by Joni Keever
As quickly as they had come, they were gone. Carly’s limp body rolled to a stop in the swirling dirt. She blinked rapidly against the sting of dust and tears. Trying to focus on the blue of the sky, she fought the blackness that threatened. Even as it overpowered her, she cursed the darkness—for it knew no honor, seducing her with a familiar brown gaze and warm rich voice.
Chapter Fifteen
Carly awoke slowly, blinking her eyes to clear the haze from her vision. In fragments, she remembered the wild-eyed, powerful ponies stampeding toward Summer Song. She remembered falling in their path to try and save the child. She remembered a strong arm slipping gently behind her shoulders and the last face she’d seen.
“Kade!” She bolted upright and instantly wished she hadn’t. Piercing pain shot through her head. A wave of nausea washed over her. Little Bird ran to her side.
“Carly, you lie still.” She gently pushed her patient back to the pallet. “You took a hard blow to the head. You must rest awhile.”
“But I thought . . . I thought Kade—” She realized, even as she tried to explain, his image had been a vision, a gift offered in unconsciousness. Kade was dead.
“Summer Song? How is—”
Little Bird smiled broadly. “She is shaken but unharmed.”
“But how? I thought she got caught in the stampede. I tried to reach her . . . I—” She struggled to rise again to a sitting position. Little Bird pressed her backward once more.
“You did reach her. Your fingertips brushed her chest, pushing her out of the ponies’ path. I am only saddened you were injured. Carly, I owe you many thanks. You are . . . how do you say . . . a hero! Yes, you are a hero!”
Carly shook her head slowly, careful not to disturb the subsiding pain. “I did what anyone would have done. I’m just happy she’s all right.”
As she looked around, she realized she had been brought to a different tepee. “Where are we, Little Bird?”
“This is one of the chief’s tipis. He has four, besides his own, that his family members live in. He is most grateful to you for saving the life of his only great-niece.”
“Great-niece?” Carly vaguely remembered Little Bird was somehow related to the chief.
“Yes, my uncle ordered you to be moved to one of his lodgings, and I asked for you to share mine.”
Little Bird spoke with so much pride, Carly knew she ought to be impressed. It sounded as if such an honor rarely occurred. Yet she couldn’t help wonder if the horses should have done a more thorough job and sent her to be with her parents . . . and Kade, some part of her whispered.
She tried to raise her arm to identify the source of the low throb in her forehead. “Ooooh.” Quickly lowering her arm, Carly reached with the other hand to tentatively touch her shoulder. It now throbbed every bit as steadily as her head did.
Little Bird stilled her actions. “You must lie quietly. You have a bruised shoulder, though no bones broke. It will be sore for many days. You also have a cut and big bump on your head. I am happy to say, it did not need stitching. We have cleaned and wrapped your wounds. I have a drink here for your pain.” She reached for a gourd cup and lifted her patient’s head off the furs.
Carly eyed the concoction warily. She arched a brow at Little Bird, then closed her eyes at the discomfort that slight action brought. She was ready to drink before her caretaker even answered.
“It is from what you might call turnip—dried, ground, and mixed with water. This will take away your pain so you can sleep. If you feel like attending the festivities tonight, you will be an honored guest.”
Settling back, Carly thought sleep sounded heavenly. As her eyelids grew heavy, the vision returned. She felt warm and secure under the scrutiny of that rich, brown gaze. “Little Bird,” she murmured, “how did I get here?” The woman’s words sounded far away as Carly struggled to hear her answer.
“Black Hawk carried you. He has stopped by to check on you several times and will return soon.”
Even as Carly slipped away, she wished she could feel at least a bit as impressed as Little Bird sounded. President Lincoln had been a great man. Black Hawk was a simple figurehead of a savage people.
#
“I have someone here to see you.”
Little Bird’s voice roused Carly from sleep. Remembering the overwhelming pain accompanied by sudden actions, she turned slowly. To her relief, only mild discomfort reminded her of the morning’s incident.
