The Endless Sky (Cheyenne Series)

by Shirl Henke

  Tiny Dancer and Smooth Stone scampered around the fire, following the other children, begging for treats as was the custom. He motioned them to come sit with him, then offered them the fresh fruits and a spoon made of buffalo bone so they could dig into the various bowls of stew and other delicacies.

  “This stew is my favorite,” Tiny Dancer exclaimed after they had sampled many things under the indulgent eyes of Chase and Stands Tall.

  “Yes, it is mine, too,” her brother agreed, taking the spoon from her and scooping up a chunk of meat.

  “You must try, Stephanie,” Smooth Stone said, offering her a generous spoonful.

  She had sat back, watching their eager excitement with pleasure. Smiling she said, “Very well.”

  “I would not advise that,” Chase cautioned in a low voice as she took the spoon.

  “Am I not entitled to the really good food because I'm a mere white captive?”

  He shrugged. “Suit yourself.”

  She took a sip. It was faintly sweet, unlike any other game she had ever eaten, with a peculiar mushy consistency and a distinctive strong aftertaste. She chewed and swallowed manfully, not wanting to hurt the children's feelings. “It is...different. I've never tasted buffalo prepared quite that way before.”

  Tiny Dancer giggled as Smooth Stone said, “Not buffalo. Puppy.”

  She hoped she had misunderstood him. “You—you mean calf—buffalo calf, don't you?” she asked hopefully, feeling the bile rise dangerously in her throat.

  He shook his head and both children laughed at the foolishness of this white lady. “No, puppy—young dog. Sweet, tender. You want more?”

  “No! That is, no, no thank you,” she said more calmly. Sheer force of will kept her stomach from rebelling further and humiliating her. I will not give him the satisfaction, she thought, glaring at Chase's back as he sat chewing on one of those noisome marrow bones.

  “What is wrong, Stephanie?” Tiny Dancer asked in perplexity.

  “My people do not eat dogs...er, puppies. They are domesticated animals, raised as helpers for people.”

  “So are cows, chickens. You eat them, no?” Smooth Stone's logic seemed irrefutable to him. “Give milk, eggs, help you, but you eat meat.” He shrugged.

  “It's not the same,” Stephanie replied weakly. The children returned to their stew with zest, and the white woman fell silent remembering a scene she had seen that afternoon on her way to the river with Kit Fox and the others—a plump toddler outside one of the lodges, napping in the warm sun, nestled in a pile of sleeping puppies. Stephanie murmured softly, unaware that she was speaking aloud, “Chubby little babies don't cuddle with chickens or cows.”

  Chase heard the comment and the mouthful of food he was swallowing seemed to lodge in his throat. God, she sounded so forlorn so...lost. He looked at Tiny Dancer and Smooth Stone, but apparently they had not heard the remark. He wished to God that he hadn't.

  Wanting to shake her gloom, Stephanie asked Tiny Dancer, “Are you happy with Crow Woman?”

  “She is kind. She teach us to be Cheyenne. We learn to speak, to play stick ball, swim, do chores with other children.”

  Stephanie hated having to make the supplication. She knew she would only hurt the children if she made it in their presence and Chase refused to allow it. So she waited until Smooth Stone and Tiny Dancer ran off with several of their young friends to play. “Would you let me visit with them from time to time...as long as I'm here?”

  He stared straight ahead in silence for a moment, hearing the entreaty in her voice. She loved the children, longed for little ones of her own. He thought of the beautiful babies they could have had together and the pain engulfed him. Cursing inwardly, he pushed the impossible thought aside and turned to her. It was almost his undoing. Her eyes were luminous in the firelight. Her skin gave off a soft golden glow for she had spent many hours in the sun during the past days of travel. The shimmering curtain of bronze hair glowed like molten metal, surrounding her face like a radiant nimbus. She was so utterly lovely he almost reached out to touch her, just to assure himself that she was real, that she was his.

  But she was not his. She belonged to Hugh Phillips, he reminded himself angrily. “You may visit them, but don't interfere between them and Crow Woman. She is their mother now and will care for them long after you've left us. Come, it's time we retired,” he said abruptly.

