Gray Hawk's Lady: Blackfoot Warriors, Book 1

by Karen Kay

  White Eagle nodded. He said, “This is all good. You have considered that you will be traveling through much enemy ground?”

  “Aa, yes, my friend. But soon autumn will be here, and it is not a time of many war parties. But I will be cautious just the same.”

  “Aa, yes, there is no better scout in all of the Pikuni than you. I believe you will keep away from our enemies. But there is one more thing that I hope you have contemplated, my friend. And that is that if you take your woman back to her people, she may not want to leave them to come home with you.”

  “Aa, yes, I have thought of this, but she has given me her word that she will return with me.”

  “And you believe the vow of a white woman?”

  “Saa, no, my friend. I believe her.”

  White Eagle nodded and smiled. “You are wise,” he said. “You are wise.”

  White Eagle then took his pipe, and holding it out away from him, he tapped the bowl of it, the Blackfoot signal that their meeting was at an end.

  And Gray Hawk, bidding his friend a good day, arose to go and start his preparations.

  Genevieve awoke to the musical notes of a bobolink, the bird Gray Hawk previously described to her on the trail. She listened sleepily to the song and gazed up toward the tepee poles, catching sight of the small bird sitting atop the poles, where he was apparently relishing the first few rays of the morning sun.

  Genevieve stretched and snuggled deeper into the warm buffalo robes. She was alone in the tepee, Gray Hawk having awakened long ago to go out on the hunt.

  It was the way it had been since they had arrived in camp. She rarely saw Gray Hawk.

  Up before the rise of the sun and home after it had long set, he managed to get in only a few words with her each day before, exhausted, they both surrendered to sleep.

  It must be a custom, she decided. She had noticed that, here in camp, men kept company only with men, and women with the women. Only rarely did one see a couple together, and this was usually at the end or at the start of the day.

  And perhaps it was this, more than anything, that had caused her to relent in her requests upon Gray Hawk. Rarely had she brought up the subject of her father this past week, and with Gray Hawk acting the part of a devoted husband, she found herself slipping more and more into a new role: that of a wife.

  She stretched again.

  She knew she should arise, but here in the Indian camp, she had soon learned that life was not so strict nor so driven, and no one seemed to take notice of whether she dozed an extra hour or two or all day.

  In truth, no one seemed inclined to criticize her at all, something she couldn’t understand. Or perhaps she just didn’t know their language well enough yet.

  Still, she couldn’t remember ever having slept so well, so soundly or so long.

  It was odd, she thought. After the first week in camp, she had taken so readily to the Indian life that she felt as if it were almost natural to her. She was relieved to have come to understand fairly well the language of those around her. Funny how, when one couldn’t communicate, one quickly learned the language.

  She couldn’t yet speak the Blackfoot tongue, but she could at least tell what was being said to her.

  She had met Gray Hawk’s sisters that first day in camp and had been startled to learn that the name they had called her, insst, meant “sister” or “older sister,” although none of his siblings was more than sixteen years of age.

  She had been both flattered and pleased when Gray Hawk told her that this was their way: that, for the rest of her life, his sisters were now her own.

  She couldn’t believe the incredibly warm feeling this knowledge had given her. She’d never had a large family. It now appeared that she did.

  She had discovered, too, that Gray Hawk’s oldest sister was to be married soon and actually would have been married even now, had it not been for the entire family’s grief over what they had thought was the loss of their brother.

  But now that Gray Hawk was back, preparations for the marriage had begun once again, both families apparently needing to send one another gifts to secure the marriage contract.

  Genevieve sat up, pulling the buffalo robe around her to hide her nudity. Another new thing for her: sleeping in the nude. But nightclothes seemed unheard of here, and she was becoming used to the feel of Gray Hawk’s warm body curled up next to hers at night.

  It might not be approved of back home, but here, she didn’t even try to fool herself. It was heavenly.

  She let her gaze scan the contents of the tepee. This was their own lodge, hers and Gray Hawk’s; his sisters, his mother, his aunts, his cousins and practically all the women in the entire village had turned out to sew the tepee together. Amazingly, the whole process had taken less than a day.

