Dancing Fawn

by Ginger Simpson

  She guided his head away from her breast and placed her lips against his ear. “The time to mourn has passed,” she whispered. “It’s time to celebrate life. Love me, my husband.”

  * * *

  Green Eyes sat with Rain Woman beneath a spreading elm tree and sorted through the medicine parfleches. Unspoken thoughts of war filled everyone’s mind, and Rain Woman insisted on keeping her supplies plentiful. Her withered hand held up a leafy green plant. “See, granddaughter, we are indeed lucky. The Moon of Strawberries has left behind a bounty of horsemint.”

  The Sioux measured months of the year by the moon, and Rain Woman referred to May. Green Eyes had learned so much from this withered old one.

  “There are so many herbs, Un`ci. Remind me of the purpose of this one.” Green Eyes pointed to another leaf.

  “That one is boiled to drink for an aching stomach.”

  “Is that what you gave me in the women’s lodge to ease my cramping during my moon time?”

  Rain Woman held up another plant. “No, It was this…verbena, the herb makes a good tea for many ailments.”

  Green Eyes grimaced. She hated her monthly flow, especially since she had to spend four days away from her handsome husband. The Sioux believed a strong spirit possessed a bleeding woman, one that robbed a warrior of his strength.

  She sat up straighter. “Well, it may be good for stomach pain, but staying away from Lone Eagle four days every month makes no sense at all. I miss being with him.”

  Rain Woman cackled. “Will you ever stop acting like a new wife?”

  Green Eyes stood and brushed dried grass from her dress. “Not as long as I have such an appealing and powerful husband, and speaking of my handsome warrior, he will wonder where his dinner is.”

  She helped the rickety, old woman to her feet, and Rain Woman hobbled toward her lodge at the pace of a snail. “If you see my son, please send him home,” Green Eyes called after her. Little Cloud reminded his mother of a leaf blown from place to place by the wind—always moving and never in one spot for very long.

  * * *

  Dinner bubbled in a pot and filled the tepee with an enticing aroma. Green Eyes’ stomach rumbled in anticipation. As she bent to stir the stew, Lone Eagle entered and sucked in a deep breath. “What smells so tempting, my wife?”

  She straightened. “A surprise.”

  “From the aroma, I expect a pleasant one.” He peered over her shoulder to the fire ring. “Do I have to wait long?”

  “No. I think your dinner is ready.”

  He kissed the back of her neck and sat.

  She ladled the steaming stew into a bowl. Puffing out her chest, she handed her new concoction to him. “Prairie turnips and wild onions mixed in rabbit stew.”

  He sipped a hot spoonful then smiled up at her. “Well, I have to admit, it’s much better than the first soup you served me...back when you tended my wounds.” Her mind darted back to that day on the prairie. She pictured him sitting at her rough-hewn table, acting as though he actually enjoyed the vile mixture she’d placed before him. “I imagine it is.” She giggled. “I knew very little then. You were already injured, and I almost killed you with my cooking.”

  “Ha, your cooking did not take my life, but you have almost loved me to death a thousand times since then.” He scrunched his face into a painful grimace.

  “Oh you!” She kicked at him.

  Their mating brought nothing but pleasure and had only gotten better. Grinning, she turned back to the fire and ladled a portion of stew for herself.

  Before getting comfortable, she stared at the remaining empty bowl. “Where do you suppose our son might be?”

  As if on cue, and like a whirlwind, Little Cloud blew into the tepee. Brambles and dried blades of grass hung from his raven hair. Smudges of dirt shadowed the bronzed skin of his face. Mirroring his father’s cross-legged style, Little Cloud dropped down next to him. “I am starving, my mother.”

  She smiled at his youthful imitation of Lone Eagle. Thank God, they looked so much alike despite the fact they were not really father and son. Little Cloud had the dark hair and olive skin of his real father, Walt. Green Eyes had been pregnant when she came to live with the tribe, but passing her baby off as Lone Eagle’s had been easy. He knew of her condition and approved, since revealing the truth might interfere with Little Cloud’s assuming his rightful place as tribal chief one day.

