by Georgina Gentry - Iron Knife's Family 01 - Cheyenne Captive
As he sat down, an excited buzz rose as men discussed with their friends whether or not they would smoke. Iron Knife looked around at the others, caught in his indecision. He had waited ten years for this chance and now it was like ashes in his mouth as he looked at the excited men around him. While he should be thinking of taking coups and avenging his father, all he could see in his mind’s eye was a small, heart-shaped face and large blue eyes overflowing with tears as he rode away.
Clouds Above took the pipe and held it a long moment. The noise died a sudden death as he looked around. “I will smoke!” he announced solemnly. “I promise to ride against these traitors to all red men; these stealers of the arrows, these killers of my brother!” He took several puffs from the red clay pipe.
A member of the Fox Soldier band stood up. “I will not smoke!” he announced. “Not because I am afraid, for you all know my battle coups, but because I think the time is wrong. We should gather all the ten bands and renew the Sacred Arrows to give good medicine to this venture before we take to the warpath.”
He sat down and another man stood. “My friend, Lone Beaver, speaks true. We talk of war when what we should be doing is moving our camp tomorrow out of this hostile territory. I will feel safer when we are up in our winter hunting grounds among the Bents on the Arrow Point River, that which the whites call the Arkansas. The Bents are married among our people and it is a good place to be.”
The man sat down and a murmur ran through the crowd again.
Clouds Above nodded gravely. “Everything that has been said is true! We are far to the south and east of our usual buffalo plains hunting deer, for the buffalo seem more scarce this year and we delight in harassing the civilized tribes and stealing their ponies. Also, it is true that we do not have the time at this season to gather in the ten bands and go through the Sacred Arrows Renewal. However, I will take the war trail, for who knows when we shall cross the path of Bear’s Eyes again? But let each man examine his own tasoom, deciding for himself whether to smoke or no.”
Iron Knife held his breath and watched the pipe being passed gravely from man to man. Some smoked. Some held it a long moment, considering what his own medicine told him, and with a sigh passed it on, unsmoked. Torn by indecision, he watched the pipe being passed to each of his cousins in turn and they both smoked.
It was placed in his two hands and he stared down at it, the scent of pungent tobacco and kinnikinnik drifting to his nostrils. He could feel all eyes turned toward him expectantly because they knew that Bear’s Eyes had killed his father.
The Hotamitaniu, the Cheyenne Dog Soldier, was reared expecting to be killed on the battlefield. It was known that he who held the Dog Rope was certain to die against the tribes’ enemies. He knew it when he took that badge of courage. From his first faltering step, Iron Knife had been told that to die in defense of his people was glorious. And yet. life was very sweet and precious to him now that the small blonde had come into his life.
He hesitated, looking around the expectant faces and saw his uncle frown, perplexed. Iron Knife must smoke, he knew that. No matter what his heart told him he must ride to avenge his father or he and all his family would be laughed at and he would be unwelcome around many campfires.
For a moment, he wavered, regretting the fact that men could not live in peace and then he looked at the grim face of his uncle and thought of his father’s agonizing death. The grinning, misshapened face of Kiri-kuruks came to his mind, laughing as the Pawnee rode away.
Very slowly, Iron Knife raised the pipe and smoked it. In his mind, love warred against duty but he had sworn by duty first.
His hand trembled ever so slightly as he passed the pipe on and he nodded to his uncle who smiled back in proud satisfaction. The pipe slowly made its rounds and he tried not to think of Summer Sky as he watched it being passed from man to man.
At last, the meeting broke up. More than half had smoked and it was a war party of about thirty or forty men that Coyote Man and Clouds Above would lead tomorrow.
In angry resignation, he thought of the Sacred Arrows as he walked away, not wanting to talk to any of the other warriors. Legend said that when something terrible had happened like murder or was about to happen to the tribe, the arrows themselves would warn them. When next opened for viewing, the shafts of the Sacred Arrows would be stained with blood. He shivered, thinking of Angry Wolf, and wondered if this were true.
