Savage Skies

by Cassie Edwards

  Once they were all inside, several soldiers came and saluted them, then led them on foot to a large outdoor receiving area.

  There the horses were unpacked and each warrior took charge of his own skins, placing them on tables for the trading that would come after food and smokes were shared with the new colonel.

  Having brought no pelts of his own, Blue Thunder dismounted and led his horse over to where many of the pony soldiers’ steeds were lined up along a hitching rail.

  As he wrapped his reins around the rail, he heard heavy footsteps coming up behind him.

  He turned on a moccasined heel and found himself face-to-face with the new colonel, who wore a freshly ironed blue uniform with shining brass buttons that reflected the rays of the late afternoon sun.

  His face was square-jawed, his black hair was sprinkled with gray, and his eyes were of a violet color that Blue Thunder had never seen before.

  But it was the man’s smile and firm handshake that told Blue Thunder that what he had heard about the new commander was true. His eyes shone with kindness as he smiled at Blue Thunder, his hand now lowering away from Blue Thunder’s to rest on a sheathed saber at his right side.

  “Welcome to Fort Dennison,” Colonel Cline said, smiling broadly and revealing a smooth line of sparkling white teeth. “I have heard about you. It is good to finally make your acquaintance.”

  “It is good to make yours,” Blue Thunder replied. He walked with the colonel toward a large table that sat away from the other tables where the pelts and robes were being neatly displayed.

  As they sat down opposite one another, so that Blue Thunder would have a full view of the bargaining that was to take place, food was brought to the table and plates were stacked for those who wished to eat.

  “I hope you will enjoy the feast I offer you and your warriors today,” Colonel Cline said, also watching the Assiniboine warriors unload their packhorses. When they had finished, they came with some of the soldiers and were offered places at the table.

  “You are kind to offer such a feast,” Blue Thunder said as he eyed the platters piled high with venison meat, fruit, vegetables, and bread. “Pila-maye.”

  He smelled the familiar aroma of the black drink called coffee, which had become one of the usual offerings at a time of trade.

  And then a soldier brought a wrapped pipe and handed it the colonel.

  Blue Thunder watched as the colonel unwrapped the red cloth, revealing a beautifully feathered, long-stemmed pipe.

  “This was a gift given to me by a Cheyenne chief some time ago after a peace treaty was signed between us,” Colonel Cline said. He shook tobacco from a leather drawstring bag into the lovely painted bowl of the pipe. “Smoke with me. It will seal our friendship and future trades.”

  Blue Thunder hoped that he hid his uneasiness and resentment at the sight of the pipe. Such a gift, after a peace treaty was signed, was supposed to seal the friendship which had resulted in peace. In reality, most of the time those treaties had been broken by whites and the gift of the pipe was made a mockery.

  Knowing that he had no choice but to take a smoke from the pipe or insult this new white leader, Blue Thunder accepted it.

  He held the long stem and took one long drag from the pipe, quickly inhaling the smoke, then returned the pipe to the colonel. He watched as Colonel Cline smoked from the same pipe stem, exhaling the smoke much more slowly as his eyes met and held Blue Thunder’s.

  And then, that quickly, that part of the ceremony was over.

  Then the feast began.

  Many white soldiers came and sat at the same table as Blue Thunder and his warriors. They laughed and ate and seemed sincere in their kindness toward their visitors.

  But all the time that Blue Thunder sat and ate, his eyes were never still.

  He looked over his shoulder, and then straight ahead, and then glanced to one side and another, as other white people, both uniformed and not, came to look at the rich pelts and robes that had been brought for trade.

  Suddenly Blue Thunder’s heart skipped a beat when he spied a man with golden hair worn to his waist, and piercing blue eyes. He held a small girl in his arms . . . a child who perfectly fit Megan’s description.

  She had wrapped one tiny arm around the man’s neck, and in her blue eyes there was such sadness!

  Blue Thunder did not want to attract the attention of the colonel or any of the other soldiers at the table. He had to be subtle in his observation of the man.