  Stephanie was taken aback. She had hoped the revelers would drink to excess and pass out as she had always heard the tame Indians around the posts did. But there had been no sign of alcohol all evening. The men shared a mild beverage made of some sort of fermented roots, but it did not seem to affect them any more than would watered down beer.

  “Aren't you going to join in the dancing?” she asked, observing some of the men and women moving gracefully about the fire, the males segregated from the females decorously. Perhaps they might dance until they dropped with exhaustion!

  “I don't think so. Tomorrow I have to be up before first light and I need my sleep.” Let her make of that what she would, he thought with grim amusement as her eyes widened and she moistened her lips nervously. “Let's go.” He turned and strode swiftly toward their lodge.

  He expected her to follow again...like some damned puppy—to the slaughter! She would not sleep beside him ever again, she vowed fiercely. Out on the plains he had teased and taunted her, playing his cruel sexual games until they had encountered the children and he was forced to act with more decorum. But now he could take her to the privacy of his lodge. She knew Stands Tall and Red Bead would allow him to do whatever he wished with his captive and never interfere. There was nothing to stop him from forcing himself on her...if he still desired her as he had back in Boston—and he'd given many indications that he did desire her even though he despised her and himself for it.

  We're so alike, Chase. I despise myself for it, yet I long to have you touch me as you once did. She choked back tears. How bitter that admission. But she could never give in to her long repressed feelings. She would refuse him. Surely his sense of decency, some small vestige of the civilized man he had once been, would prevent him from dishonoring them both. Resolutely she followed him back to the lodge.

  When they reached the opening, he stopped. “Red Bead will show you where you're to sleep.” Noting with satisfaction the startled expression on her face, he said, “What's the matter, Stevie? Disappointed?”

  “You are contemptible,” she said, stung with humiliation. “Nothing could give me greater relief than to be free of your...snoring!”

  He reached up and touched her cheek very fleetingly. As he dropped his hand he whispered, “Liar,” then vanished into the darkness.

  Stephanie watched him enter another large skin hut a couple dozen yards away, leaving her standing alone without so much as a backward glance. Red Bead's voice broke into her stunned trance, bidding her to enter. She bent over and slipped inside where the coals of a small low fire glowed faintly, casting everything in dim orange light.

  “That is your sleeping place,” Red Bead said, pointing to one of the pallets of soft furs.

  There were only two pallets remaining in the big lodge where that morning there had been three. She had assumed one was for Red Bead, one for Stands Tall and one for Chase. She had also assumed she would be forced to share Chase's. “Where has Chase—er, where have White Wolf and Stands Tall gone tonight?” she asked, hating herself as the old woman's shrewd eyes studied her knowingly.

  “They sleep in another lodge,” was all she replied.

  Red faced and burning with humiliation, Stephanie sank onto the surprising softness of the pelts which were clean and fragrant from the freshly cut pine boughs laid beneath heavy buffalo robes, forming a mattress of sorts. The fox and marten furs were piled on top, making up a most comfortable bed. But Stephanie was far too upset to sleep in spite of physical and mental exhaustion. Her mind churned with hurt, anger and frustration well leavened with fear. What would she really have done
if Chase had tried to make love to her?

  Chapter Fourteen

  It was the time of the plum moon when they began their journey to the north, into the vast impregnable reaches of the high mountains white men called the Big Horns, after the fierce wild sheep inhabiting them. Every winter since Stands Tall had rejoined his Northern kinsmen, he had led his small band to an isolated valley hidden in a box canyon, a place that even he had discovered only by accident. Laden down with the meat they had dried and the fruits, vegetables and other foodstuffs they had gathered and preserved, the small band of Cheyenne would once more set their faces toward the mountains and the winter.

  After a restless night's sleep, Stephanie awakened that morning to the sounds of the village crier yelling out his announcements. Although she could not understand what he said, she knew something important was going on the moment she stepped outdoors. The tranquil morning routine they had observed from the ridge yesterday had changed. None of the old men sat smoking and no women stood about gossiping, nor did the children skip about or play stick ball.

