by Karen Kay
“And if I am right, if you discover that I speak the truth? What then?”
“Then you would win the bet, I would help you and I would have to pay you whatever we decide are the stakes.”
He leaned in toward her. “And what are the stakes?”
“Well, for my part, if I win, I would like you to help me get as many pictures as I can. If you win, hadn’t we already decided that my father and I would leave?”
He pursed his lips, nodding. “It sounds good, but I’m not sure I like it.”
“What about it don’t you like?”
“It is not personal enough.”
“Personal?”
“Aa. It is not a small thing that you ask of me if you should win the bet. I think you should wager with something you do not wish to part with.”
“I am.” She crossed her arms. “If you win, I would have to leave.”
“Yes, but is that enough? At least in comparison to what you ask of me.”
“I see,” she said, then a little sarcastically, “I suppose you have something in mind?”
He appeared to mull this over, although Kali was certain he had something firmly fixed in his thoughts. Several moments passed. At last, however, he spoke up, saying, “If you win, I will do as you say and try to persuade the others to agree to your photos and to understand the whites around us. But if I win…”
Kali waited. “Yes?”
“If I win, you will do as I say…even though the request might be a little intimate.”
Kali’s stomach dropped; she raised her chin. “Exactly how intimate?”
He grinned. “It is told by our elders that, in the past, young men were willing to use their wives as the stakes in a wager. The woman had no say in it, even if she loved her husband. She went to the winner willingly, and in marriage.”
Kali stared at this man who stood before her so handsome and proud, who probably had half the female members of his village running after him. And he was asking her to…what? Aloud, she said, “Are you telling me that if you win you might ask me to marry you?”
“Or something like that.”
“How much like that?”
He cocked an eyebrow. “Perhaps the physical side of it.”
Kali spun away from him, although it did her little good. She could feel the heat of his glance on her back. She said, “If you are asking what I think you are, it is immoral. And I’m certain that your society isn’t that much different than mine when it comes to such things.”
He didn’t speak for some time, and he must have come up close to her, for when he next spoke, she could feel his breath on the back of her neck. He said, “Yet it is certainly a high enough stake. And you are an attractive woman.”
“I’m not.”
“You are.”
These were thrilling words, wonderful words, even if she didn’t believe them, and she clenched her fists to keep herself from reacting to him. She said, “I think you are being impertinent.”
She could feel him shrug. “It would, at least, make the wager interesting.”
She sniffed. “I’m not that desperate.”
His face must have been close to her ear, for when he whispered, “Neither am I,” she heard him distinctly. Then he went on to say, “But then, a kiss is perhaps too much to ask of a white woman.”
A kiss? She spun around so quickly, she wheeled off-balance. He caught her, his hands grabbing hold of her waist to steady her. “That’s all you’ve been speaking of? A kiss?”
He gave her a devilish grin, his lips close to her own, before he said, “Maybe two, if you please.”
She took a step backward, out of his arms, watching as his arms fell to his sides.
“What kind of kiss?”
Darn. There it was again, that dazzling smile. It made his face light up as though mood alone ruled his countenance. Worse, when she looked at him, her insides went all soft and warm, as though she were made of nothing but butter and rum. He said, “Should I show you the kind of kiss that I like?”
“Sir!”
He chuckled, closed one eyelid and winked at her. “It would be a simple kiss, two pairs of lips squeezed against each other.” He leaned down to her, but simply pressed his lips against one of his own fingers, which he then placed over her lips.
At the contact, her body reacted as though it was ready for so much more. She shut her eyes, feeling slightly faint.
“But I would reserve the right…” He paused, causing her to open her eyes. Drat! His handsome face swam in front of her, and at the sight, a smoldering fire fanned to life within her; her stomach somersaulted. He stood close; so close, she could smell the scent of mint on his breath, the musky fragrance of his skin, the fresh odor of buckskin.
“The right,” he continued, “to hold you in my arms when I kiss you.”
“Oh, I see. I…I’m not sure.”
“Are you afraid, then? Afraid you might start to feel something besides a white woman’s contempt for an Indian?”
“You know that’s not true,” she whispered. “You know from speaking to me tonight that I don’t hold this opinion.”
He drew in a deep, ragged breath. “Aa, yes,” he said. “You are right, and I apologize for saying that. You are not the kind of person to feel scorn for another, are you? Simply because he is different than you are. So if not that, what are you afraid of?”
“I…I’m afraid that I might…” She didn’t finish the sentence. She wasn’t certain that she herself understood what she’d been about to say. Although there was one thing she knew she could count on…her mind’s ability to reason. She said, “Y-you are correct. The stakes should be something we are unwilling to part with. You, to aid something alien to you. Me, to give up my work, and a kiss.”
He nodded. “Seems fair.”
“All right, then I…I believe we have a venture, Mister, ah…Soaring Eagle. Sh-shall we shake on it?” She would have held out her hand, except that he stood too close to her to do so.
“We could,” he said, “or perhaps we could do something better.”