  The golden-haired man moved slowly down the line of long tables piled high with items for trade.

  Trading was the last thing on Blue Thunder’s mind as he tried not to stare at the white man and child. He must not draw suspicion toward himself, or their plan might be jeopardized.

  So he finished the food on his plate, as did everyone else, and then the white and redskinned men rose from the table and the bargaining commenced.

  As the white people made their choices, Blue Thunder stood back with the colonel, awaiting the time when his warriors would receive their payment in the large room where supplies were kept. Then each would choose the items he wished to take home to his wife.

  When the colonel excused himself after a soldier came with news that required his attention, Blue Thunder seized this opportunity to approach the white man he’d been surreptitiously watching. He sidled up next to him and walked along the tables beside him.

  Surprisingly, the white man stopped and turned to Blue Thunder, who was known far and wide as a good and peaceful chief.

  “Good afternoon, Chief,” Earl said, a glint in his blue eyes as he gazed at Blue Thunder. “Mighty fine pelts you and your warriors have brought for trade.” He reached his hand out toward Blue Thunder for a handshake. “Earl. Earl Mingus is my name, and this here is my sweet daughter Megan.”

  Now that he knew for certain that he was face-to-face with Shirleen’s husband and her pretty, sweet daughter, for a moment Blue Thunder could not find his voice to respond.

  Quickly pulling himself together, Blue Thunder took Earl’s hand and politely shook it. “Yes, the trade is good today,” he said, but he removed his hand as soon as he could without letting on that the very touch of this man’s flesh filled Blue Thunder with loathing.

  Blue Thunder turned his attention elsewhere. He smiled at Megan, whose eyes showed anything but happiness. “Your child is how many winters old?” he asked.

  He was trying to think of a way to carry on a conversation with the man until he could get away from him. Now that he knew Earl and Megan were in Fort Dennison, he was to contact Speckled Fawn so their plan could proceed.

  He was anxious to get this accomplished so that he could return to the safety of his village with the little girl who showed fear in her beautiful blue eyes . . . fear of her very own ahte.

  Earl gazed at Blue Thunder as he raised an eyebrow. “What did you just ask me? What does it mean . . . how many winters?”

  “Your daughter’s age,” Blue Thunder said, smiling to himself at this man’s ignorance of Indian terms. “You see, I have a daughter who might be the same age.”

  “My Megan is four years old,” Earl replied, a hint of mockery in his voice.

  “And do you have a wife?” Blue Thunder asked, wondering just how this man would choose to lie to him.

  “There are only my daughter and myself waiting for a paddlewheeler that will take us away from this godforsaken place,” Earl said. He was suddenly aware of a glint of hatred in the chief’s eyes and wondered what had caused it, especially since it was rumored that this particular chief was friendly to white people.

  Not really caring, Earl excused himself and hurried away. He didn’t notice that one of Blue Thunder’s warriors followed him.

  Just as Earl walked away, the colonel returned.

  Blue Thunder turned to him and shook his hand. “It has been a good trade, a good time of camaraderie,” Blue Thunder said pleasantly. “But now it is time for me and my warriors to return to our homes.
Thank you for the generous food, drink, and smoke. My warriors and I will return later in the fall with even better and thicker pelts for trading.”

  “You do not wish to spend the night?” Colonel Cline asked as he slowly took his hand away. “It is the custom, you know, for me to offer the chief a night’s lodging in my home while the warriors sleep in the courtyard.”

  “I know, and I thank you for the invitation, but I have an ailing uncle who awaits my return,” Blue Thunder said. Although that was true, Blue Thunder had another reason for making such a quick retreat from the fort. Speckled Fawn awaited his return with news of whether the white man was there with the child.

  “I am sorry about your uncle,” Colonel Cline said, walking Blue Thunder to his horse. “Will you give him my best?”

  “I shall do that,” Blue Thunder answered, untying the reins as his warriors also prepared their horses for travel, strapping the goods they’d acquired onto the backs of their packhorses.