  Her glance came to a willow backrest inside the tepee.

  That was another thing that had astounded her: the generosity of her new neighbors. It seemed that the whole village had learned of her marriage, and before the day had finished, she’d been presented with gifts of robes, parfleches, hollowed-out wooden bowls; a tepee lining, two different sets of clothing and moccasins, hair ties, feathers, brushes, backrests and more.

  On that first day, Genevieve had stood outside the newly erected lodge, dumbfounded, unable to believe such open generosity, especially when no one there knew her, nor did she have anything to give them in return.

  It was only later that she had learned from Gray Hawk that these were the most precious gifts of all: those that could not be returned.

  She stretched her arms over her head, the robe falling down around her waist.

  She picked up her new dress of white elkskin, lying close by, and pulled it on over her head. The material felt smooth against her skin, like soft butter, yet warm against the morning chill.

  She glanced to the center of the tepee, noticing that the fire was no more than a few hot cinders.

  She would have to bring in more firewood, and soon.

  She sighed. Despite the tribe’s acceptance and friendliness toward her, she was still reluctant to venture outside of the lodge, and no one, it seemed, felt this should be different. No one came to get her or to force her out.

  In truth, there was little need. Each evening, either one of Gray Hawk’s sisters or his mother would ensure that the newly wedded couple had plenty to eat, both for the morning and in the evening—another custom, Genevieve had discovered.

  Oh, what she would give to have pen and paper.

  She suddenly heard a scratching noise at the entrance flap and, recognizing this as a “knock,” called out automatically, “Come in.”

  Nothing happened.

  Again a scratch.

  Darn! She’d spoken in English. How did one say “come in” in Blackfoot?

  She called out, “Oki!” No, that wasn’t right. That meant—what? “Let’s go”? “Hello”? Maybe “okay”?

  Well, it was some short word. She just couldn’t remember it right now.

  Another scratch.

  Darn! She jumped up, pulling down her dress in the process as she hurried to the flap, opening it just a crack.

  One of Gray Hawk’s sisters, Shoots the Enemy Woman, stood outside.

  Genevieve opened the flap a little wider and gestured the young girl inside.

  Shoots the Enemy Woman bent and stepped inside, saying at the same time, “Ipii,” with the same gesture that Genevieve had made.

  “Oh, that’s right,” said Genevieve. “Ipii, that’s the word I was trying to remember. That means come in, enter, I believe.”

  The young girl looked puzzled, but when Genevieve repeated the word and the gesture, Shoots the Enemy Woman grinned.

  “Nee dawk seasts. Gittah sto pook kome ma.”

  Genevieve stared at the young girl. What?

  Again, the girl repeated. “Nee dawk seasts.” And she made motions of washing herself, her hair.

  “You’re going to take a bath?” Genevieve repeated back the motions,
and Shoots the Enemy Woman nodded happily, grinning. Genevieve tried to repeat the words back, “Nee…dawk…seasts?”

  Again, a nod from the young girl. “Nee dawk seasts.”

  “Well, I’d be happy to,” Genevieve said, nodding and grinning back; a gesture of acceptance in any language.

  “Poohsapoot! Nee dawk pook gee ewe.” The young girl smiled and, taking Genevieve’s hand, pulled her out of the tepee.

  The first thing that Genevieve noticed as she stepped outside was the incredible number of dogs running freely through the camp. And it was interesting to note that just as the people lived a happy, carefree life, so too did their animals—their dogs, their horses and any other animals they had cared to catch and train.

  Shoots the Enemy Woman led Genevieve not to the lake where the camp was pitched, but rather to a more distant and secluded river. The Indian girl carried with her in a buckskin bag some sweet grass, or what the Indians called se-pat-semo. Genevieve had noted that the Blackfeet braided this grass and that it seemed to have a number of uses, including a hair wash, a hair tonic and perfume. Also, Genevieve saw some sweet pine in Shoots the Enemy Woman’s bag, and some leaves from the balsam poplar, all of which were pleasingly fragrant.

