He would be considered a disgrace by his own people, if he gave up his customs and lived like the white man. It was evident that the white man’s ambition was to make all the Indians become like them, or be forced to live on reservations where they were like prisoners, since to stray from the land they were allotted to live on, would be punished by death.
Muraco had no place to call his lodge. None of the Kiowa from his small band, had a place of their own. They would have to rely on the kindness of the Comanche, until they could build up their own tribe again.
“Muraco!” The voice was soft, and then he was embraced by tender arms, wrapping around him. “You are alive! They said you had been killed.”
Muraco looked into the eyes of Lomasi, meaning Pretty Flower. They were brimming with unshed tears, as the young maiden hugged herself against Muraco. Her eyes wandered to the hole in his shirt, stained with blood. Her hand reached up and touched the spot. “You were injured,” she murmured.
“But I have survived,” he responded softly, disentangling himself from her embrace.
It was not proper for her to so boldly throw herself at him. He had not yet asked her to become his woman, and even though it was almost expected that one day, he may, that day had not come yet.
“I am happy to see that you survived the attack,” he told her, with a wavering smile.
Up until this moment, he had always thought that Lomasi would eventually become his wife, his Ah Tah-Day. Now he wasn’t certain if he still wanted that? Until he could shake the memory of Pi au-dau from his senses, he was not sure he could give his heart to anyone.
“Why do you look upon me as though I am your mere sister?” Lomasi asked, feeling rejected. There was something wrong, but she couldn’t put her finger on what it was.
“I have suffered much. It has taken time for my wound to heal so I could return to my people. We must put aside future plans until we know what will happen to our tribe. I feel there will be many changes, and it may disrupt everything you and I wanted for our life.”
“Do you not wish me to become your wife?” she demanded.
“I have never asked you to become my wife. You are too eager to make that decision yourself. You forget it is my place to choose you, not your place to choose me.”
Lomasi’s face looked stricken, as she stepped back and stared at Muraco. “But when we were children, we spoke of it,” Lomasi insisted.
“That was when we were children and lived in a peaceful village. Now the whites are pushing us away, and making our lives unstable. We don’t even have a village of our own to dwell in. We have to rely on our Comanche brother to help us survive. Either we will end up fighting against the white man, or end up bowing to their wishes and losing our own pride. Until that has been determined, I cannot make any future plans.”
“Who knows how long that will take? You cannot stop life just because things are not going the way you expect.”
“But I can work around events without making it more difficult for me and my loved ones. What would happen if we had children, and they were killed in an attack by the whites? I will not become complacent and expect life to continue the way it has in the past. Besides, I do not even have a lodge to lay my head in.”
Muraco realized that what he had expected had suddenly been shaken by his deep feelings for a white woman he felt he could never embrace as his own. Until he was sure she could never be his, he would not make any other choice, he told himself.
“I have a lodge. It is a small make-shift teepee made with an extra buffalo-hide the Comanches gave me. We could share it, if we were tied,” Lomasi insisted.
“But we are not tied. It is not the right time to become tied. Be patient, and wait for me to ask you,” he scolded.
Lomasi’s eyes fell. “I thought you would be happy to see me,” she mumbled. “Something has changed you!”
“Yes,” Muraco admitted. “I have been changed, but it has nothing to do with you. Do not press me, Lomasi. I have too many things on my mind right now. However, I am happy to see you, and know that you have been safe.”
The tears that had been brimming Lomasi’s eyes, slowly spilled over, and then she turned and ran from Muraco’s sight. He felt like he had been stabbed, because the last thing he wanted to do, was hurt Lomasi, but in truth, it had been him, who stabbed Lomasi, unintentionally. He realized she had not even crossed his mind the whole time he had remained in that cave. All that had filled his head had been the white woman with fire hair, whom he could not shake from his memory. How was he going to live without her?
He did not want to think of it. He was tired, and he still had to find his own family and let them know he had survived. He started strolling through the camp, trying to discover where they had been residing. Finally, he asked someone where he could find his parents and his sister.
One look in the young brave’s eyes, that he asked, told him all he needed to know. He let out a mournful cry, and stormed from the camp, up into the woods beyond, to find solace that probably would never come.
He laid down in the deep grass, and peered up through the leaves of the trees, searching the heavens until eventually, stars appeared. He thought of the star-men marching across the sky, and wondered if life was as difficult for them as it suddenly seemed for himself.
He could not erase the look on Lomasi’s face, when he all but rejected her. White people had ruined his own reverie, and contentment with life. Nevertheless, what was really at the bottom of his misery beyond everything else that plagued him, was the thought that he may never see Constance again. She pulled at his heart like she was a magnet, and he was steel. Nothing could wash the thought of her from his head. He didn’t want to wash the thought of her from his head.
He slept at last. His head was filled with fitful dreams. He was sure that his Pi au-dau came to him in a dream. She needed his help, but he couldn’t tell why. All he knew was that she may be in danger.
