by Joni Keever
Several men moved around the animal. She noticed a sled of sorts strapped to his back. Long, slender poles hung from his shoulders and trailed away behind, supporting a hide bed. The Indians lifted a large bundle from the travois and carried it to the tall structure. Two of the men climbed crude ladders on each end and took the heavy burden as the others raised it above their heads.
Carly understood she was simply a spectator at this odd event, not the main attraction. But she still couldn’t locate Kade or understand what they were doing.
The sad song continued, and she studied the people around her. No emotion escaped any face. All stared straight ahead. She looked back to the odd structure.
Women now moved about the framework, placing branches and bundles of dry grass underneath. As Carly’s gaze traveled upward, she gasped. The bundle, silhouetted against the afternoon sky, was clearly a corpse wrapped tightly in thin hides. She followed the outline of the man’s face down the subtle contours of his torso and legs to the obvious angle of his feet.
As an ancient-looking man touched a burning torch to the pile of kindling, the black whinnied and shifted nervously. Tears blurred Carly’s vision, and her heart sank to her stomach. The hungry blaze crackled and popped, consuming the word that escaped her in the form of a groan.
“Kade.”
Chapter Fourteen
Much of the next few days passed in a fog for Carly. Under the direction of the two Indian women, she worked diligently from sunup to sundown. Every muscle in her body ached. Her hands were raw and sore. Exhausted to the point of collapsing, she fell to her pallet each night, sure she would drift into a deep, dreamless sleep.
Though the hard work kept her thoughts at bay during the day, Carly’s tired mind could not keep them from intruding at night. Her dreams were haunted with images—images of her mother and father, images of all her captors since her parents’ deaths, and, most disturbing, images of Kade.
She saw his eyes full of anger and determination as he fought to save her from Fletcher and Buck. She saw his unconscious form as he lay against her in the cave, burning with fever. She saw the fire that consumed his lifeless body only days before.
But always the bright flames of the blaze mellowed to form the copper planes of Kade’s face, and the black spiraling smoke became long strands of hair blowing in the breeze. Piercing ebony eyes beckoned to her, seeing through her and beyond.
She would awaken suddenly and check to see that the two women still slept. Her dreams left her shaken and kept sleep at arm’s length for hours. Often, unable to help herself, she’d cry, burying her face in the soft fur to keep from disturbing the others and drawing attention to herself. Tears fell for all she had lost, all she would never have.
This was to be Carly’s existence. She would live her days as a slave to these savages. Though constantly surrounded by people, she would be forever alone, neither understanding their language nor wanting to.
Sometimes, in the predawn hours, Carly pushed the self-pity aside and admitted her situation could be worse. She was not beaten or abused, though the labor was much harder than anything she’d ever attempted. She wasn’t tied up, but the women were never far away, and Carly had noticed large, stoic sentries all around the small camp. She was fed and clothed, even given the bar of lavender soap and a white woman’s calico dress. The latter filled her mind with questions to which she was afraid to guess the answers.
One morning dawned with a definite chill to the clear air. Though the sun burned brightly, it couldn’t scare autumn away forever. Carly breathed deeply, enjoying the clean feel of the day and the light glaze of frost on the grass. She turned as if to announce to someone that fall would be upon them soon. But there was no one to engage in polite small talk. Her moment of contentment shriveled under the thick cloud of despondency that settled about her once more.
After a hasty breakfast, her taskmasters set Carly to work scraping the heavy hide of an elk. One of the braves brought the buck into camp before the sun fully left the horizon. It had been but a matter of minutes before the women had the animal cleaned, sectioned, and distributed.
Everyone helped. Some of the women and older girls prepared the meat, either for roasting or for drying into strips of jerky. Others carried the large antlers and choice bones to the older men who would shape them into utensils, weapons, even sewing needles. The intestines and stomach became storage vessels for food and water. Carly had noted that some hides were treated on just one side, leaving the thick coat intact for protection against the harsh winter elements. However, her constant companions indicated she was to clean this pelt completely. After a brief demonstration and instructions she couldn’t understand, they left her to her work.