  Green Eyes handed him her portion. “You are a sight! What happened to you?” She spooned out another serving for herself and sat.

  A pout quickly formed on her son’s dirt-smudged face. “We hunted today. I did not hit anything, but Squealing Hawk had a good day. He killed two rabbits.”

  Lone Eagle clasped his son’s shoulder. “Today must not have been your day to hunt, my son. Usually you shoot a very straight arrow. Perhaps tomorrow will be better.”

  “Maybe you are right, my father, so tomorrow I will try again, and I will succeed. I want my aim to be true when the white man threatens our village.” Little Cloud pretended to pull back on an imaginary bowstring.

  A ripple of fear crept up his mother’s spine. Rather than chastise him for saying such things, she remained silent. Born of white parents, he knew nothing of his real father. Still, her skin wasn’t red. His hatred for people of his own race pained her.

  Little Cloud would soon be eight years old, and looking at him, some might think him older. Already he was tall, and his actions more mature.

  Green Eyes ruffled his hair, her heart filled with love for him. “Missing the mark is all right, my son, tomorrow is another day. You can provide our dinner.”

  She offered a silent prayer that war wouldn’t come. Little Cloud deserved to live to be an old man and not have to choose a side.

  Chapter Four

  Green Eyes added buffalo chips to the dying fire. The fodder ignited, and a thin ribbon of smoke spiraled upward and out the opening atop the tepee. Soon the tribe would leave the open plains and return to their wintering place. Already early September, and the evenings grew colder. The threat of the open plains made her long for the safety of the mountains.

  For the past several years, the number of white settlers had increased on the Sioux Plains, while more and more gold hungry miners invaded the Black Hills. The intruders killed then left rotting buffalo carcasses strewn across the landscape, threatening the lifeblood of the Sioux. No longer able to hunt in safety, tribes retaliated by joining together to attack wagons—pillaging and killing to survive and hoping to rid the land of all with pale faces. A shudder passed through Green Eyes, thinking her parents could die simply because of their skin color. Knowing they weren’t likely to travel far from home, she sighed and returned to her chores. Adding two logs to the fire ring, she watched the flames dance even higher, while she reflected on the past Sun Dance and the discussion among the warriors of impending war. Being married to the chief often came with privileges in the form of shared information.

  Every summer, the seven nations of the Sioux always came together to feast and commune. The Oglala, Sichangu, Miniconjou, Hunkpapa, Sihasapa, Itazipcho, and Oohenonpa tribes gathered in far fewer numbers this year.

  The sanctity of the Paha Sapa, Black Hills, had been desecrated, and continued talk of retaliation against the blue coats had caused a division among the chiefs. Rather than lose their freedom as other tribes had, or be drawn into an unwelcome battle, many chose to stay away. Among them, the new tribe of Little Dove. The missed opportunity to reconnect with her best friend saddened Green Eyes. She still longed for the company of Lone Eagle’s sister and swiped aside renewed tears.

  Most tribes consisted of several hundred members from related families, and Broken Feather’s Ogallala’s, now under the leadership of Lone Eagle, were no different. People came and went—a fact of life. Despite the many similarities of the people, opinions of the tribal leaders varied when it came to war. Chiefs Red Cloud and Spotted Tail had chosen to move their bands to the White River and be sup
ported by Indian agents, while Broken Feather, a peaceful man, preferred to lead his people from harm’s way. With his father dead, Lone Eagle, would now decide their tribe’s fate.

  Stories of conflicts past and planned had been shared at the Sun Dance. Women weren’t privy to council meetings, but rumors spread throughout the entire encampment. Lone Eagle had verified the gossip that The Hunkpapa Sioux Chief, Sitting Bull, bragged repeatedly about his tribe’s successful slaughter of white soldiers at a place called Powder River. Sitting Bull, the epitome of a warrior, and the elders, whose fighting times had passed, reveled in the telling of his stories. War was man’s work, and women had no place in the discussion. Green Eyes was fine with being left out; she wanted no part of conflict of any kind.

