swung her gaze back to the timber skirting the far side of their camp.
Tahiska stood there, apart from the others. And though he leaned casually against a tree, his stare was watchful, alert.
Kristina yearned for him. After this afternoon, she now felt tied to him as she had never felt before. She was sick of the pretense, tired of acting as though there was nothing between them.
She couldn’t remember ever wanting to be with anyone so intensely. The ache was physical and she actually contemplated stealing to him in the early hours of the morning. She quickly set the idea aside as too dangerous, though the thought of it brought on pleasant memories she was quick to stifle.
She willed Tahiska to glance back at her, though she knew he would not. Whenever he was amongst her people, he was always on guard, and he seemed unusually alert tonight.
As the fire sparkled and danced between them, Kristina gazed at him in utter fascination, recalling his touch, his scent, his taste—all of those special things that were uniquely his. She didn’t even consider hiding her feelings. She loved him too much.
Major Bogard stared at his daughter. Even a blind man could have sensed her deep regard for the Indian. She peered at the warrior with an intensity bordering on adoration. And the major knew without asking that the Indian returned her affection. He at last confronted the facts. The young couple was in love.
Damn!
He could not condone their love affair. The man was Indian! Yet, if he thought about it, what more could he ask for in a young man? Tahiska was honorable and trustworthy without exception, a man who valued honesty and generosity beyond all else. If the man did love his daughter, it would be for a lifetime.
Wendall Bogard pulled the buffalo robe closer around his shoulders. It instantly warded off the chill and he thought again how lucky he was to have been awarded this present by the young brave.
At once the major’s glance leapt to the Indian’s, finding the brave’s unwavering stare also scrutinizing him.
Realization dawned.
And as the fire sparked between the two men, the utter integrity of the Indian was borne home to the major all at once.
The young warrior had sent him presents for Kristina—presents to show his admiration. The Indian had made his intentions known to his sweetheart’s father long ago, or so he’d thought.
Across the distance, the gaze exchanged between the two men was completely male and ablaze with raw feeling.
Finally, the major looked away. Of one fact he was certain: his daughter would never find another man amongst her own people as worthy as the Indian.
Damn!
Where were the white murderers?
Tahiska’s gaze scanned the soldier camp, noting things only a foreign eye would discern: the white tents, pitched with no fire inside to warm, the flimsy covering material that even now flapped helplessly in the evening breeze, the high fire outside whose abundant smoke would alert any enemy that an encampment was nearby. The wonder of it was that the camp was pitched so thoughtlessly, with no nearby stream in which to bathe or to drink.
Tahiska kept these critical thoughts to himself, yet he made mental notes of the military’s weaknesses.
He had accompanied the soldiers to their rendezvous with the trade wagon.
Tahiska had ridden in front with a very reserved Major Bogard, while Kristina had been relegated to a seat on the only wagon.
The two parties met shortly before dusk, and in the confusion Tahiska had not yet studied the features of each soldier. He had lingered too long around Kristina’s camp. And while he might not stare at her directly, he was aware of her every move.
It was to Kristina’s father that Tahiska levied the majority of his attention, and he perceived the exact moment the major realized the Indian’s intentions regarding his daughter.
Tahiska met and held the major’s gaze. He doubted his father-in-law would even contemplate that the two young people had married. Their union was, for the moment, simply incredible. But of one thing Tahiska was certain: The major knew of their love.
Kristina’s father dropped his gaze and Tahiska silently stole away.
“…and I killed them Injuns in only one blow…”
Tahiska froze mid-stride, and on feet as silent as the velvet patter of a cat’s paw crept forward.
“Ye be a talkin’ dither… We all be a-knowin’ thar’ has not been th’ time ta’ kill th’ Injun—”
“Not here… North… Way north!”
The stench of whiskey pervaded the air. And as Tahiska crept nearer, the nauseating stink of unwashed bodies assailed him. It was enough to cause Tahiska to worry over the fate of his own dinner.
“We was on a scoutin’ party, wasn’t we, McKlinsley?”
“We was.” The man with hair the color of burnt autumn leaves stepped to the fire, throwing his features into prominence. “Got ourselves a heap of wild turkeys, but them Injuns come and try to take away our game. We fix ’em, dinna we, Charlie? Shot down the thievin’ beggars.”
“Yep,” the tall blond grunted, swinging his arm around his compatriot. “Got their scalps on my belt…”
Tahiska sprang into the center of the group, his eye fixed on the two murderers. At that same instant he hurled his knife at them, the object striking the ground only inches from their feet. He could just as easily have killed them, but such action would have been cowardly. Besides, Tahiska had the advantage of surprise and magic, since he left the impression that both Indian and weapon had burst in upon the group at once.
“I accuse you,” he barked out in Lakota, his hand motions distinct, “of the murder of my father and friend. I challenge you both to a fight to the death if you are man enough.”