The Pawnee woman stepped forward, steering a reluctant child by the shoulders. Summer Song resisted her mother’s efforts. Her bottom lip swelled in a pout. She glared at Carly from beneath pinched brows. Little Bird spoke softly yet firmly to her daughter.
They stopped an arm’s length away, and both women waited. Finally Summer Song peered up at her mother and protested loudly. Little Bird’s eyes widened in shock. She started to respond, but the girl continued. This time as she finished, she pointed a stubby finger in Carly’s direction, finally turning with another fierce stare.
Bewildered, she looked to Little Bird for an explanation. A deep blush warmed the woman’s copper coloring. She knelt quickly by her daughter, turning the small, rigid frame to face her. Holding her by the shoulders, Little Bird scolded the child soundly. Carly noticed the bottom lip grow in defiance.
Her curiosity won out over etiquette. “Little Bird, what is it? Why is she upset? What did she say?”
Again the woman’s color heightened. She glanced from the child to Carly and back.
“Please tell me,” Carly insisted.
After a moment’s hesitation, Little Bird gave in. “She said you pushed her in the dirt . . . hard. And you broke her doll.”
Carly noticed the corn husk remnants in the child’s hand. She wanted to laugh, but one look at Summer Song’s stubborn and scorned expression squelched that urge.
“My daughter shames me, Carly. I have explained to her—”
“It’s all right, Little Bird. May I talk with her?” When the woman nodded, Carly smiled at the girl. “I’m very sorry if I hurt you, Summer Song.” Little Bird quietly translated Carly’s words. “I was afraid those wild horses would hurt you much worse if I couldn’t move you out of their way. I didn’t have enough time to pick you up and run, only to push you.”
She waited for some response. None came, but the furrowed brow seemed to ease a bit. Carly continued. “I am also sorry I broke your doll. I know she was your special friend, and I can’t fix her.” She paused. “But, if you’ll let me, I can make you a new doll, just like my mother made for me when I was a little girl. You could help. What do you say? Can we be friends again?”
Summer Song hesitated until she received a nod of encouragement from her mother. The tot shuffled her feet forward, stirring dust from the earthen floor of the lodging. A tiny hand rose to her mouth, and two fingers slipped in between the full lips to be suckled. Once she reached Carly’s pallet, she stopped.
Carly stared up at her with a pleading grin. Just as she thought the child might turn and run away, a smile spread slowly behind the slobbery fingers. She dropped to her knees and gave Carly a tight hug. Though the action made her wounds throb, Carly didn’t wince or try to hurry the girl. She slipped her good arm around the small body and squeezed. Summer Song felt so warm, so sweet. Tears threatened as Carly realized how long it had been since she had shared in such an act of affection.
“Off with you, wee one. I must feed Carly this broth before she sleeps once more.” Little Bird repeated the order in Pawnee, brushing hair from the child’s eyes.
Summer Song bounded toward the tepee’s door flap. Carly turned her attention to Little Bird as she reached for a gourd bowl. Both women stopped at the sound of the quiet voice.
“Car-ly.” Summer Song watched their reactions, then repeated her new word. “Car-ly.” This time, she smiled broadly and added a Pawnee phrase before scampering away.
Carly looked to Little Bird for the translation.
“She said, ‘Thank
you for pushing me, my special friend.’”
#
“Little Bird, I don’t care about going. And I certainly don’t want to be honored.” Carly repeated the arguments for the fifth time. She made no more progress now than she had a half hour ago. The Pawnee woman had helped Carly dress. She tied a soft hide sling around Carly’s neck to support her arm. She sighed deeply as she finished combing the tangles from Carly’s shoulder-length hair.
“If I thought your injury kept you in the furs, I would not mind leaving you behind. Why do you wish to be alone? Do you not enjoy good food, laughter, dancing?”
Carly lowered her eyes. She did indeed enjoy all those things. How could she tell this strange woman that back in Virginia, she had been the belle of the ball? She’d had to choose not only between parties planned for the same evenings but beaus who’d offered to escort her. Back in Virginia, grand galas had filled Carly’s weekly calendar. But this was not Virginia.