  This was the first time Genevieve had visited the women’s quarters of the river. Gray Hawk had led her to the lake late each night when no one else was about, but these baths had been quick for modesty’s sake, plus icy cold, making them less than enjoyable.

  Genevieve could tell that Shoots the Enemy Woman planned a leisurely morning. And Genevieve smiled as she followed behind the younger woman.

  Life seemed suddenly good. There was a fragrance of summer in the air, and that, along with the scent of the smoke from the morning fires, the feel of dew in the air, the songs of the birds flying so high above and the sensation of the warming rays of the sun, gave Genevieve an unusual feeling of happiness, as though she were in affinity with the rest of the universe.

  All of a sudden, life felt highly pleasant.

  And to think, she was experiencing it all in an Indian camp.

  She beamed. Who would have thought it could be?

  Chapter Nineteen

  “A‘po’taki?”

  “Om-wa naapiaakii yaak-a ‘po’taki-wa?”

  “Work.” Genevieve resorted to English, pointing to herself. “I wish to work.”

  One of the older women wagged her finger at Shoots the Enemy Woman, repeating, “Om-wa naapiaakii yaak-a’po’taki-wa.”

  “A’po’taki, work?” Genevieve knew this was the Blackfoot word for work, and she repeated it, intent on making herself understood. She had decided to help the others as best she could—if she could. It would not only assist Gray Hawk, she’d reasoned; it would enable her to enlist his aid in taking her home. And so she said again, “Nit-a’pa-o’taki, I work.” She smiled.

  The older woman gestured again toward Shoots the Enemy Woman, who looked doubtful, and Genevieve was startled to see Shoots the Enemy Woman cast a glance toward the skies.

  Was something wrong?

  “Poohsapoot, nit-aak-ahkayi.” Shoots the Enemy Woman grabbed Genevieve’s hand, motioning her to follow.

  The Indian girl led Genevieve to the back of a row of tepees. And there, scattered on the ground, were several bundles of rawhide in various stages of tanning.

  Also on the ground nearby was a recently killed bull.

  Shoots the Enemy Woman motioned Genevieve to the latter. “Ooyo’si,” she said. She gestured toward the dead bull.

  Genevieve just looked at the animal as though she had never seen one until now. She glanced back toward the Indian girl.

  “Are you asking me to cook a meal from this? Nitsoyo’si?”

  Her companion nodded her head and bent down toward the bull. “Ooyo’si.”

  The animal had already been skinned, and Genevieve could see that someone had been there earlier and had cut out the liver, the heart, even the lungs. Gone, too, was the tongue.

  Shoots the Enemy Woman gestured toward the intestines and Genevieve felt her stomach drop. They wanted her to cook the intestines?

  Were they mad?

  But Shoots the Enemy Woman, after starting the procedure of cutting away the intestines, wiped her hands on the ground and, looking back toward Genevieve, gestured her forward.

  “Oyiistotoosa!”

  She wants me to prepare a meal of this for Gray Hawk. Genevieve thought she might faint right there. Did the Indians eat intestines?

  That was bad enough to consider, but what did they do with the manure within the guts?

  Surely they didn’t eat it too, did they?

  No, that couldn’t be right.

  But what did they do with it? She wasn’t expected to empty it, or—

  “Kika! Wait!” Genevieve trod over toward the bull.

  Shoots the Enemy Woman glanced up at Genevieve. The Indian girl grinned.

  Genevieve said in English, “You surely aren’t expecting me to empty those guts, are you?” She wasn’t quite sure how to say it in Blackfoot, and so she made hand gestures.

  Genevieve pointed to the guts, making a slitting motion and then a pretense of emptying the intestines.

  Shoots the Enemy Woman shook her head.

  And Genevieve just stared. Good! She was happy to discover that she didn’t have to clean the manure from the guts, but then, too, if she didn’t clean out the manure, just how was she supposed to make an edible meal out of this?

  Shoots the Enemy Woman made a whole series of hand motions in response, ending with those gestures of putting the guts over the fire. Shoots smiled.

