Cheyenne Captive

by Georgina Gentry - Iron Knife's Family 01 - Cheyenne Captive

  Now it was her turn to smile. “The missing girl is small, has long yellow hair and pale blue eyes. She was taken from a Butterfield stage a few miles into the Indian Territory. Everyone else was killed. She wore a red dance-hall girl’s dress.”

  The captain sat up straight in his chair and his mouth fell open. “That’s right,” he said. “We talked with the saloon girl when the maid recognized the blue silk dress the slut wore.” He reached into his desk drawer and pulled out a gold locket, tossed it across to Gray Dove. “Is this the girl?”

  Gray Dove studied the miniature a long moment. “No, this is not the girl,” she answered positively, “but she looks a lot like this.”

  “That was a trick!” The captain smiled, obviously pleased with himself. “If you had said it was, I would have known you were lying. This is a miniature of Miss Van Schuyler’s mother. We found it under a seat cushion in the wrecked stage. Otherwise, we’d never have known she was even on that Butterfield.”

  The scout reached over and took the locket from Gray Dove’s fingers and studied the dainty miniature. “If I had a woman who looked anything like this, I’d purdee pay money to get her back! She does remind me a little of a gal I loved once but my gal’s hair was a little more red-gold.”

  The captain took the locket from the man’s dirty fingers with an impatient gesture and returned it to his desk drawer before turning back to Gray Dove. “Tell us what you know and I will see you get the reward. Where is the girl?”

  She hesitated, trying to decide how to handle this without endangering Iron Knife or bringing trouble to the tribes and, ultimately, to herself. “Some Indians have her.”

  “Aha!” the captain said triumphantly, jumping to his feet. “And they’ve heard about the reward and want to bring her in, is that it?”

  “Not exactly,” Gray Dove hedged. “She’s a captive, but the one who has her probably wouldn’t bring her in for any amount of money.” The thought infuriated her all over again.

  “I knowed it!” The bearded man slapped his knee and guffawed. “Some Injun buck’s taken a shine to her and we’re gonna have to kill him to get her back!”

  “No, I don’t want you to do that!” She grimaced at the idea. Whatever happened, she wanted nothing to happen to Iron Knife. “You won’t have to go to the Indian camp at all. You couldn’t find it anyhow.”

  The big scout tipped his hat back and looked at her with new respect. Greedy, conniving people always appreciate those qualities in others, she thought.

  “Missy, what you got in mind?”

  “You won’t have to come to the camp at all,” she said quickly. “Just give me the reward and I will bring the girl here.” She would, too, she thought grimly, if she had to knock her unconscious and throw her across a horse.

  The captain picked at his face. “You must take me for an idiot!” He snorted. “We just hand over the money and let you ride out, never to see you again! We’re not even certain you really know where the girl is.”

  The bearded man moved over to sit on the edge of the desk and exhaled smoke thoughtfully. “But Cap’n Baker, just suppose the little squaw really does know where she is and we pass up our one chance to get Miss Van Schuyler back?”

  “We can’t just give her the money and let her ride out of here—”

  “Hell, that ain’t what I had in mind!”

  “I won’t take you to the Indian camp,” Gray Dove said stubbornly. “He who has her is not there right now. But he would know if the soldiers had been there and would come looking for you. I want her gone before he returns but I will not tell you where the camp is.”

  She didn’t much care whether anyone else but herself and Iron Knife got hurt but she didn’t want this betrayal traced to her through the soldiers either.

  In the silence, the captain waved the smoke away. “Christ! Put that thing out! It smells worse than you do!”

  The scout frowned and tossed the cigar butt into the spittoon next to the captain’s desk. “I got an idea that might be pleasin’ to everybody,” he said finally.

  “I don’t know about all this,” the younger man said uncertainly, “Maybe I shouldn’t make any decision at all until the colonel gets back.”

  “And let him take all the credit?” the scout asked contemptuously as he spat into the spittoon. “Ain’t you the one who’s been hopin’ for some kind of medal or promotion so’s you can go back to New York?”

  The other’s face brightened. “This would do it, wouldn’t it? Rescuing the daughter of one of the richest men back East?”

  “I won’t lead you to the camp,” Gray Dove repeated.

  “No need to!” the big scout said soothingly with a placating gesture. “We’ll meet somewheres halfway. You bring the girl and we’ll bring the money; make an exchange.”

  Gray Dove nodded. “This sounds reasonable. But I get to choose the meeting place.” She thought a long moment. “I say the old, abandoned fort.” Fort Gibson had been abandoned only last year by the army to please the Cherokee tribe.

