by Judd Cole
Tonight, again, it was still there. Honey Eater knelt, picked up the smooth round piece of white marble. For a moment she pressed it to the chamois-soft skin over her heart. An involuntary sob hitched in her chest, escaped in a choking gasp. Teardrops formed on her eyelids, and she placed the stone back down, hurrying away.
Touch the Sky was left speechless for a long time, doubting what he had seen. Then, when he could deny it no longer, he looked at his friend.
“Did my eyes alone just see Honey Eater?”
Little Horse shook his head. “Brother, this was no vision! You are a true warrior and can read many signs. But you are slow to grasp what any jaybird could tell you. Honey Eater loves you strong and true. What we have just seen, this takes place each night you are gone from camp. She hides it well, but I have seen.”
“Each night I am gone,” repeated Touch the Sky in a dumb trance of joy. A tight bud of emotion locked deep inside him threatened to blossom.
“Believe it, Bear Caller! Have I ever talked more than one way to you? Brother, Honey Eater has placed herself at great risk to learn about you. She cries for you and starts up, hope burning in her eyes, every time a rider approaches camp.”
These words were soothing balsam for the aching wound in his heart. Touch the Sky’s throat swelled tight with emotion.
“Brother,” said Little Horse, “perhaps it is wrong to fan your hopes now that Honey Eater wears the bride-shawl. But she loves you, not Black Elk! I am no gossip like the women who buzz around the sewing lodge. But I have heard a thing.”
“If you are no gossiping woman, then do not play the coy one either. Speak of this thing.”
“You know that my cousin, Long Sash, is a Bowstring?”
Touch the Sky nodded. The Bowstrings were one of the six Cheyenne military societies, open to warriors of any clan. Black Elk too was a Bowstring.
“Long Sash was visiting at their dance lodge when Black Elk showed up with blood in his eye. You know that Black Elk despises all talk of feelings. But Long Sash says Black Elk had been drinking corn beer with the Lakota. He spoke of cutting off Honey Eater s braids to shame her into doing her duty as his wife. He swore by the four directions that she would give him a son whether she chose to or not.
“Brother, is it not as plain as tracks in fresh mud? Honey Eater is not lying with her own husband. Do you think any woman can treat Black Elk this way and not suffer for it? Her heart is for you, buck!”
First Arrow Keeper, now Little Horse—both assuring him Honey Eater’s heart belonged to him despite everything. And now Touch the Sky had seen the proof with his eyes. A woman in love with her husband would not be crying in front of another man’s tipi!
Honey Eater loved him. Now he had the best reason of all for staying. Never mind that she was married to Black Elk. It was marriage in name only. Clearly, Black Elk’s furious jealousy foretold great trouble for both of them. But so long as she loved him—so long as her body ached for his as he did for her—he would never let his hopes face anywhere but east.
“Brother,” he said to Little Horse, “I am glad you are my friend. But your loyalty will soon be sorely tested. This time I stay. I am a Cheyenne. Anyone who plans to drive me off must be ready to kill me or die.”
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