Sitting on the ground near the tepee, Carly struggled with the large piece of flint they’d given her, just as she continually struggled with this new way of life. She looked to where the others sat a few feet away, talking quietly while busy at their own tasks. Biting her lip, Carly refused to ask for their assistance. While they had been nothing but civil toward her, she didn’t doubt for a moment that if she couldn’t pull her own weight or became too much trouble, they’d kill her in the blink of an eye. Besides, she had somehow managed to accomplish every chore they’d given her thus far.
Turning her attention to the hide, Carly pulled it over the smooth, round rock between her legs and grabbed a fistful of black-brown hair. After adjusting the cool stone in her right hand, she attacked the skin with a vengeance. The razor-sharp edge of the flint careened into her left hand, efficiently scalping two knuckles.
Carly cried out in pain as she brought the wounded hand to her mouth.
“You do that wrong. Let me show you.”
Someone squatted beside her and reached for the stone.
“No, I can manage my—” Realizing the intruder spoke English, Carly glanced up quickly, her injury forgotten.
A petite Indian woman smiled brightly, sparking her dark eyes with dancing lights. She knelt beside the pelt. A single thick braid fell over her shoulder. She was small and compact, with a round face and tiny hands. An unmistakable warmth emanated from her.
“You speak my language?” Carly knew the question had already been answered, but she didn’t know what else to say.
The woman laughed lightly. “Yes, though I don’t get much practice. I am Little Bird. Black Hawk sent me to see how you are doing.”
“Black Hawk?” Because of the woman’s easy manner, Carly relaxed a bit, despite herself.
“My uncle. He thought you might grow weary of those two old clucks.” She nodded in the direction of Carly’s keepers.
They seemed not to hear or not to understand if they did hear. Little Bird laughed again and continued. “Black Hawk wished me to see you and sends his greeting. He will visit you in a few days.”
Carly had wondered if she would have an audience with the ominous chief. She’d caught a glimpse of him on two occasions. He seemed to be made of granite, never showing any expression on his chiseled face. He stood tall and proud. His voice was quiet, but it sent those about him scuttling off to do his bidding. It was obvious that all within the camp respected—or perhaps feared—him.
Just as Carly started to ask Little Bird about her uncle, a group of children ran past. They laughed at their game of chase and began circling the two women, kicking up a cloud of dust. Little Bird spoke harshly in her native language, although Carly noted the twinkle never left her eyes. The children stopped running and tried to appear chastised, but Carly realized they also knew they weren’t in serious trouble. They moved away quietly, then broke into a run again, their laughter echoing in their wake.
“I apologize.” Little Bird fanned the dust from her lap. “Sometimes children forget their manners.”
“It’s all right.” Carly giggled, thinking the wee ones’ good mood was infectious. She mimicked Little Bird’s actions to rid her dress of the dust. “Children are supposed to run and play. I’ve watched them these past few
days. Are there no more? I always see just these few.”
The other woman’s mood darkened immediately, and Carly feared she’d said the wrong thing. Was it anger or sadness she saw in the black eyes?
Little Bird lowered her voice, though no one there would’ve understood her words. “Many others were killed last summer. Soldiers raided our village while the men were away on the hunt. Many of our women, children, and elders were slaughtered before we could escape.”
The soft-spoken words held little emotion, yet they tore at Carly’s heart. She’d heard such stories of random acts of violence by men sworn to honor and protect human life. She hadn’t believed them to be until Kade relayed the events at Sand Creek, and now this.
Somehow the soft words of this stranger touched her. Before, when the matter was distant and didn’t involve her, Carly found it easy to side with the soldiers’ stories. Yet now, sitting among the quiet, content people of this camp and looking at the solemn face of Little Bird, Carly knew the woman spoke the truth—or at least what she believed to be the truth.