When he shook his head to wake himself, the next morning, he scoffed at his dream. He was just too obsessed with the woman with fire hair. He had to try and forget about her. He should ask Lomasi to be his wife, and then he would have to forget her, he told himself. He braced himself, but could not bring himself to approach Lomasi. Every time she looked in his direction, with mournful eyes, he knew she could not make his heart skip a beat in the same way his Pi au-dau could.
He decided he would give it more time. He needed to build a shelter, and go hunting, in order to dry and store meat for the winter, and eat what he didn’t dry. He would fill his days with surviving, he decided, so there would be no room for the thought of Constance to come into his head.
The shelter wasn’t as snug as a teepee would have been, with air tight skins sheltering him at such an angle that the snow would never settle on the sides. He had placed sod on the roof of his lean-to and hoped that it did not leak as snow settled on it. He tamped the dirt floor and then covered it with dry grass to use as a bed. The shelter was not very large, but would serve him well enough. The smaller the space, the easier it would be to keep it warm.
Every night, he had the same dream. He could see the cave in his dream and knew that Constance was in the cave, and needed him, but it was too mixed up in his memory of being in that cave with Constance caring for him. How could she need him? He was the one that needed her!
Finally, he mounted his pony to go out and hunt. He would have to go farther a field than they had in the past. The white man had forced the herds to take a different path, in order to bypass the wagon trains that used the Santa Fe trail. It was impossible to find game anywhere near their winter camp, and Muraco found himself heading in the direction of Constance’s farm.
He felt a great need to check on her to make sure she was safe, because the dreams had upset him so much.
CHAPTER EIGHT
“I like feisty women,” I could hear Clinton talking low, to his mother, as I passed at a distance from where they were sitting on the front porch. “I think I am
going to enjoy taming that little shrew, when the time comes,” he chuckled.
“You just wait until she is legally wedded to you, Clint. If you scare her away, it will make your chances slim of ever getting her to agree to marrying you. Her father is already worried about all of this. He says maybe he shouldn’t have rushed into marrying me until he had introduced me to his family. I think he is starting to regret his choice, and may back out of the agreement, in spite of our marriage, but we know what can be done about that, don’t we?” I heard her give a low chuckle, and then start talking again.
“I know how charming you can be, when you put your mind to it, so you just use that charm, and sweep that young woman off her feet, you hear? Even if it has to happen without her father’s consent, once she becomes your wife, whatever belongs to her, also belongs to you.”
“And I’m going to love every moment of showing her who has the upper hand.” His voice sounded cruel as he spoke the words, and I skirted farther from the porch, so they wouldn’t notice me, as I headed out towards the cave where I had found Muraco.
Now I was determined, more than ever, I would never become that man’s wife. They were going to try to force my hand, even against my father’s wishes, if he chose to object. She had probably used the same false charm to lure my father into her trap, and now they intended to lure me in as well, I fumed to myself. Only I wasn’t going to fall for it, and I was certain I could sway my father to be on my side in the end.
I didn’t know why they even wanted to come to the farm. They didn’t seem like the farming type. Clinton certainly didn’t know a thing about farming, and seldom put all his energy into working with Emmet. It was almost like he was pretending to work, just to please father. Yet for some reason, they wanted the farm, and getting me to marry Clinton, seemed to be one of their ploys to accomplish it, since father may leave me the farm, in the end.
Bertha sat around reading magazines she brought with her, and seldom did anything around the house, unless father was around, and then she bustled about like she was helping out, moving something from one place to the other, but not really accomplishing a task.
Then it dawned on me, that father may have mentioned the gold in the stream. After all, he married Bertha, and would have to tell her how he made his living, since he spent his time at the stream, while we worked the farm. They must be after the gold, and knew the farm sat on a sight where gold could be found. It must be the reason they were so set on me marrying Clinton, and her marrying my father. That way, they were assured part of the wealth.
The only problem was, the gold was running low in the stream, and the only way to find more gold was to discover the main source of the vein and dig for it. That would take equipment and hard work, not to mention actually finding where the gold came from in the first place. It could be miles upriver, for all we knew.
In spite of my suspicions, there was not much I could do about it. Father and I were barely speaking, and when we did talk, it was strained. He would never believe anything I told him about Bertha and her son, so it was useless going to him. If he confronted her about it, she would claim I was making it up because I didn’t want to marry her son.
I had talked to Emmet about it, but he had already resigned himself to the situation. He claimed that we, being father’s first family, would have claim on the farm, and the gold, and since it would be a long time before father ever died anyway, there was nothing to worry about right now. We would just cross that bridge when we came to it.
“You are not the one who will be forced to marry into her family,” I pointed out. “Once that happens, no matter when father dies, Clinton and I will probably get the farm, and the gold. The only way you are going to get your share, is if I am not around to marry Clinton in the first place. Then you and he can fight over father’s land, when he’s gone.”
“If you are going to inherit anyway, what harm could it do to be married to him?” Emmet wanted to know. “He seems like a likable person. Then we can all remain here together.”
