by Shirl Henke
Stephanie shuddered, remembering the deep scars on his chest, hardly able to imagine what drove these people to seek out such pain. But she could imagine what caused Chase to do it. “He underwent the test to prove he belonged, didn't he?”
“For one so young, you are wise...at times.” Another fleeting smile touched Red Bead's lips.
* * * *
At last the Department of the Platte had recognized his accomplishments enough to give him his captaincy, even if he did have to nearly die to get it. Hugh Phillips leaned back in the rickety chair behind his cluttered desk. He was the newly appointed commandant of Fort Steele.
Although he despised this harsh primitive land where the whites lived little better than the savages, here lay his opportunity to seize glory. While George Custer played at being a Wall Street tycoon back East, General Terry considered other officers to lead the campaigns in the Department of Dakota. Phillips would not let slip his golden opportunity here in Wyoming. Before he was done cutting a swathe through the high plains tribes, old Phil Sheridan himself would sit up and take notice.
But right now he had to prepare for the Washington bigwig who was coming through on an inspection tour. It would never hurt to have the ear of a United States senator with direct access to President Grant. He yelled for his sergeant to come in and straighten up. As he stood up, a dull ache gripped his abdomen for a moment, a grim reminder of his encounter with that breed who had nearly gutted him back at Laramie.
What the hell had brought that thrice-cursed breed to attempt to assassinate him after so long? He rubbed the scar on his cheek, remembering that day when the bastard had escaped. “This time you weren't so lucky, I bet,” he muttered to himself as he walked out the door. He'd put a bullet in the savage's chest, so he couldn't have gotten far. However, they'd never found his body or recovered his horse. But everyone had written him off after the knife wound and he had recovered. What if the breed was equally lucky?
The disturbing thought, one which had plagued him all during the past months of his recuperation, was put behind when he heard the whistle of a locomotive. The four-ten train had arrived. He checked his uniform with its new captain's bars once again in the mirror, slicking back his hair, then placing his hat on his head. He was ready to meet the senator from Massachusetts.
Burke Remington stepped off the train onto the wooden platform of the tiny Union Pacific railroad depot alongside the fort. The vast open sweep of grassland plains was filled with sagebrush and saltweed bushes. Desolate, he thought to himself, like all this endless godforsaken country. But the monotony was broken by tall stands of cottonwoods and willows along the banks of the North Platte, their branches leafless and stark against a leaden sky. The only hint of green was a small smattering of fir and pines dotting the riverbanks and growing here and there around the meager frame buildings comprising the fort and the town beside it.
A contingent of officers stood on the opposite end of the platform. The tall, hard looking captain must be Phillips, the new post commander. Putting on his best politician's smile, Burke waited for him to approach, his hand outstretched in greeting. He and the young captain had a great deal to discuss.
Once the formalities were taken care of and his entourage offered serviceable quarters in which to freshen up, Remington asked to see Phillips in his office.
Closing the door on his sergeant, Hugh studied the barrel-chested man with the iron gray hair and cold blue eyes. He had an aristocrat's face, handsome and utterly ruthless. Idly the officer wondered if Stephanie's ill-fated half-breed lover had resembled his uncle. Not likely. “You had something urgent you wanted to discuss privately before the tour of our facilities, Senator?” he asked, offering Remington a seat.
The big man sat down on the old monstrosity of a horsehair sofa and leaned back. In his expensive custom-tailored gray wool suit, he looked as out of place on the rough frontier outpost as a thoroughbred on an alkali flat. Burke extracted an expensive Cuban cigar from a gold case and offered one to Hugh, who accepted the unheard of luxury with a thin smile. Damned rich bastard throwing his weight around. He lit the senator's cigar, then his own and waited patiently as Remington blew out a cloud of fragrant smoke. His calm facade was shattered when Burke spoke.
“I assume you still want to kill that renegade raider White Wolf. I have some information that will help you.”
Phillips leaned across his desk. “I’ve chased him from the Dakotas to the Arkansas River. What could you possibly know about a renegade horse Indian?”
“He's my nephew,” Burke said in a cold clipped voice.
Chapter Seventeen
It was the month of the Freezing Moon and time for the marriage of Kit Fox and Blue Eagle. Stephanie had observed Granite Arm and the other women of the family constructing a small lodge situated near that of the bride's family. All the requisite gifts of horses, robes, jewelry and other items had been exchanged for the bride price. As soon as Blue Eagle returned from the raid, they would be wed.
Kit Fox's love was one of the White Wolf's warriors. They left shortly after Stephanie's last disturbing confrontation with Chase. She overheard whispers among the women that the raiders were going to attack an army supply train bound for Fort Fetterman from the railhead to the south and were expected to burn out a number of relay stations in route as well as destroy telegraph lines, a continual harassment which greatly slowed army pursuit of fleeing Indians.
Stephanie's Cheyenne had become fluent enough to understand the crier as his voice sounded across the camp late one afternoon. The raiders had returned. Putting down the adz with which she was scraping a deer hide, she followed the excited crowd gathering in the center of the village to watch the victorious warriors parade in triumph. Her steps were leaden with dread. She was drawn against her will to the sounds of jubilation echoing across the valley, not wishing to participate, yet powerless to stop herself from hungering to see that he was alive and unharmed—just to gaze upon him once more.