A sense of loyalty surged. Perhaps the braves had done a little raiding of their own before setting off on their hunt. A nearby town? A wagon train? It was possible, Carly told herself. Then why, sitting there before a woman whose eyes held not a hint of judgment, did Carly suddenly feel guilty?
Little Bird broke the awkward silence as she added, “It is not our way to speak of the dead. They will not enjoy their new life if we continue to beckon to them from this one.”
That squelched Carly’s next question. She wanted to ask about Kade. Was he alive when they found him? Had he suffered before he died? Had he asked about her?
The air grew heavy with the oppressing thoughts. She straightened her back, determined to make up for the blunder of her words. “The children are delightful. I’ve enjoyed watching them.” Carly smiled at the woman and realized she’d spoken the truth. The youngest generation of the camp had offered her several hours of amusement as she observed their antics. Funny, she didn’t think of them as savages at all . . . just children.
Before Carly could analyze this sudden awareness, Little Bird once again reached for the piece of flint. This time, Carly let the woman take the stone. Patiently the Indian showed her how to hold the instrument, how it had in fact been carved so it would perfectly fit a woman’s hand. The mood lightened, and Carly caught on quickly, allowing herself a moment of pride as she scraped hair from the thick skin almost as deftly as Little Bird had.
Feeling someone watching them, Carly slowly raised her gaze to a stand of trees a few feet behind Little Bird. A small child, hidden among the thin trunks, stared out with large, round eyes. The other woman turned to see what held Carly’s attention. With a broad smile, she beckoned to the girl. The petite observer moved toward them timidly. She settled herself in the woman’s lap, never taking her gaze off the stranger’s face.
Little Bird smoothed silken black strands away from the girl’s wide eyes and smiled at Carly. “This is my daughter.” She hesitated, working through a thought. “You would call her Summer Song.”
The corners of the child’s mouth lifted in a shy grin as she burrowed farther back in her mother’s embrace. Carly couldn’t help but smile at her. She was the prettiest little thing Carly had ever seen. Her face was round with chubby cheeks and a button of a nose. Soft black tresses reached just to her shoulders and fell across her forehead, despite her mother’s grooming. Those incredible eyes surely captivated everyone who saw her. Carly thought she resembled a doll.
“Hello, Summer Song. I am Carly.” She reached toward the child as if to shake her hand but stopped. These people did not share her customs, and she didn’t want to frighten the girl.
Summer Song looked up at her mother and spoke several words. Carly thought the child’s sweet voice did indeed sound like a song.
Little Bird laughed and interpreted for Carly. “She says your hair is like winter grass and your eyes are like spring grass.”
“I guess I do appear odd to her.” Carly smiled again at the child. “She is beautiful, Little Bird. You must be very proud.”
“She brings me much joy. Do you have children?”
Before Carly could answer, Summer Song rose from her mother’s lap and moved hesitantly toward Carly. She extended a tiny hand. Little Bird reached to restrain her, but Carly held up a palm to still the woman’s efforts. The child touched the honey strands of Carly’s hair, first gingerly. When neither woman stopped her, she took a soft curl in her hand and traveled the length of it. She turned and fled back to the safety of Little Bird’s embrace, giggling and burying her face against her mother’s breast. With one round eye, she peeked at Carly through a veil of ebony.
Both women laughed, and, despite her unconscious resolve to be a martyr, Carly found a friend.
Summer asserted itself, and the next few days seemed hotter than ever, leaving Carly to wonder if she had imagined the autumn nip in the air. Little Bird spent many hours with Carly, teaching her to do the daily tasks and chatting amiably about life with the tribe. She learned that she lived among a small group of Pawnee. While she remained hesitant about trusting them and sharing of herself completely with Little Bird, she enjoyed the woman’s company and stories. Mostly she enjoyed the time spent with Summer Song and the other children.