And before she could stop him, he gathered her hand in his, bringing it, glove and all, to his lips. She gasped. Not because of what he was doing, but because…
He glanced up at her and smirked. “When I was at the white man’s school,” he said, “I learned an odd custom. At first I thought it was a strange practice, but the more I thought about it, the more and more I appreciated the wit of the white man.” And turning her hand palm up, he pressed another kiss against her wrist.
Kali’s heartbeat raced out of proportion to the action, and it was all she could do to stand upright at the moment, for her knees threatened to collapse beneath her. And truth to tell, she had little time to hide her reaction from him, for when he raised his head and said, “I believe we have a wager, Little Miss Redhead,” his look was so full of mischief, she wondered if she had, perhaps, made a tactical error…
Chapter Six
They’ve been living in heaven for a thousand years, and we took it away from ’em for forty dollars a month.
—Charlie Russell, Western artist
Soaring Eagle jumped over the porch railing and strode toward the open pasture to his pony. As he progressed, he could feel the heat of the white woman’s gaze on his back, but he chose to ignore it.
Silently, he grinned, congratulating himself. She’d be gone on the morrow, he reasoned. If she were at all like any of the other white folk with whom he’d had dealings, he felt fairly certain that she wouldn’t waste a moment’s breath waiting around here.
In his experience, it was the women of the white race—perhaps even more so than their men—who showed the most intolerance toward his people, turning up their noses at a white man who might consider marriage to an Indian maid. At one time in the not too distant past, it had been a common practice amongst the trappers and traders, even some of the ranchers, to marry into a tribe. The custom had been the cause of some degree of harmony, permitting underst
andings to arise between his own people and the newcomers.
But with the coming of the white woman to the West, all that had changed. Perhaps, he thought, she was jealous, though why she might be so was hard to understand, since the men outnumbered the women in this country by ten to one. Still, while the white man appeared to have few qualms about marrying an Indian woman, the reverse did not hold true. Maybe, he reckoned, the white woman did not believe the Indian male to be good husband material. But whatever the truth was, he knew very few of them who would risk their reputation on an Indian man…not even for a small kiss.
Lost in thought, he didn’t at first notice how far he had trekked from the agent’s home before he found his mount.
“Discovered a greener pasture, did you, boy?” he said to the pinto, rubbing the animal’s neck before bending down to remove the hobble from its front legs. The pony whinnied softly, nipping gently at its master’s shoulder. “I know,” he said. “I, too, wish for more adventures than those that our agent allows. Oh, what a duo we would have made if we were allowed to follow the war trail like our ancestors did.” Soaring Eagle glanced up toward the midnight sky. “But those days are gone, my friend, even though you would have been the best war pony a man ever had. We Indians do not go to war…not anymore.”
At least, he added to himself, not the sort of war his forefathers had known. No, since the reservation days had been forced upon them, his people were engaged in a different kind of battle—one waged with fences, with deception, with guile, with trickery. No one called it a fight, yet Soaring Eagle knew it by its proper name. War.
INDIAN LAND—CHEAP.
So the poster at the general store had read. Was it only last week that Soaring Eagle had obtained permission to go into one of the bordering towns, that he might purchase some trade goods? There, he had seen people gathered round a post. Curious at the attraction, he had looked closer.
That was when he’d seen the words. He recalled again the feeling of disgust within him as he’d read the advertisement, remembered the meaningless talk of those around him, the sting of laughter from townspeople who had no awareness that Soaring Eagle was more than what he appeared—a man who could read.
Worse, as he’d stood there, he’d felt powerless to prevent what was taking place.
Truth was, this land grabbing was something no Indian mind could readily assimilate. While already owning most of the territory, land-hungry whites were trying to take away reservation territory bit by bit, piece by piece. Justifying themselves by screaming to Washington that they needed more land in order to survive. The government had eventually capitulated.
It had come down to the Indians in the form of an act of Congress. Called the General Allotment Act of 1887, or better known as the Dawes Act, it had arrived at a time when the red man was trying to come to terms with an alien way of life—and to find his place in it. And while he struggled to understand the unfathomable and to come to terms with the present, the white man had been sitting on the edges of the reservations like hungry coyotes, waiting to wrest away land that was not theirs to take. Always, he thought, these whites wanted more.
The Dawes Act. Most of his people could little comprehend the words of it, let alone understand what was taking place. Each member of the tribe had been allotted a small parcel of land…not enough land to farm or to ranch. No, never that. Then when each member of the tribe had been given a portion, the rest of the reservation was divided up and sold on the open market—dirt cheap.
The rest was the making of history. Land-hungry ranchers had bought up the property as though it were a field of diamonds. And perhaps to them it was. It certainly did give them opportunity, while it doomed his own people.
The worst part of it was that the land hadn’t been divided up so that the Indian could make a living off it. Fearing, perhaps, that the Indians might own property side-by-side and open up their hearts as well as their lands to one another, the Dawes Act had parceled off the reservations in a checkerboard fashion—Indian property interspersed with white landholdings.