He dreaded the discussion with Summer that was sure to come and hoped he might not have to tell her until he was almost ready to ride out in the morning. Sometimes, he thought with trepidation, it was easier for a man to face an armed enemy than an angry woman.
It was apparent she had heard the rumors by the anxious way she confronted him. “Some of the women say men might be riding out against the Pawnee.”
He tried to avoid the unspoken question in her eyes. “A war party will be riding out at dawn tomorrow,” he said impassively.
“The women are uneasy that there will not be time to renew the Sacred Arrows first.” She sounded frightened.
He held his hands out to the fire. “It would take several weeks or more to send out messengers to the other eight bands.”
Summer looked puzzled. “Would they not come?”
“They would come,” he assured her from the fireside. “No one would dare risk the resulting bad luck by refusing to attend. Besides, the soldier societies are empowered to force attendance if need be by burning lodges and killing horses.”
She came over to the fire. “Would it take a long time for the Renewal?”
“Only four days for the actual ceremony,” he answered, and the arrows themselves will be put on display outside the Renewal tepee the morning of the fifth day. Four is the magic number of our people. But it takes time to build the shelter for the soldier bands who participate and the special renewal tepee. Some fear to wait, for we might lose the Pawnees’ trail. The snows will be coming soon and it will be no time for war.”
He took one of her hands, pulling her down beside him at the fire. How could he tell her he was riding away at dawn tomorrow, possibly to be killed?
She squeezed his hand absently. “What do these magic arrows look like?”
“Two of them are painted red and are called the Buffalo Arrows and symbolize the procurement of food. The other two are painted black and are called the Man Arrows and represent war and victory over our enemies.” He talked in great detail, trying to head off the question that he didn’t want to answer.
She looked at him eagerly. “I can hardly wait to see these Sacred Arrows!”
“Summer—” He paused, looking down at her small hand in his big one. “When the arrows are finally displayed on the morning of the fifth day, the Buffalo Arrows pointing upward and the Man Arrows pointing downward, no woman will be allowed to look on them.”
“What?” She looked amazed and annoyed. “I think the women should picket the whole proceedings in protest!”
He laughed in spite of himself. “Sometimes one cannot change tradition and custom quickly. Protesting and great noise only build resentment and anger and steel the heart against change. Your protesters would do better to work quietly for change as even a steady drip of water gradually wears down the hardest stone. Anyway, I will not be taking part in any future Renewals myself for fear of bringing bad medicine down on my people.”
She leaned her head against his shoulder. “Because of Angry Wolf?”
He nodded and sniffed the clean scent of her hair and knew she was worth all the trouble she had brought him. No, he would not tell her the legend of the blood on the arrows. Perhaps there was no truth in it and, anyway, it might be a year or two before anyone pledged another Renewal. It was not an annual event like the sun dance.
Her hair brushed his chin as she turned to look up at him. “But you are not thinking of going on this war party?”
It sounded more as if she were asking for reassurance than questioning his intent and this was the moment h
e had dreaded facing even more than the lances of the Pawnee.
He hesitated. “Summer, I must go. Please try to understand—”
“Why must you?” She sounded more wounded than angry as she scrambled to her feet. “Let the warriors of that other band see to their own revenge!”
“I must go!” he repeated stubbornly as he stood and looked at her. “The leader of the Skidi is Bear’s Eyes, the man who took the arrows many years ago, who is responsible for Texanna’s death, and ten years ago murdered my father!”
She looked at him, sympathy in her eyes. “But that was a long time ago,” she said. “Does revenge mean so much to you?”
Not as much as you do, he thought. But aloud, he said, “Do not the whites ever war for revenge or honor?”
“Men everywhere are the same!” Her eyes flashed in anger. “Women of any color would fight only to protect their homes and young ones!”