  She rubbed the chill from her arms, recalling the hateful stares she received the first summer because of her pale skin. She mingled only with her own tribe then, but in more recent years, she’d been welcomed and befriended by many.

  After the Sun Dance, several of the tribe’s younger warriors came away hungry for white blood and eager to count their first coup. Some actually left to follow Chief Crazy Horse in his quest for war. How distressing to think of anyone from the tribe being killed. They’d all become Green Eyes’ friends, her family, her life. She sat, lost in thought, and watched the fire consume the mossy bark on the logs.

  Lone Eagle’s voice outside brought her thoughts back to preparing his midday meal. With all her reminiscing, she’d lost track of time. What would she feed him?

  * * *

  When he poked his handsome head through the lodge flap, the orange flames of the fire reflected in his ebony eyes. His sensuous lips turned upward in the familiar smile that warmed her heart. He eyed the empty fire pit and stood with hands on his hips. “Where is my food, woman? Am I to be forced to beat the drum and declare that I throw you away to take another wife?”

  She laughed. “You would never throw me away, my husband. No one can warm your bed as I do.”

  He strode to his mat then sat cross-legged next to the fire. “Do not be too sure. I may do as Squatting Bear and take two wives.” His smile belied his serious tone.

  “Go ahead,” she dared. “I hear he is not as happy as you might think.”

  She passed him a piece of buffalo meat and the last of the dried summer berries.

  His brow arched. “Really? And where do you hear such things?”

  The swallowed the piece of meat she chewed. “How do you think we entertain ourselves in the women’s hut? Four days is a long time. We do not just quill and sew. We talk about those who are not there.”

  He threw back his head and laughed; his shiny hair, once almost reaching his waist, now barely grazed his shoulders. “So that is why women are so wise. They tell stories on one another.”

  Nodding, she rose and poured water into the cooking pot, removed a cutting stone and knife from a parfleche next to the wall, and then knelt before to the fire. “We do not just talk of rumors and such, though. We also share new ideas for dinner, so tonight you will sample my quail and wild onion stew.”

  He’d evidently heard little of what she’d said about dinner. His furrowed forehead displayed his curiosity. “So tell me, who is the unhappy one in Squatting Bear’s lodge?”

  The knife sliced cleanly through the onion. “His first wife. She encouraged him to wed another because she thought it would ease her burden, but now she is jealous of the time he spends warming the blankets of the young one, trying to make a son.”

  Lone Eagle lifted his chin. “Perhaps you should be more prompt in getting my meals ready, or I will be forced to find a young wife to add to our home.” His face held no expression.

  “I hope you are teasing me.” She threw an empty parfleche at him. “There is room for only one wife here.”

  Although she didn’t believe him, fear still gripped her heart like a fist. He wouldn’t really consider another wife, would he? She dared not ask. “Speaking of sons,” she changed to another subject, “why are we always looking for ours?”

  * * *

  Lone Eagle crossed the compound in search of his son. Near his mother’s lodge, raised voices came from a crowd gathered at the far end of the village. He quickened his pace toward the commotion, all thoughts of finding Little Cloud replaced by curiosity.

  Six young warriors rode into camp—their faces and horses painted for war. Shock and confusion jolted Little Eagle at seeing his nephew, Little Elk, among them. Where had the group been? He had no idea they’d left the village. He shoved his way through the throng.

  His gaze shifted to the white woman tethered and stumbling behind the Appaloosa of his nephew’s closest friend, Black Crow. Each faltering step testified to her exhaustion. She struggled to remain standing. Her chin lifted momentarily, and she glared directly at Lone Eagle. Long blonde hair hung in matted strands. Her blue eyes, wide with fright, hardly showed beneath the dirty tresses. One sleeve of her soiled dress hung in tatters down her arm, and crimson chafe marks marred her wrists. Raw and weeping red spots peeked through the veil of dust on her bare feet.