“It is all an act,” I hissed. “I am not going to fall for him or his act,” I spouted bravely.
“You are just going to cause trouble, Connie. Father is never going to let you take off to Missouri on your own.”
“I will run away, if I have to,” I insisted.
Now these thoughts were running through my mind, as I headed out to the cave. It was the first time, since Muraco had left, that I had ventured in that direction, but now, I thought maybe I could find some peace there and gather my thoughts in order to make plans for what was to come, as winter was drawing nearer everyday.
The thought of having to spend a winter with Clinton and his mother living in the house, being cooped up together, disturbed me, but I was determined to spend as much time out in the barn as possible.
There was a small bucketbelly stove out there, which I could use to keep warm with, and I didn’t mind sleeping in the loft on a pile of soft straw. The warmth from the stove rose to the rafters, which made my little make-shift room snug, even if I did have to stoke the fire more often.
In fact, I fixed the loft up with some of my things from my bedroom. Mother’s old rocker, and a small writing desk and chair, being some of the things I carted up there, using a rope to pull them to the loft. I used an old trunk to keep my clothes and belongings in, so I faired pretty well, I thought.
All of father’s gruff demands that I return to the house, did not convince me to come back to my room. Even Clinton offering to sleep in the barn instead, did not change my mind. I liked being away from the family where I could be alone with my thoughts with nothing but the noise of the horses, Buttercup and Hope, along with our two pigs, to interrupt my reverie. Sometimes Sport would join me, but he couldn’t climb the ladder, so he chose to curl up in front of the bucketbelly stove and stare up at me, in my loft space.
Now I was approaching the cave, Sport at my heels, keeping me company, and my heart caught in my chest as memories of the time I spent with Muraco there, drifted back to me. When I entered, I noticed there were still things left in the cave. I had never retrieved my quilt that Muraco had used. I bent down and lifted it, pulling it around my shoulders, discovering that there was still the faint smell of Muraco in the material.
I hadn’t thought about it, but the moment the smell hit my senses, I could almost believe that Muraco was there in the cave with me. I heard Sport growl low in his throat as a shadow blocked the entrance of the cave, and my heart took another leap, actually thinking Muraco had returned. I stepped forward eagerly, and then came to a sudden stop, when I discovered it was Clinton, standing in the opening of the cave. Sport was still growling, because, like me, he did not like Clinton.
“Why are you following me?” I demanded, pulling the quilt tighter around my shoulders, feeling a sudden chill run through me, as Clinton’s eyes raked over me.
I glanced at the gun belt hanging from Clinton’s hip, and realized I had not brought my own gun with me.
“What is this place?” he asked, Ignoring my question.
“It’s where Buttercup had her calf. I came here to spend some time with her before I brought the calf home, and I just remembered I had left my quilt here, so I came to fetch it,” I lied.
“Apparently, you spent a lot of time here,” Clinton stated, noticing the canteens and tin bowl, not to mention other things that got left there while I cared for Muraco. “Do you like hard drink?” he asked, picking up the empty whisky bottle, and holding it in front of me.”
“That belonged to father. I was using it as disinfectant.”
“For your cow?” I could tell he did not believe me.
I didn’t answer, as I watched him bend down and pick up a wad of material from the ground. It was then that I saw it was the discarded bandages from Muraco’s wound.
“What is this supposed to be? Looks like bloody rags to me.”
“The cow was having a calf,” I defended, jerking them from his hands, causing the quilt to
fall from my shoulders, as I did. “Why don’t you just go away and leave me alone?” I snapped.
“Why would you tear them up in strips then?” he demanded.
“That is none of your concern,” I stated, giving him a push with my hand. “You can just go back to the house and stay out of my personal business!”
I could hear Sport growling a little louder, as the hackles rose on his back.
“You were harboring someone here,” he stated, looking around, and adding up in his mind what he was discovering.
It was plane that someone had stayed in this cave for a time.
“Someone who was wounded,” he said, narrowing his eyes at me. “That’s why you were using the whisky for disinfectant. Have you come back here to meet them?”
“No! As you can see, there is no one here now, so it is neither here-nor-there what I was doing,” I said boldly.
Clinton grabbed my arm, and as he did, Sport bounded forward, but Clinton merely kicked him aside, causing him to yelp.
“Exactly who were you harboring, while your father was away?” he demanded, giving Sport another kick, as he tried to advance.
“I will thank you to unhand me!” I shrieked, as I jerked away from him. “And stop kicking my dog!”
“Then call the mutt off,” Clinton demanded, so I told Sport to stay back. “Did your brother know about this?” he asked, halfway eyeing my dog.
“Leave my brother out of this,” I stormed. “You have no right questioning me, or even being here. This is my farm! You are merely a guest here, and you might as well get it straight. I am never going to marry you, so you can just forget about your plans to ‘tame’ me,” I hissed in his face.
Clinton started laughing.
“So you overheard me, did you?” he said, leering at me in a menacing manner. “Don’t think you will have too much say about that, when the time comes.”
Kiowa White Moon Page 7