In the silence, they faced each other like combatants, and in the quiet, he could hear the wailing of a Hofnowa widow.
He nodded toward the sound. “That band has just had their women raped, their babies murdered in their cradleboards,” he reminded her. “If we do not retaliate, the Skidi may hit this camp next!”
He saw her shudder and her eyes pleaded with him. “Let someone else go on this war party! I fear for you and do not want you to go.”
“And I do not want to go, Summer Sky!” He pulled her to him and looked down into her eyes. “Since I found you, life has become very dear to me! No more do I look forward to dying in battle on some distant prairie with the animals scattering my bones about.”
“Then don’t go! What good is honor to a dead man? To a widow?” She put her arms around his neck and he felt her press her soft body against him. “If you care about me like you say you do, don’t go!”
He could feel her nipples through the deerskin as she pressed against his chest and he drew in his breath sharply.
“Little One,” he whispered. “Do not try to tempt me to break my pledge and disgrace myself and my father’s memory. I have already smoked the pipe and committed myself.”
She jerked away from him. “If you care nothing for yourself,” she raged, “what of me? What is to become of me if you are killed?”
This had been the major doubt that had plagued him all along—not his own future but hers. “Perhaps the old chiefs will reconsider your return to your people,” he answered. “If not, maybe Two Arrows would take you for his second wife or even Lance Bearer—”
“You would hand me over to another to warm his blankets?” Her eyes flashed in fury. “I thought you couldn’t bear the idea of any other man touching me?”
He tried to reach out to her but she shrugged his hand away.
“Do not white widows often remarry?”
“You sound as if you are almost certain you will be killed!” she raged. “If you try to give me to another, I’ll hang myself like the young squaws do when they are disappointed in love.”
He grabbed her, putting his thumbs under her jaw, forcing her to look up at him. “I get sick at the thought of another man touching you,” he whispered savagely, “but the Tsistsistas have held their land because they were willing to fight for it and we are a nation of warriors. We expect to lose many men in battle. If men did not take a second or third wife, widows and children would starve, yet the whites think us uncivilized—”
“I will kill myself before I will warm the blankets of another man!” Tears overflowed her eyes and ran down her face on to his hands.
He felt such frustration and helpless anger that he almost could have strangled her while he stood with his hands on her soft neck. He was caught between his love and his duty. There was no easy way out for him and she seemed determined to make it even harder.
Angrily, he released his hold and paced the tepee. “What would you have me do, then? I can think of no other alternatives! Even if I could convince the old chiefs to let you go, I’m afraid the whites wouldn’t want you back. Do you think any white man, even this Austin,’ would take you to wife now that I have stolen your virginity?”
“You didn’t steal it, I gave it to you willingly.”
“I told you that day you might regret it,” he reminded her gently.
“I regret it already,” she wept angrily, “for I thought you loved me and now I find you don’t!”
Roughly, he jerked her to him. “Do not do this to me, Summer Sky! Do not make me choose between you and my people! I love you like I have loved no other woman, but a man must put his honor and duty first!”
He tried to gather her into his arms, but she slapped his face.
“I hate you!” she cried as she fought him.
Fury overwhelmed him and he flung her from him onto the buffalo robes. “No woman has ever dared to do what you have just done!” he seethed. “And only one man still lives who has struck my face in insult! If you were anyone else, I would have killed you by now!”
She only answered by sobbing wildly.
“Even if I return, I am going to speak to the old chiefs about sending you back to your people since you obviously don’t belong with mine. I was a fool to think love could bridge the chasm between our two civilizations!” He turned on his heel and went out to make ready for the war party, leaving her sobbing on the buffalo robes.
That afternoon, he saw Coyote Man and Clouds Above taking a pipe to the medicine man to ask his prayers and help against the enemy. Then they took a sweat in the sweat lodge to purify themselves. The leaders cut off little pieces of their skin and offered them as sacrifices, leaving them under the traditional buffalo skull that always guarded the entrance to the sweat lodge.