  Rage burned within Lone Eagle. He stood in the path of Black Crow’s horse and raised his arms. “Stop! As your Chief, I demand to know what you have done.”

  * * *

  The band dismounted. Little Elk came forward, his prideful stance revealing much. “My uncle, we rode together to make war against the whites. We have brought home a captive as evidence.”

  Lone Eagle’s icy glare spanned the young braves. He stepped closer to Little Elk and leaned in until they were almost nose-to-nose. “Your chest puffs with pride, but your actions were foolish.” He fought the urge to shake some sense into his nephew and fisted his hands at his sides. “How dare you decide something without advice of Tribal Council? You have no right to put us at risk of war. By bringing a wasichu captive to our camp, you place our people in danger and bring shame upon yourselves.”

  “But, Uncle...”

  Lone Eagle shoved his open palm toward his nephew. “I will not hear from you now. We will discuss this among the elders, but first, is anyone injured?”

  Little Elk hung his head. “None of us here...but...but two of our brothers now walk the ghost trail.”

  Blood pulsed in Lone Eagle’s temples. “Do you see what your foolish impulse has cost?” He scanned the faces of the young men. “Because you wanted to prove your manliness, two of our people are dead. I will go and call a tribal meeting at once to discuss your actions.”

  Lone Eagle spun and stormed away from the crowd.

  * * *

  Green Eyes stood outside her lodge and spread three large rabbit pelts across her drying rack. A commotion caught her attention. Had something happened to Little Cloud? Her heart pounding, she raced across the compound to where a crowd gathered then stood on tiptoes, peering over shoulders to see what caused the excitement.

  Little Elk stepped aside, and the reason for the fervor became evident. Black Crow towered over a terrified young white girl who, from her size, looked to be around sixteen. The dirty tears streaking her sunburned cheeks gave her a much younger appearance. Her sobbing had no effect on Black Crow, and she cowered in the dirt at her captor’s feet.

  Intent on helping, Green Eyes pushed through the crowd. She tapped Little Elk on the shoulder. “Who is this girl? Where did she come from?”

  “Black Crow captured her. She will be his prisoner.” The young brave standing before Green Eyes hardly compared to Spotted Doe’s twelve-year-old orphan, the young man whom she considered family. His body was no longer that of a child, and his voice boomed with authority.

  His attitude angered Green Eyes. “What were you thinking? You cannot keep her against her will.”

  Black Crow grabbed the white girl by her wrist and yanked her to her feet. He pushed Little Elk aside and glared at Green Eyes. “You have no say in the matter. It is not your place to question the actions of a warrior. Go away from me.”

  Appalled at his words,
she scanned the area for her husband but didn’t see him. She squared her shoulders and faced Black Crow. “I may not have the right to say anything, but your Chief most certainly will.”

  Even as the words tumbled out of her mouth, she shivered in fear that she’d overstepped her boundaries. The young captive’s pitiful sobs tore at Green Eyes’ heart as Black Crow dragged her toward his mother’s lodge. Someone had to help the young woman.

  * * *

  Grace scanned the village and the seemingly hostile people surrounding her. Her heart pounded with fear. What would become of the her? Her mind played flashbacks of her family sprawled on the ground. Not even a proper burial... just left to the hungry animals roaming the plains. If only she could block the scene from her mind, but her heart ached for the loss of her loved ones. She’d never see her mother’s lovely face or hear her father’s booming voice...and her brother, Kevin, her protector and best friend...dead without even experiencing life.

  Oh, how she detested the brutal and heartless man who held her tether. She struggled to keep her footing, her hatred growing with each step. She’d never before wished anyone dead, but if he dropped at her feet, she’d find the energy to dance with joy. Her mind spun in a million directions. What was her captor saying? Did he think she understood the strange words he barked at her? Was he going to brutalize her? What had her family done to deserve such a brutal end…and why not kill her, too?