His was a sobering sight. Not a single sound was raised for several moments. Then, “I think I gots me another Injun, Charlie,” McKlinsley snorted. “Ain’t this the Injun was dallying with Miss Kristina? He’s oversteppin’ hisself. Needs a lesson and I thinks I’m th’ one ta give it…”
The gun never reached McKlinsley’s hand. Tahiska crouched, and using his body as a weapon, knifed himself into the sickening stench of human flesh. The man fell in a mass of quivering drunkenness. Tahiska snatched his knife and bounding off the man, poised his weapon against his enemy’s throat.
“Back. Stay,” he commanded in English.
Too late, Tahiska heard the sound of someone behind him.
The butt of a rifle smashed into the Indian’s skull. He went down, but staggered back to his feet. The knife still clutched in his hand, he circled his enemies, now four in number.
“Washechu! Murderers! Liars!” he snarled, twisting away to avoid the plunge of a knife at his back. He lashed out at the man who had hit him, sending him sprawling to the ground.
“Cheaters!” he howled. A gun was raised. Giving his war whoop, Tahiska hurled his knife at the weapon, dashing it to the ground. But his victory was shallow. Two men seized him from behind and within seconds his assailant heaved a gun at Tahiska’s head.
Tahiska’s eyes blazed with fury.
“Heard tell ya’ Injuns love torture,” the redheaded McKlinsley sneered, brandishing a knife before the Indian’s eyes. Tahiska didn’t even flinch. “Been meanin’ to test the theory on the first Injun I see. Guess that’s you, boy!” McKlinsley licked his lips and snickered maliciously.
Tahiska spit on him.
“Why, you…”
“Put down that knife! Release that Indian! Now!”
McKlinsley growled.
“Do it now or all four of you will face a court-martial!” Major Bogard commanded.
>
Still no one moved.
“Now!”
McKlinsley spun around. His features bore the mark of insanity; his eyes, bloodshot from liquor, blazed with the lust to kill.
“Let the Indian go! Now!”
“Injun lover!” hissed McKlinsley. Major Bogard drew his gun.
“You’re drunk, McKlinsley.” The major advanced slowly forward. “I’ll let it pass this time, but one more remark like that and you’ll spend the next twenty years of your life behind bars. I promise. Now, release him!”
The two men at Tahiska’s back flung him forward violently. The Indian, never off balance, flew to his feet, snatched up his knife and crouched, poised and waiting.
The major paced to the Indian’s side.
“Get to your quarters!” he ordered, glaring over his shoulder at his men. “And I swear it if I find so much as one hair disturbed on this Indian come morning, every single one of you will hang. Do I make myself clear?”
Dead silence marked the time.
“I asked a question.”
There was a mumbling of, “Yes, sirs,” as the group of four men broke up, three of them withdrawing. McKlinsley, however, remained where he stood. The urge to kill was still raging within him. And only the major’s gun, aimed squarely at his head, kept him back.
“I’ll gits ye,” McKlinsley muttered.
“Not while I’m in command! Now get!”
McKlinsley fled, but his stench still permeated the air.
Tahiska remained crouched for several moments. Then, deciding the danger was passed, he sheathed his knife and rose to his full height.
Glancing at the major, he nodded. But when he would have walked away, the major stayed him.
“Consider the favor returned.” The major spoke and signed at the same time. “I have behaved badly, my friend, toward someone who risked his life for my daughter. I hope that what I have done tonight has repaid you in some way.”
Tahiska nodded. He signed, “It is enough,” and whirled away.
“Tahiska!”
The Indian shot a look back over his shoulder.
“I must know,” the major gestured in sign. “Are you in love with my daughter?”
Tahiska pivoted around. He stepped up until only a foot separated him from Kristina’s father. Pointing his hand downward over his breast and ending the motion with both arms crossed and pulled in tightly to his chest, Tahiska applied pressure to his hands till his knuckles turned white.
His gaze silently bore into the major’s.
“I see,” Kristina’s father voiced. Finally, the major nodded.
Tahiska returned the gesture, then spinning about, he disappeared from the camp.
The major scowled. The Indian loved Kristina with all his heart. He’d just as good as said it.
Damn!
Chapter Sixteen
Fort Leavenworth had never seen such a ball. Every lantern, every candle was ablaze illuminating the hall in a wavering, romantic hue of light. With the trade wagon returned, so many more people were housed at the fort that the dance hall practically burst with activity. Soldiers and officers held their wives proudly; the dancing was stately, dignified. Talk was kept to a soft murmur while the muted sounds from the small string orchestra accompanied the silken whispers of the distinguished guests. The soldiers’ wives had donned their gayest best, presenting to the spectators’ eyes an array of color, as the couples swept in and around the banquet hall.
The sweet scent of the prairie wafted in through the open windows, while the soft strains of a waltz drifted over the ears of listeners outside.
Would he come?
Only the elite had been invited to attend the gala inside the banquet hall. The traders and their Indian wives lingered outside, peering through the windows for a brief glimpse into the fashionable world of the military upper crust. Even a few Indians stood outside, as interested in the goings-on as their white friends.