Little Bird seemed to sense at least part of Carly’s hesitation.
“I know this is not the life of your fathers and their fathers before them, but it is a good life and all that we can offer you. You must learn to enjoy each new sunrise. Those who look after the setting sun for too long will soon only see blackness.”
Both women sat quietly for several minutes. A breeze blew in under the skirt of the tepee, which had been raised two feet and tied to the poles for just that purpose. It felt cool and soothing, promising a pleasant evening for the feast.
Little Bird finally rose to her feet, gently pulling on Carly’s good arm. “Come. At least long enough to feed yourself. Then, if you still wish, you can come back to the tepee . . . alone.”
Once outside, the woman led Carly through throngs of people. Men squatted in small groups, laughing and rolling dice made of buffalo bones. Little Bird talked comfortably as they walked.
“This is our season for rest. The men like to gamble. The women like to gossip. Our summer hunt was successful. We have much meat and will return home soon to harvest the vegetables for the winter.”
“But I assumed this was your home.”
“No. We come this way each year, after spring planting, in search of the buffalo.” Little Bird grew solemn for a moment. “The herds grow smaller and smaller. Some say the buffalo will all be gone one day. I used to laugh at them, for I remember the first time I saw the great herd spread across the land, reaching farther than my eyes could see. But now, with the coming of the white man . . .”
She glanced up suddenly, aware she may have offended her new friend. Carly smiled reassuringly at the woman. She’d listened to men brag of butchering the mighty animals for their hides and tongues, leaving large numbers to rot in the harsh summer sun.
The Pawnee valued the buffalo, indeed, depended on it for much of their existence and used almost every scrap. Thanks to Little Bird’s tendency to chatter, Carly realized she had learned a lot about these people in the past few days.
Buffalo skins provided robes, drums, blankets, and tepees. Hides were softened by rubbing with a mixture of brain and fat, which Carly found interesting but had yet to force herself to attempt. Leg tendons became thread and bowstrings. The hair was braided into rope, rolled into balls for games, and used to stuff cradle boards, pillows, and moccasins. Spoons, tools, and drinking cups were once horns. The women collected dried buffalo chips as fire fuel. Rawhide strips became rope. Wet pieces were stretched over stone heads to fasten to war clubs and around flint points to attach to arrow shafts.
The resourcefulness of these people impressed Carly. She found the slaughter and disregard as distasteful as Little Bird seemed to. They continued their casual stroll around the village. “So, you have two camps?”
“No. The tepees become travois. We pack everything——and journey home when Tirawa Atius tells us to.”
“Tirawa Atius? Is he another chief?”
Little Bird giggled. “Not a chief . . . the Great Spirit. He reveals himself to us in the stars at the time of falling leaves, and we go to gather the crops.”
The women stopped, and Little Bird introduced Carly to several older girls. They eyed her with curiosity and uncertainty, but each smiled shyly. Carly returned the gesture, though she couldn’t understand or pronounce the names by which Little Bird called them.
“So, where is your home? Is it far?”
“It is many days’ journey to the north. We have to come farther each season to find the herds. Our life there is good. I am always happy to return to our lodges.”
They had traveled full circle and found themselves back at their tepee. An older woman passed them carrying a large bowl of fruit. Little Bird grabbed a handful of sweet berries and received a scolding in mock severity. The pair moved on to sit beneath a shady tree.
“Do you not live in the tepees once you return home?” Carly took an offered berry.
“They are too cold for the winters there. Our lodges are sturdy, made with heavy poles, long grass, and dirt. The fire keeps them warm. They are fashioned like the sky.” Little Bird moved her arm in an arc to indicate the dome shape and popped the last of the berries into her mouth.
“How many lodges are there in your village?” Carly found she suddenly had dozens of questions about this strange way of life.
“Eight. We are a small tribe.”
“Eight? But, Little Bird, there must be three hundred Pawnee here.” Carly glanced at the many people surrounding them, realizing she’d never seen them all assembled at once, except at the funeral, and she’d been too frightened to notice very much then.