  An air of excitement moved through the village. Young mothers gathered their children, giving them instructions, which the little ones scampered to obey. Some women packed up cooking utensils while a few others prepared a hasty morning meal for the rest of the camp. Lodges were being taken down one at a time by groups of women working together with the precision skills of a military drill team.

  The camp was breaking up today! Stephanie hadn't understood they would head into the mountains to that isolated hidden valley Chase had spoken of so soon! She should have chanced an escape last night even though the men had not gotten drunk as she had hoped. Now they would drag her to a place no white had ever seen. She would spend the rest of her life living like a slave!

  She stood for a moment, looking around, forcing herself to calm down. Panic would serve nothing. It was a long way to those mountains and in route with all the horses kept close to camp she might actually find it easier to plan an escape in the confusion. Yet the way the Cheyenne handled moving seemed quite orderly as she observed the youths herding groups of their family's horses, then separating out those selected to carry the travois loaded with household goods. The men carefully packed their ceremonial pipes and war tools.

  Stephanie had believed all menial chores were done by Indian women. Seeing a warrior gathering his war weapons into a leather bag, she decided the best thing was to engage Red Bead in casual conversation so that she could gain her trust, and perhaps make the old woman just a bit less vigilant. Walking over to her, she asked, “Why doesn't that man let his wife pack for him?” The woman and two adolescent daughters stood waiting patiently as he loaded his gear onto a travois.

  “Women do not touch sacred things or war weapons. Brings bad medicine to a man if his pipe or shield—anything he uses to ensure luck in battle—is contaminated.”

  “I thought as much. When the oaf goes into battle, what does he do with his ‘contaminated’ privy part, I wonder.” Stephanie sniffed disdainfully to herself after the old woman turned away, busy bundling up her assortment of bone spoons and dishes. But then the soft ripple of laughter between a man and woman caught her attention. There was a husky warmth in his voice as he talked with a pretty girl who was obviously his very pregnant bride. He lifted the heavy buffalo hide roll of lodge skins onto a travois for her.

  Stephanie turned away, feeling oddly like an intruder on such domestic intimacy. If only her life with Hugh could have been touched with just a tiny bit of that affection. But it never had been, never would be. She needed something to do. “May I help you?” she asked Red Bead.

  Soon she was busily occupied assisting the surprisingly strong old woman position and tie the heavy parfleches of foodstuffs onto a travois. The load had to be distributed carefully so it would ride smoothly, not pull to one side. Within an hour she and Red Bead had all her worldly goods packed up. Several younger women had come to help take down the big lodge, Kit Fox among them. When they knelt to bind the lodge poles together with rawhide strips, Stephanie asked her friend, “What happened after you returned yesterday? I did not see you at the feast last night.”

  “Plenty Horses was very angry. He would not let me attend the celebration which honored the White Wolf. My mother wishes me to wed Stands Tall's nephew. He will be a great leader one day. She and Plenty Horses argued,” the girl said sadly.

  “I imagine Granite Arm was angry, considering what her son and Pony Whipper planned to do,” Stephanie said in consolation. “Is there nothing you can do to expose Pony Whipper's evil?”

  “Not unless I also shame Plenty Horses. This I cannot do.” After they finished strapping the lodge poles to a travois, the younger woman said, “I must go now and help some of the other old women with their heavy chores.”

  “Is it always the custom among your people to help the old and infirm?” The army said the savages left their elderly out to starve, but all she had seen here gave the lie to that.

  Kit Fox looked puzzled. “Of course. With the passing of the seasons in men and women's lives comes wisdom. We honor them and their wisdom. Do your people not do the same?”

  Stephanie nodded thoughtfully, knowing that life in civilization was not always as caring as it appeared to be with this small band of Indians.

  And so the journey began. The village became a long orderly cavalcade of people and horses. Mounted warriors led the way with several dozen riding point to safeguard the women and children who followed with the laden travois. Some of the older people, who could not easily walk, rode the travois, perched among cook pots, buffalo robes and other household goods, as did the little girls. The boys rode horses and the older ones were responsible for herding the extra stock not in use. Dogs yipped and darted among the people who walked at a slow steady pace, their faces set to the mountains.