Kristina’s gown, made of the finest ivory taffeta, whispered and rustled with each step, lending to her movement a music all her own. Her escort was a young soldier who was distinctively tall, lean, and handsome. But Kristina barely noticed him. Her gaze was constantly at the windows or the door, searching, wondering. She hadn’t seen Tahiska since the day she had ridden out to meet him—one week ago.
Kristina ached for his presence. She’d fallen in love with him all over again, only this time her devotion ran deeper. He’d saved her life at risk to his own. He’d defended her against her own father. And never once had he criticized her. She yearned for him as she had never desired anything.
Would he come?
She searched out the guest of honor, George Catlin, who had just returned from the Pawnee village where he had painted several of that tribe. Now he and the general were due to leave, their next visit to be to the Comanche village in the south.
Several of the traders and even some soldiers had complained over the circumstances of this party. Usually the return of the trade wagon was excuse enough to have a big party, yet the addition of Mr. Catlin and General Leavenworth’s impending departure had thrown the fort into a panic to see them off “in style.”
No one who was not in the military or associated with it by family was invited. Grumbling had spread throughout the fort, but several of the ladies, Margaret Bogard included, had insisted on this exclusive party. Kristina wondered what the artist thought of this ball. Did he subscribe to the philosophy that a man was only as good as his birthright? Or in lieu of title, as honored as his pockets were deep? Or did he believe, like the Indians, that a man was as important as his ability to serve others? While he had been here, Mr. Catlin had become a friend, and Kristina felt certain that he looked upon the Indian without blame or righteousness. Why otherwise would he seek out the Indian’s company, or undergo such rigors and danger simply to glorify their likeness?
He was dancing with Julia now and Kristina observed that, like herself, his gaze was often on those at the windows and at the door. Kristina smiled. Mr. Catlin was truly a kindred soul.
Would he come?
The orchestra switched to an old-style minuet, and for the moment Kristina was caught up with the need to remember the time-honored steps. She didn’t notice, therefore, when the three Indians boldly strode into the hall. She didn’t notice the gasps, she didn’t hear the shocked whispers. Caught up in the old-world excitement of the dance, she was oblivious to it all. And when the orchestra switched to Pachelbel’s “Canon,” she was unprepared for the tap on her shoulder and the whispered Lakota word, mitawicu. In a daze, Kristina swung around to confront Tahiska, his arms held out toward her.
She hesitated only a moment. This last month had seen her aching for Tahiska’s presence. Hadn’t she decided to forego any further pretense where he was concerned? Wasn’t she seriously considering accompanying him when he left to return home?
Her escort forgotten, she leaned toward Tahiska. She could not deny him. She’d fought his hold over her for too long. She raised her gaze to his, and finding his steady regard upon her, she fell into his arms.
Tahiska had decided at the last moment to attend the dance. He knew she would be there. He had to see her again. Tomorrow might bear witness to his own destruction—and in fact, he should be preparing himself to face his enemy. Yet all he could think of was Kristina.
He stood at the windows and surveyed with disdain the white man’s attempt at old-world finery. There was something ephemeral about their colorful dress, the ghost-like powder on their faces and hair, their snobbish disregard for the traders and their Indian wives. Did the white man really seek to exclude others simply because of their style of dress, their manner of speaking or the color of their skin? The Indian could not fathom such foolishness.
Tahiska didn’t like it. In fact, as he glanced at the wistful faces crowded around the windows, anger stirred inside him. He and all these Indians were supposed to be guests at the fort, yet they were treated with no more respect than a dog.
Motioning to Wahtapah and Neeheeowee, Tahiska marched to the banquet hall’s entrance. He was no dog, and it was time the white man discovered this. He entered the ballroom with little trouble. All it took was a fierce look at the soldiers guarding the door before they melted quickly away. He and his two friends stepped just inside the entry and despite its finery, its boast of superiority Tahiska found he was unimpressed with the banquet hall’s elegance.
His gaze searched for Kristina, and finding her walked directly toward her, purpose clearly etched on his face. The time had come to announce to the white man that the Indian would abide discrimination no more.
The music changed. Tahiska noticed it, but paid it no heed. He would have this dance with his wife.
He tapped her on the shoulder and staring down at her, felt his anger reach the boiling point. She was his. They were married, husband and wife, and it was time the white man learned this. Murmuring mitawicu, he enveloped her in his arms.
They danced, they swayed, they whirled across the floor together. Tahiska’s grace at the white man’s dance was a beauty to behold.
But no one was intent on its aesthetic.
A shocked hush fell upon the hall. Couples parted, folding back toward the sidelines, as all stared at the only two figures on the dance floor. Some of the women hid their eyes beneath fans; some of the women openly glared. All of the men stared in shocked silence.
The orchestra conductor, unaware of the spectacle behind him, kept the strings playing the haunting melody of Pachelbel’s “Canon.”
It was the first time Tahiska had danced to the white man’s music. And as he stared down at Kristina, he felt his anger slip away. She was beautiful. She was his. She moved in perfect unison with his steps, and for a moment, he thought he floated, as though in a dream. He smiled with effusive pleasure, his love for her clearly expressed in his eyes. And she returned his look with a rich emotion all her own.