He rode at the head of the procession with his war lance held upright, bedecked with eagle feathers. His body was shielded against the fierce winter winds by a rich robe of wolf skins thrown carelessly across his shoulders. He sat on his big dun like a conqueror returning in triumph, back ramrod straight, head arrogantly high. His face was painted with jagged vermilion and white lines, giving it a hard alien appearance, like a drama mask...symbolizing what? His red and white halves brought together in this barbaric ritual?
He looked savage and deadly and foreign—and yet she felt a flame lick deep inside her belly as her breath expelled a small puff of white in the frozen air. She trembled, unable to tear her eyes away from his fearful beauty, drawn irresistibly to move closer. Only by sheer force of will did she halt at the edge of the crowd.
No one in the chaotic camp saw the lone Aricara scout concealed in a dense snow-laden copse of cedars high on the farthest ridge near the hidden entrance to the valley. Bloody Hand was one of the most skilled scouts ever employed by the army, but he could not credit his tracking skills for locating the winter camp of this small band of Cheyenne.
He had crossed paths with the returning warriors by accident and knew by their war paint and loot that they had just completed a raid. Although he did not know who they were, he thought it prudent to follow them to their village and report the location of another band of renegades to Captain Ansil at Fort Fetterman. They were well concealed in this valley. No army scouts would ever have found the camp by searching. Now all he had to do was get out of the Big Horns alive so he could lead the army back.
Of course that would not be until the spring thaw. Chances were this place would be empty by the time the soldiers could bestir themselves to ride here. But then again, sometimes a band would return early from the summer hunt to a favorite hiding place. They might just round up these stragglers before another winter season. With stealth born of years of experience, Bloody Hand slipped past the sentries and made his way out of the valley. He had a long cold ride a
head of him and no time to lose before the next snowstorm hit.
Chase's eyes swept the camp as he rode in, searching for the glitter of bronze hair. Then he saw her standing proud and alone, a tall slender woman swathed in heavy robes. Their eyes met and his chest tightened as he felt his breath leave him in a searing rush. Deliberately he made his way toward her, guiding Thunderbolt with subtle knee pressure through the laughing, talking people who would share in the bounty from the raid.
The warriors led strings of army mounts laden with sacks of flour, cornmeal, sugar and rice, hogsheads of molasses, bolts of cloth and assorted hardware and tools, even tinned foodstuffs. The Indians used their tomahawks to chop open the cans, exclaiming at the vegetables, meats or fruits they found inside as they devoured them and shared with others around them. Some of the women began unwrapping bolts of bright calico and heavy wool while others, usually older and more practical, examined hatchets and hoes.
Across the crowd Stephanie stood motionless, waiting as Chase approached. Thunderbolt stopped directly in front of her and he vaulted down the fluid, graceful way he always did. He could see the accusation in her eyes but there was more, the same unbanked fire, the same hunger that gnawed at him.
“Have you missed me, Stevie?”
His voice was a taunting purr but behind the teasing she could feel his desire, potent as raw whiskey and twice as dangerous. Don't give in. “What I've missed is civilization, where men don't smear their faces with war paint and go on looting rampages.” She was rewarded with a brief flicker of anger in his glittering black eyes but then he lowered his eyelids and a fathomless darkness filled them.
“Civilized men may not paint their faces, but they do loot. They've stolen all our land,” he said coldly.
“Return me to Rawlins, Chase. If you could get all this booty through the passes, you can take me home.”
“Home?” He arched his eyebrows mockingly, smothering the flames that still burned unquenchably. “You never considered those army posts home any more than you did Josiah Summerfield's mansion.”
She blanched. “How did you know?” As soon as she blurted out the words, she looked away, horrified. She had never told him about her father's final betrayal. He knew only that Josiah was dead, not that he'd left his only child penniless.
Chase studied her, puzzled and surprised by the vehemence of her reaction. “I've known you since you were a child, Stevie. He wasn't much of a father...any more than Hugh was much of a husband.”
He does not know the rest, she thought in relief. She did not need his pity added to all the other emotions swirling around them. “That can never change the fact of either relationship, can it?” she asked rhetorically.
“Some relationships can never be erased,” he replied, pausing, “no matter how much we might wish it.”
“White Wolf! You have returned with a great victory just as I knew you would!” Smooth Stone hurled himself across the clearing and skidded excitedly to a halt before Chase, who knelt and picked him up.
“Yes, I've returned with some things for you and your sister, and for my captive,” he said, daring Stephanie. “Come see.” He turned to the group of army horses, some of which remained laden with captured goods.
“It's cold outside. I'm going in by the fire,” Stephanie said as he stared at her. She turned her back on him and the boy and walked away.