  Chase and Stands Tall returned on the following day. As soon as they drew in sight of the people, the younger man's eyes swept the long column searching for Stephanie. Her bright hair stood out like a beacon, glowing in the waning afternoon sunlight.

  “Any white who happened upon us would know she is a captive,” Stands Tall said, echoing his nephew's thoughts.

  “I will see that she disguises her hair. I had not counted on running across a party of miners. They are directly to our south and could become nosy.”

  “Have you decided what is to be done with her yet?”

  The troubling question had haunted Chase's dreams ever since he had taken her prisoner. He'd hoped being away from her while they scouted the trail to the mountains would enable him to think more rationally about the situation, but it had not. He dreamed of her nightly. Sighing, he shook his head.

  “Perhaps she could become one of us as your mother did.”

  Stands Tall's tone of voice communicated the doubt both he and Chase shared. “She married that butcher Phillips, and spent the past three years living as a soldier's wife. She will never come to me as Freedom Woman did to Vanishing Grass.”

  “Never is a long, long time,” Stands Tall said softly, surprising himself almost as much as he did his nephew.

  Stephanie watched Chase ride in on Thunderbolt, sliding from the magnificent stallion's back with the effortless ease of the High Plains horse Indians. He was practically naked, clad only in breechclout and moccasins. If the proper ladies of Boston had swooned when he appeared dressed in immaculate white shirts and custom-tailored wool suits, she could only imagine how they'd react if he walked into one of their drawing rooms now!

  He made his way to her after conferring briefly with Elk Bull. She refused to give him the satisfaction of waiting obediently like his horse until he deigned to speak to her. Instead she walked over to where several of the young women were unloading cook pots and other utensils and began helping with the task.

  “You look too white,” he said peremptorily, as he approached her.

  Stephanie turned to him and sputtered, “And just what am I supposed to look
like—a Celestial or an African?”

  “You will use some walnut stain to darken your skin.”

  “Dye my skin!” she exclaimed aghast. He smiled sardonically. “What's the matter? Does the Boston matron shrink at the thought of dark skin?”

  Her face reddened as she remembered loving the contrast between her paleness and his coppery darkness when they were in Boston. “I can't be what I'm not,” she replied stubbornly.

  “I'm not trying to remake you into a Cheyenne woman—as if I could. I only want to keep you from attracting any unwanted attention. If any white hunters or miners stumble on us, I'd hate to have to kill them just to silence them.”

  She looked at his implacable expression. “You'd actually do it, wouldn't you?”

  “Go to Red Bead and have her disguise you. She'll know what to do,” was all he replied before stalking off.

  Stephanie seethed, resuming her tasks. If she made a loud clatter with the iron cook pots, no one commented on it. “I'm getting so sunburned I'll soon be dark enough to pass as an Indian anyway,” she muttered to herself as she worked. She did not see Chase again until after the evening meal when she and several of the young women were on their way back from bathing in the river.

  Stepping out from behind a copse of aspen, he barred her way. The other women quickly left them, knowing there was trouble between the White Wolf and his captive. Even her friend Kit Fox lowered her eyes in resignation and walked away. Stephanie looked up at him, waiting to see what he would do. He held a small vial in one hand. With the other he reached out and took hold of her wrist, heading back toward the river.

  “I have already bathed,” she said as anger and panic took hold of her in equal measure.

  “But you have not done as I told you.”

  “No, I have not,” she dared him, trying to yank her arm from the steely grip.

  He refused to relinquish it. When she continued to balk, he slipped the small vial into his waistband and quickly picked her up, tossing her over his shoulder before she could do more than let out an outraged gasp. Approaching the riverbank, he slung her down and released her. They stood facing each other, eyes glowing in the dim light of evening. Slowly he withdrew the vial and uncorked it. A pungent not unpleasant smell assailed her nostrils. She wrinkled her nose as he offered it to her.