In the evening, those who were going on the war party marched around the circle of tepees, singing wolf songs. Some of the women relatives accompanied them, but of course Summer still wept in their tepee and did not go. As the warriors stopped in front of each lodge to sing, the owners came out and presented members of the war party with small gifts for luck such as tobacco and arrows.
Late that night, he lay sleepless and alone, for Summer had taken her blankets and crawled over on the other side of the fire pit by herself.
He found himself not only angry and sad but puzzled. He wondered what white men did when their women became angry and moved out of their beds? He wondered if they ignored the situation or begged? Not knowing how to deal with the small blonde, he lay there sleepless and listened to her weep and muttered silent curses.
Hours passed and he had never been so miserable. The same small girl who could give him heaven could also take him down to hell.
Finally, he stood and looked at the back she turned toward him. “Summer?”
She didn’t answer but he was sure she was not asleep. “Come back to my blankets where you belong. I’m cold without you.”
“I don’t care,” she answered peevishly. “I’m cold, too! Tomorrow night, you’ll probably have a Pawnee captive and she can warm your bed!”
He had taken all he was going to take from his love. He decided to ignore the last remark as he stood looking down at her.
“If I’m cold and you’re cold, too, it’s time to put an end to this foolishness.” So saying, he scooped her up, blankets and all, before she had any hint of his action and carried her back to his bed.
But she fought him as he put her down and snuggled in beside her. “I won’t sleep with you! I hate you!”
“I don’t hate you, I love you!” he whispered as he pulled her cold body next to his.
She struggled but not too hard as he ran his warm hands up under her shift. “Let go of me!”
He didn’t let go. Instead, he pulled her more tightly against him so he could warm her with his big body.
“Don’t fight me, Summer,” he whispered. “I want to feel you in my arms one last time so I will have the memory to take with me if I should die on this raid.”
She gave a strangled cry and then clung to him, shaking with sobs. “I can’t
bear to let you go! We have so little time before dawn.”
“Hush, Little One.” He kissed the tears from her cheeks and stroked the yellow hair. “Whatever time is left we can use to make memories that will last us both forever if need be.”
He ran his callused, hard hands over her soft, chilled skin, stroking every inch of her, even the soles of her small feet as he warmed her with his touch. And when he stroked her breasts in light, featherlike touches, he felt her nipples harden and grow taut under his palms.
She whispered, “I need you. Take me!”
He took her ever so gently, not so much in lust but as a promise and a fulfillment of his devotion. When he got her up to the Big Timber country he would marry her, he decided. He was almost sure of her love now and he had never loved another woman so much. Still, he lay sleepless most of the night with Summer in his arms and felt her small body shaking with sobs after she thought he slept.
Long before dawn, he was up, gathering his weapons and his father’s howan, the dream shield, from its tripod outside the tepee. He stripped to nothing but a breechcloth and moccasins for the coming battle although he took along his buffalo robe cloak if the unpredictable weather should turn cold.
Some warriors took more than one pony, but he trusted none to carry him into battle but the big Appaloosa. It had been given to him by a chief of the Nez Perce, that tribe who bred those special horses in the faraway Washington valley of the Palouse River. Once in his wanderings, he had been there and saved the chiefs small son’s life. There was probably not another horse colored like this one far and wide on the buffalo plains.
He patted the stallion fondly as he tied a small parfleche of pemmican behind the light, Indian saddle in case they should not find game along the way.
Now, as the first pink streaks of dawn fingered the sky, he painted the symbols on the bay war pony with white clay. He drew zigzag marks down its front legs to make it swift as lightning and dragonflies along its flanks, for it had been his father’s spirit animal and was his, too. A dragonfly was hard to see and hard to catch as it moved. Then he made hand prints on the bay Appaloosa’s shoulders to signify he had ridden down men in battle and killed them in hand-to-hand combat. Next he bound up the stallion’s tail for war as was the custom.