  And Genevieve thought she would be sick right there.

  This couldn’t be right; Genevieve hadn’t understood the hand gestures correctly. That must be it. Because it looked like… No one ate manure, did they?

  But Shoots the Enemy Woman was smiling up at Genevieve, getting to her feet, and the Indian girl put her hands on Genevieve’s shoulders, as though in a gesture of good luck. And Genevieve was too stunned to do more than stare at the girl.

  Shoots the Enemy Woman, however, didn’t seem to notice. After smiling, she turned to leave.

  No, Genevieve thought, she wouldn’t do it. She…

  She stopped. She was determined she would help. Did it matter what, exactly, they wanted her to do? If this was what they wanted…

  She glanced over her shoulder to watch the girl walk away. Briefly Genevieve shut her eyes before bending down to work over the bull.

  She would take only short, quick breaths, she decided, the smell of the innards and manure surely more than a lady of her standing and birth should ever have to endure.

  And if she died in the process of doing this, at least she would have the satisfaction of knowing she had helped.

  Shoots the Enemy Woman, whom Genevieve had begun to call Shoots, giggled.

  “What’s wrong with it?”

  Shoots didn’t answer. Her hand over her mouth and her head down, she just giggled until she outright laughed.

  “Well, the darn things are cooking, aren’t they? But oh, what a smell. What do you people do this for?”

  Shoots the Enemy Woman didn’t answer, but then she was too busy laughing.

  Genevieve bristled. Did this Indian girl know how long it had taken her to get these intestines cut out, without leaking the manure out, and to set them to roasting over the fire?

  Apparently not.

  Shoots, still laughing, one hand over her mouth, picked up a nearby stick and pulled the whole thing, intestines full of manure and all, off the fire.

  One of Gray Hawk’s other sisters, Looks Long Woman, joined them.

  “Kayiiwa? What is it?” the other sister asked.

  “Aooyo’siwa,” Shoots said. “She is preparing a meal.”

  “Kayiiwa, ipisttsi? Of what, intestinal gas?”

  “Aa, yes,” Shoots said. And both girls burst out laughing.

  “What?” Genevieve wanted to know. “What�
�s wrong with this? Isn’t this what you asked me to do?”

  Both girls seemed to be able to do no more than laugh, and Genevieve, taking offense, bridled.

  Genevieve looked at the intestines, now lying in the dirt and muck on the ground. All that work, wasted.

  At last, Shoots picked up the guts lying there on the ground, her sister taking hold of the other end of them. Motioning Genevieve to follow, the two girls headed down to the lake, skirting the village as best they could, both girls giggling as each walked with a hand held over her mouth.

  “Anniistopiit!” Shoots commanded Genevieve once they had arrived at the lake. “Sit there!”

  Genevieve sat.

  Both Shoots and Looks Long Woman turned the gut upside down and, holding the intestine toward the water, emptied the manure into the lake.

  Genevieve at once understood. And though she groaned, she was secretly glad.

  Thank goodness Indians did not eat this.

  The two women were already carefully washing the intestine clean of all traces of manure.

  And then, standing up, they began to walk back to camp, again motioning Genevieve to follow.

  Once back at camp, the two girls laid a strip of buffalo meat alongside the clean intestine and, turning the gut inside out, completely covering the strip of buffalo meat, they made a long show of tying the ends of the whole thing together with sinew.

  Grinning at Genevieve, the two girls set the intestine, beef and all, to roasting over the coals.

  Looks Long Woman patted Genevieve on the shoulder while Shoots looked pleased.

  Shoots said, “Iimai’taki-yi-aawa kit-a’pistotsi-’s-yi kit oom ki itakkaa. Your husband and his friend will believe you did this.” And with this said, both girls left, still giggling, it taking Genevieve much too long to translate their words to say anything back.

  Funny, Genevieve thought, mulling over the translation, something about their language, the way they said it, seemed familiar…something.

  Suddenly, it came to her.

  Algonquian. Their language seemed very similar to the Algonquian dialect, a tongue she and her father had studied a few years ago. Could it be an offshoot of the same language?