  They all mounted their steeds and rode slowly through the courtyard, then out the wide gate.

  Short Robe, the warrior who had followed Earl to learn which cabin was his for the night, soon joined them. He smiled at Blue Thunder. “The dwelling and its location will be easily described to Speckled Fawn,” he said. “Thus far, the plan seems to be working, do you not think so?”

  “It is not wise to become too confident about such things,” Blue Thunder replied. “We must still proceed with much caution, and so should Speckled Fawn.”

  Soon they entered the dark shadows of the forest, where Speckled Fawn awaited their return, and told her the good news, that the child was there for the taking. They were then forced to wait several hours so that Speckled Fawn’s arrival would not be connected with the Assiniboine’s visit.

  When the sun began to lower toward the horizon, Blue Thunder stepped up to Speckled Fawn, and as was planned, he ripped the skirt of her dress, mussed up her hair, and smeared dirt on her face.

  When that was done, he held her hands in his. “Are you ready?” he asked as he searched her eyes. “Do you still feel confident about our plan?”

  Smiling broadly, Speckled Fawn raised her skirt and patted the knife sheathed at her right thigh. “Here is my confidence,” she said smartly. “Just stay here, close to the fort, so that I will not have to run too far when I escape with the child.”

  She and Blue Thunder embraced one another.

  And then she left.

  Although she had not admitted it to Blue Thunder, Speckled Fawn was actually terrified.

  She focused all her energy on playing the role she had undertaken. She faked a limp and made herself look distraught as she walked in the direction of the fort.

  When she finally came into view of the sentries at the gate, she pretended to stumble even worse and began screaming for help.

  The sentries ran to her.

  They stood on each side of her and took her gently by her elbows to hold her steady as she told them she was the only survivor of an Indian massacre. She told how murdering renegades had attacked her homestead; how she had walked for many miles to get to the fort.

  She begged for their help.

  She was quickly reassured and taken inside.

  Speckled Fawn had never been much of a praying woman, but at this moment, she whispered a prayer that all would go well. If Earl saw through her act, both she and Megan would be doomed.

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Now summon the red current to thine heart—

  Old man, thy mightiest woe remains to tell.

  —Anonymous

  The hours seemed to stretch out interminably as Shirleen waited for Blue Thunder to return. She was no longer humming or singing to the old, ailing shaman. He had not awakened, not even for one minute, as she sat there.

  And she had noticed at times how shallowly he was breathing. Sometimes he stopped breathing for a moment or two, and then resumed again.

  During those moments when he was not breathing, Shirleen had been filled with a cold panic, expecting him to die at any time. If he died while she was with him, would his people somehow blame her?

  Would they possibly blame Speckled Fawn for not remaining dutifully at his bedside, leaving another woman there in her stead?

  Oh, Lord, Shirleen hoped neither of them would be blamed. Speckled Fawn was forfeiting her time with her husband in order to save an innocent child!

  Shirleen’s child!

  She cast another glance over her shoulder at the closed entrance flap.

  Often today she had heard the hide flutter, causing her to believe someone was entering the tepee, only to find each time that it was only the wind.

  Outside the tepee most of the villagers stood vigil, awaiting news about Dancing Shadow.

  Shirleen had gone to the flap several times to lift it aside and tell the people that their beloved Dancing Shadow still slept peacefully.

  And that was so.

  Except for those brief moments when his breathing stopped, the old shaman seemed to be at peace.

  She turned and gazed at Dancing Shadow as he continued to sleep.

  She studied his wrinkled face.

  Surely at one time he had been everything to his people.

  But now he awaited death alone, as every man must.

  Sighing, Shirleen rose and went to the entranceway. She held the flap aside and gave a reassuring smile to the people who still stood there, awaiting news of the beloved old man.

  The day had been long.

  Most of those who had stood there waiting had returned to their homes, to share the evening meal with their families.

  Shirleen could even now smell the cooked venison and corn.