Carly noticed that every member of the tribe, especially the elders, treated the children with patience and love. No one seemed too busy for the rambunctious bunch or irritated by their antics. Except for a few babies Carly noticed strapped to boards on the backs of some of the women, Summer Song appeared to be the youngest. She would seek out Little Bird often, like one who wanted to explore the world bravely yet needed the frequent assurance that her mother was still nearby. The older children’s curiosity soon drew them to follow. Carly and Little Bird were often surrounded by the happy herd. They alone could pull Carly from the depression that plagued her, if only for a few brief moments.
As the two women followed several others to a nearby spring to gather water one morning, Carly could feel an excitement among the people. Women leaned close together, twittering like sparrows. Even the stoic braves seemed to be full of anticipation. She asked Little Bird about the unusual atmosphere rippling through the camp.
“A wedding party will arrive today. They come from a neighboring village to collect my sister. Twelve horses she brings!” At Carly’s quizzical expression, Little Bird continued. “Horses are very valuable to the Pawnee. Most of ours were stolen three moons ago by our enemies, the Cheyenne. It is rare for a bride to bring twelve horses, even when she is the daughter of a chief. It will be a night of feasting and dancing.”
The anxious Indians didn’t have long to wait. A rumble, like distant thunder, announced the arrival of the groom, his escorts, the dozen ponies, and the tribe’s own scouts who’d been sent out to intercept the visitors. People poured from their homes and dropped what they were doing to greet their old friends. Carly’s curiosity spurred her to rise from her place beside the tepee and observe the commotion at the other end of the camp.
Though the cocoon of Pawnee limited her view, she could see the new strangers perched proudly atop their mounts. One man, the groom she guessed, sat with a regal air. His hair hung free. A single black-and-white feather rose from the back of his head, secured by a narrow strip of leather. He wore no shirt, but a breast shield made of thin, hollow reeds covered his chest. More feathers hung from a hole in his earlobe, and a beaded rawhide band encircled his upper arm. His face appeared to be carved marble, his eyes narrow and menacing. As he slowly moved his gaze over the crowd, their murmuring died.
Carly wrinkled her nose in distaste. How could any woman choose such a bear for a husband? She couldn’t imagine this granite giant being the least bit warm, loving, or sensitive.
There was slight movement in the crowd as they made way for one of their own. Carly caught a glimpse of the tall man she had seen before and labeled as the Pawnee leader—Bl
ack Hawk, Little Bird had called him. He reached up to clasp the other man’s arm in a greeting. A silence fell that was so pervasive not even a sparrow twittered. After a poignant moment, the visiting brave lifted his free hand high overhead, displaying the ropes that led the prized ponies.
Immediately a collective cheer rose from the mass—a repetitive yip that grew in volume. The skittish animals danced and reared. From within the core, a dog began barking. The frenzy increased. All cheering died as the crowd scuttled backward. The groom’s horse reared nervously as the others clambered around him. The gathering parted. Men hurried women and children aside as three of the ponies broke free and bolted.
The crazed animals raced through the center of the village. Shouts of concern and unheeded commands followed. Carly stepped back to the safety of the tepee. Movement from the corner of her eye drew her attention from the stampeding ponies. The small band of children scurried from the path . . . all but one.
Summer Song! The little girl froze with fear as the powerful animals thundered toward her. She clutched a corn husk doll to her chest. Her round eyes grew even wider in fright. A scream split the air, and Carly realized it was her own. Without another thought, she ran toward the child.
Her legs seemed weighted. She glanced from the girl to the horses. The ground below her vibrated from the beat of their hooves. White madness shone around their wild eyes. Carly felt their hot breath on her neck as she lunged forward, arms outstretched. She hit the ground hard, sending every breath of air from her lungs. Razor-sharp hooves churned at the earth all about her.
She gasped for air, struggled to cover her head with her arms. She desperately searched for Summer Song. A powerful blow to the shoulder sent her reeling. Hot pain shot through her chest and down her arm. Another blow caught her in the temple, spinning her like a rag doll. Loud ringing blocked out the thunder as a lightning bolt seared a path through her brain.