* * * *
Stephanie was delighted when Kit Fox asked her to help prepare for the marriage festivities. Although Granite Arm received Stephanie with genuine friendship, the white woman had to brave the harsh stares of some of the other women who still viewed her as an outsider. Three other young women from the band along with Stephanie accompanied Kit Fox to the sweat lodge. They spent a long cleansing period in the thick steam created by throwing buckets of cold water over red-hot rocks in a tightly sealed teepee. As the women sat cross-legged, rubbing their perspiration-soaked bodies with dried sweet grass, they discussed Kit Fox's new life as a married woman. By now Stephanie had become inured to the casual nudity among the women, even if she was not completely comfortable with it. But as the only woman who had known a husband, she was very uncomfortable with their topic of conversation.
“I saw my brother's manroot once when he was bathing. Judging by the size of what lies in Blue Eagle's breech-clout, his must be even larger,” Green Grass said in awe as the others giggled.
“Do you think it will hurt when he mounts me?” Kit Fox asked, worrying her lower lip with small white teeth.
“My mother explained to me that it should not if a man is considerate,” Swan Flower replied, sensing her friend's maidenly nervousness.
The three young Cheyenne were all virgins but living in a society where sex was a part of nature, they discussed the topic freely. Stephanie could feel their eyes on her. She obviously had experience none of them possessed. But Hugh had not been considerate—if that was what was needed to keep a bridal night from being both painful and humiliating. What could she say? “I was married for three years...” she began hesitantly. “There was a little discomfort the first time but then it no longer hurt. I think you will not have the problem I did. White women are taught nothing of what to expect on their wedding nights.”
“Not even by their mothers or other female relatives?” Green Grass asked, amazed.
Stephanie shook her head. “It is not considered...proper.” She groped for a way to explain Victorian propriety to these children of nature and found no adequate vocabulary in her limited Cheyenne—or even in English.
Swan Flower snorted. “Then that is why you did not enjoy it.”
Kit Fox looked at Stephanie with an unspoken question in her eyes. She had seen the way her friend returned Chase's ardor and knew Stephanie had desired his touch although not her own husband's. “I hope I will enjoy what passes between me and Blue Eagle this night,” was all she said.
The young women left the sweat lodge bundled in heavy robes and raced the short distance from the teepee to the bubbling hot springs sheltered from the cold by a curving rock ledge overhanging one of the pools. They shed their robes, shrieking when the icy cold air hit them, then dived into the steamy waters.
Stephanie floated in the warm water, letting its lapping bubbles smooth the tension from her body. There were small pleasures such as the sweat lodges and mineral pools that compensated a great deal for the grueling labor of everyday survival. These people lived close to the earth, in a rhythm with nature that she often envied.
Could you live as Freedom Woman had? Stephanie ignored the niggling voice. She did not belong here. Chase had killed her husband—and even if he had not, this way of life, these people were doomed. Soon this destructive and hopeless war against the whites would end in defeat. The Cheyenne and their allies would all be sent to reservations. Once her identity was discovered, she would never be allowed to remain with them. But what a lovely fantasy it was if only so many things did not conspire to destroy it. A chorus of gasps from the other women brought her abruptly from her troubling reverie.
“It is time and the family of Blue Eagle awaits you. Go now,” Chase said to the women submerged in the pool. When he turned away to allow them to emerge and cover themselves with the robes, he added, “You stay here, Stevie.”
She was across the pool and now he stood between her and the Cheyenne women who unquestioningly slipped quietly away. Kit Fox gave her friend a tremulous smile before following the others, as if saying, Here is your heart.
Suddenly Stephanie felt cold as the warm waters lapped around her. Careful to remain submerged up to her shoulders, she asked, “What do you want, Chase?”
He arched his eyebrows and smiled at her but there was no mirth in his glittering black eyes. “Poached white woman would be nice,” he countered. But he did not remove his clothes. Rather, he took a seat on a rock beside the edge of the water, studying her as she treaded water, taking care not to reveal her breasts. Her hair spread out behind her, floating like a mantle of bronze
silk.
“The walnut stain's worn off,” he said at length. “You're pale as cream again.”
“Red Bead said there was no need here in winter camp,” she replied, finding her throat and mouth gone suddenly dry in spite of the steamy air.
He watched her lick her lips, moistening them furtively as she sank lower in the water. “You'll turn to a prune if you don't get out—or else get overheated and I'll have to dive in and pull you out.” He held up her robe for her, waiting patiently.
Stephanie hesitated, then steeled her courage and swam across the pool. She was his captive and if he decided to force the issue, she could not stop him. Cowering in the water would solve nothing. In spite of his comments, he seemed to have something weighing on his mind and needed to talk. She stepped dripping from the water and he enveloped her in the robe. As soon as she felt his arms around her, she clutched the robe and stepped away, then huddled on a rock facing him and began to wring out her sopping hair as he, too, took a seat.
Finally he spoke. “I learned a number of things while my warriors were raiding. General Terry is mounting a spring campaign for the Yellowstone basin. He's going to turn Custer loose on us. Crook's already preparing to march out of Fetterman, but the winter storms should force him to retreat until at least April.”
“So what you're saying is that the army is going to surround the last of the Indian treaty territory and attack from all sides. It's hopeless, Chase,” she said with a catch in her voice. “You can't escape.”
“For certain I won't.” He pulled a paper from inside his robe and unrolled it, holding it out for her to see. On it was a drawing of his face, so perfect a likeness she gasped.