And though Soaring Eagle had heard the Indian agent claim that the parceling was a brilliant plan—one that would teach the Indians to mimic their white “superiors” and show them how to live like civilized men—Soaring Eagle knew it for what it was: another scheme to subdue the Indian.
But what could he do? One alone against a mob?
Soaring Eagle was tired of it: tired of being an interpreter for his people, tired of reading the legal documents to them, tired of trying to explain what was not understandable, what was really treasonable, as though he were part of that which sought to overrun his people.
It was like trying to fight the wind. One could no more than reach for an opponent before he was blown off course. Or worse, trying to fight blind, unable to see from where the punch came, one was blown hither and thither, unable to gain a single foothold.
And now this woman wanted to take their pictures, claiming she wished no more than to reach an understanding between her people and his. Soaring Eagle snorted.
He didn’t believe her. He didn’t trust her. But then he didn’t trust any white person.
Still, she was an awfully pretty little thing, he supposed. She, with her startling red hair, which in some lights appeared to shimmer like burnished gold. Her eyes were green, a deep forest green, the first eyes of that color that he’d ever seen; her face intelligent; and her mouth one that made a man long to experience its taste. A slender figure completed the pleasing image.
He shook himself, realizing that the direction of his thoughts would do him little good.
Nonetheless, he couldn’t help thinking back to the first time he had seen her. Not tonight. It had been there on the top of Chief Mountain only a few days ago. Moonlight had bathed her then in an unearthly light, making him wonder if she was of flesh and blood or a mere mirage. At the time, he thought he’d never seen anyone more beautiful; had believed at first that this woman might be a part of him, a part of his life, his vision. But when he had reached out to her, hoping to unite her to him, she had turned away and run.
It was then that he’d known the truth for what it was: she was no more than a silly white person. Worse, she was a trespasser.
Well, enough. He needn’t think about it any further.
She would be gone by morning. He didn’t doubt it for a moment.
Scratch, scratch, scratch.
“Are you awake?”
Naked, Soaring Eagle rolled over, kicking off the warm buffalo robe which served as his covering.
Scratch, scratch came the sound on the tepee’s entryway. Then again the feminine inquiry, “Soaring Eagle, are you awake?”
The words were English. English? Worse, he recognized the pitch and accent of that voice, the owner being a small female with red hair.
What did she want?
“May I come in?”
“Saa! No!”
“Oh,” she said. “Then you’re not ready to go?”
“Go?” He stood up, grabbing for his clothes. “Go where?”
“Well, after last night, I thought it best that we get started as early as possible.”
“Started? Doing what?”
“Well, aren’t you going to see what I do, and vice versa?”
Soaring Eagle sighed. Why wasn’t the woman gone? Surely he wasn’t wrong about her, was he? He asked, “Is there no train today?”
A pause, as though the little redhead might be puzzled; then she repeated, “Train?”
“Aa, the iron horse, the choo-choo. Chugga-chugga-chug. You know, the train,” he finished, throwing his arms through his shirt and stumbling into his breeches. “Why aren’t you on it? Is the Great Northern not running today?”
“I beg your pardon,” she said, and he could hear the censure in her voice. “I thought we’d come to an agreement last night. A wager, I think we called it.”
“Ah,” he said, taking a few steps to the back of his lodge, where he picked up a towel, �
��so we did.” Retracing his steps, he came to the east side of the tepee and, bending, stepped out through the flap opening. Straightening up, he came face-to-face with what could only be termed a “vision.”
Red hair gathered into a knot at the back of her head, with flyaway tendrils escaping the arrangement, her green eyes flashed with curiosity. Upturned nose, wide cheekbones which tapered to a delicate, yet strongly set chin. She looked poised, fresh and, truth be told, as delightful as a drop of morning dew bedecking a wild rose.
He glanced down at himself, feeling dirty in comparison. A little overly grumpy, he asked, “You’re still happy with the terms that we set?”
“Terms?”
“The stakes.”
“Phew!” She raised a brow. “Didn’t I say that I was?”
In response, he gave her what he hoped was a leer, saying, “And you’re still happy enough with them to abide by them?”
“Of course I am. Did you think I’d feel otherwise?”
“The thought did occur to me.” He frowned at her. “How did you find my lodge?”
“My guide, Gilda.” She nodded toward another woman. This one, he noticed, was dressed in buckskin breeches and shirt, looking more like a young boy than a girl. He didn’t know her, hadn’t seen her in these parts. But if the design on her shirt was an indication of her tribe, she was Blackfeet—probably from the reserve in Canada.
Soaring Eagle pulled a face at the girl, saying, “Thanks,” as sarcastically as possible.
“Pleasure,” came the feminine response.
Perfect. Just what he needed: two females.
Without another word to either of them, he turned and strode away, his path angling toward the lake, beside which were camped about fifty other graceful Blackfeet lodges. He took long, purposeful steps, daring to hope that he might leave the two of them far behind him. But in this he failed. Though the Indian guide stayed behind, the white woman simply ran to keep up, her constant chatter doing a great deal to puzzle him.