“Yes. Our lodges are quite large. As many as, um, I think you say, forty people live in a lodge. Some families also bring in their favorite dogs and horses.”
“Horses! Inside? With people? I can’t believe that!” Carly remembered her mother’s expression when she caught her six-year-old daughter hiding a kitten in her bedroom. She’d ordered the animal to be deposited outside and scrubbed the entire room, twice. Carly allowed a giggle to bubble up, and, at Little Bird’s urging, she shared that story and then several others from her childhood.
“At last,” exclaimed Little Bird, rising to her feet. “We can eat now. The men have come out of their council. My stomach complains loudly. Come, Carly—I will introduce you to my uncle.”
Carly suddenly felt nervous. She’d had no contact with most of the tribe members. Other than Little Bird and the children, only a few women had approached Carly, and then it was simply to indicate they wished her to perform some task.
Despite her curiosity, she hadn’t paid much attention to the others, especially the men. They walked around nearly naked, with only a thin piece of hide drawn up between their legs and belted at their waists. Carly still blushed clear to her honey-colored roots when she dared to watch one, even for a second. Besides, these people made it a point not to stare at her, though she was surely an oddity among them. She got the feeling they found such blatant observation insulting or, at the very least, rude.
Before Carly could gather her wits, Little Bird had dragged her to stand before several men with stern expressions. Carly focused on the one she knew to be the chief, Black Hawk. And to her dismay, he in turn focused on her.
The name suited him. His nose bent like a hawk’s beak. His eyes were the blackest black and so intense Carly fought the urge to look away. His head had been scraped free of hair save for a section on top that stood straight up, longer in front than at the crown. His face was also free of hair, including eyebrows. He wore many adornments in both ears—feathers, beads, colored rocks, even silver. In addition to his loincloth and moccasins, the chief had donned a highly decorated vest with fringe trimming. He loomed so large before her, she shivered.
Little Bird spoke softly to him, indicating Carly with a nod of her head. After a barely audible grunt from the imposing chief, the woman continued in English.
“Carly, this is my uncle, Windwalker. He—”
“Windwalker?” Confused, Carly turned
her attention from the leader to Little Bird. “I thought you called him Black Hawk. If he’s Windwalker, then who is this Black Hawk you keep referring to?”
Little Bird’s brows drew together to mirror Carly’s confusion. She opened her mouth to answer, but a low, deep voice behind them stopped her.
“I am who she refers to, Carly. I am Black Hawk.”
Chapter Sixteen
Carly spun around to identify the speaker. “Kade! You’re alive!”
“Very much so.” He turned his quizzical expression from her to the others, seeking the source of her confusion.
“But I was there. I saw you. I watched them set fire to your body and . . .” Carly shook her head, wondering if she had been sleeping and dreamed the entire thing. Perhaps she was sleeping even now. That was it. She and Kade were still in the cave. She would awaken and find him well and strong and ready to take her to Marshall. They would—
Kade’s baritone laughter broke through her stream of thoughts. She looked up at him to see light dancing in his black eyes.
“That wasn’t my funeral. It was Red Wolf, a man many years older. He had the long death, a growth in his throat. Why did you think that was me? Didn’t Little Bird tell you I was alive? Didn’t she tell you I sent her to befriend you and that I’d been by to check on you?”
His questioning gaze darted to the smaller woman. She seemed just as bewildered as he did and turned to Carly for answers.
“Well, yes, but, no, not really. Your stallion carried the body, and I couldn’t find you, and they didn’t answer when I asked about you. They kept referring to Black Hawk, but I didn’t know—”
His rich laughter interrupted her once again.
Her confusion gave way to her temper. Hot blood rushed to her cheeks. “Just what about this do you find humorous?”
“I’m sorry, Carly.” He brought his outburst under control but couldn’t quite erase the smile from his face. “I didn’t mean for this to happen, but I’ll just bet you were fit to be tied. I bet you were ready to kill me yourself for leaving you alone with all these savages.” His laughter threatened to bubble again.