  Only moments ago, Bright Sun had brought Shirleen a platter of food, then left.

  Shirleen found it hard even to think of eating. She had so much on her mind that she felt a little queasy.

  The ailing shaman.

  Shirleen’s daughter.

  Blue Thunder.

  Speckled Fawn.

  What were Blue Thunder and Speckled Fawn doing at this very moment?

  Had their plan worked?

  Sitting as she had for so long now beside the old shaman, Shirleen had lost track of time.

  She stared into the distance, where a sunset flared red along the horizon.

  She wished that she could have gone with Blue Thunder and Speckled Fawn, but knew her presence would only have complicated matters if she’d been noticed.

  Shirleen’s heart skipped a beat when she heard a weak voice speaking behind her. It . . . had to be . . .

  “Dancing Shadow,” Shirleen whispered as she turned to the old man.

  “Speckled Fawn,” he whispered, holding out a trembling hand to Shirleen.

  She realized that he thought his wife was in his lodge with him, not someone he had never met. Shirleen desperately wished that it were Speckled Fawn instead of herself that the old man was gazing at so intently.

  Surprised that he was actually talking, and so glad that he was awake, Shirleen rushed to his bedside and knelt beside it.

  Dancing Shadow squinted his old, faded eyes as he stared at Shirleen, then again reached his frail, quivering hand toward her. “Speckled Fawn?” he said, almost too softly for Shirleen to understand.

  She sat down beside the bed of pelts and blankets just as the old, shaky hand reached higher and touched her hair.

  “My beautiful wife, it is good to see your hair a flame color again,” Dancing Shadow said, pausing between every other word to catch his breath. “That was the color of your hair when I first saw you.”

  Shirleen was now absolutely certain that he thought she was Speckled Fawn. She was stunned that he seemed to be partly rational, and was even speaking. She had been told that he had not spoken for a long time.

  Oh, how she wished that Speckled Fawn and Blue Thunder were there to hear the old man finally speaking. And he had not said only one or two words, but full sentences.

  He was ev
en aware of the color of her hair.

  Yet he still had not recognized that he was not talking with his wife, but someone who was a total stranger to him.

  Hoping to make him happy in his last moments, Shirleen tried her best to pretend to be Speckled Fawn. She lowered her voice, making it gruffy and scratchy sounding as she responded to Dancing Shadow.

  “My husband, I am so glad you are awake,” Shirleen said.

  She took his hand in hers, trying not to show her alarm at how cold his flesh was.

  She recalled that when one of her aunts lay dying some years ago, and Shirleen had come to say her final good-bye, the coldness of her aunt’s withered hand had sent spirals of dread into Shirleen’s heart. She had realized then that her aunt was near death.

  Did the coldness of this elderly man’s hand mean the same?

  Was Shirleen going to witness another death? Her Aunt Sara had died while clutching Shirleen’s hand.

  She recalled with a strange sort of horror how as soon as her aunt took her last breath, her hand had tightened around Shirleen’s. She’d had a hard time getting her hand free from her aunt’s grip.

  When her mother had come and helped her, Shirleen had rushed from the room, crying. Even her father’s comforting arms had not erased that moment from her mind.

  “My husband, I have missed you so much,” Shirleen murmured, glancing off and on at his hand, which seemed to be clutching hers harder by the moment.

  He had been so happy to be able to touch her hair again, believing he was touching his wife’s.

  She smiled at him although it was the last thing she felt like doing. She was terrified that he was dying right before her eyes!

  She tried to think past that. “I am so glad that you like the color of my hair,” she said, her voice catching as Dancing Shadow closed his eyes and held them closed for a long time. What if he never opened them again? What if he did die while she was alone with him?

  When he opened his eyes and again smiled weakly at her, Shirleen sucked in a breath of relief. “I . . . dyed . . . it red again just for you,” she lied.

  His old eyes twinkled, he chuckled, and then his eyes went wild as he yanked his hand from Shirleen’s and clutched hard at his chest.