  She had nothing but contempt for the Cherokee and the others of the Five Civilized Tribes. They had let themselves be driven from their fine homes in the southeast United States and herded to the hostile Indian Territory like sheep. They weren’t well received by the savage plains tribes when they finally walked there. More than one-third of them had died on that winter death march ordered by President Jackson. No wonder the march would go down in history as “The Trail of Tears.”

  “Sounds like a good spot to me, Cap’n,” the big man said.

  Gray Dove stood up, pleased with herself. Fort Gibson lay about halfway between Fort Smith and the Cheyenne camp so there was no danger of the army accidentally stumbling on the Indians. She would knock Summer in the head and take her to the fort, getting rid of her before the war party returned.

  She turned to the officer. “We are agreed, then? Old Fort Gibson four days from now, about sundown?”

  The captain nodded.

  “Don’t forget the reward,” she called back over her shoulder as the scout took her elbow.

  “Yeah, Cap’n,” the scout said. “I’ll be right back. We need to talk about this.”

  The scout escorted her out of the building. Walking across the parade ground, he pushed his hat back and absently scratched the scalped spot. “Gawd Almighty!” He smiled at her. “If you ain’t the clever one! Looks like we’re gonna be rich, missy.”

  “I’m gonna be rich,” she said coldly eyeing him. ”Why should I cut you in on my reward. Nobody’s even told me how much money it is yet.”

  He seemed to consider a long moment as they walked toward her dun pony tied at the hitching rail in front of his quarters. “You’re plumb right,” he said finally. “I got no right to none of it so’s I’m gonna see you get every bit of that hundred dollars. You can buy a lot of pretties with that much money.”

  Gray Dove nodded and smiled as she mounted up. She had hoped it might be a little more, of course, since the girl’s father was so rich. Still, she’d never had a hundred dollars at one time in her whole life. The only thing that worried her now was how she could enjoy spending it without everyone in the encampment wondering how she came by it.

  The big, dirty man stood looking up at her. “Give some thought to us goin’ in together up at the Cherry Creek diggin’s in Colorado.”

  “We’ll see,” she said. The two of them were too much alike to trust each other very far. As she looked down into his bearded face, she wondered if she should trust him at all. It was no coincidence, she thought, that the Cheyenne word for “spider,” “veho,” and the Arapaho word for “spider,” “niatha,” both also meant “White Man.”

  “I have to get back to the camp before I am missed.” She reined her pony around to leave. “See you in four days at sundown at the old fort.”

  But he called after her as she started to ride west. “Hey, missy, I just thought, I don’t even know your name!”

  “Gray Dove!” she called b
ack over her shoulder as she moved out. “What’s yours?”

  “Jake,” he yelled as she rode away. “Jake Dallinger!”

  Chapter Seventeen

  Summer was almost sure that the Arapaho girl had been missing from camp the last several days, but she didn’t mention the fact to anyone. Perhaps Gray Dove had just decided to stay out of Summer’s way. She thought about speaking to Pony Woman and Pretty Flower Woman, then decided against it. She wasn’t really certain the girl was gone and, anyway, the women might wonder what Summer’s connection with the Arapaho girl was.

  At any rate, Gray Dove reappeared about sundown one day and the war party rode in unexpectedly at dawn the next morning. Summer forgot about her in the excitement of the homecoming. No one had really expected the war party’s return for several more days, but they had found the Pawnee earlier than expected and won a great victory.

  At dawn the war party whooped through the camp at a full gallop, Pawnee scalps fluttering at the end of poles. Summer ran out and anxiously looked about, realizing with relief that the blackened faces signaled there had been a great victory with no loss of life among the Cheyenne. The warriors drove a great herd of horses before them as they thundered into the camp.

  Summer had never known such excitement and her heart pounded as she searched frantically for his face among the shouting, whooping men, the rearing, snorting horses. Dogs barked and women trilled their high, thin songs of approval. Eagerly, she looked from man to man, peering into each blackened face, looking for the Appaloosa among all the milling, restless horses. Then her heart filled with love and pride as she spotted her man, so much bigger and more virile than the others. There was fresh coup paint on his horse to signify the new victories he had won.

  It was all she could do to keep from throwing herself into his arms as he dismounted in the milling crowd. But she remembered herself in time as his eyes found hers. Like a dutiful wife, she stepped forward to relieve him of his war shield and weapons while he gave her a curt nod. Old Scalp Taker and Blue Eagle came forward to grasp his arm and glean details of the victory since both the old warriors had stayed behind from this war party. The cool autumn weather made their old bones ache too much to pull a bow or ride a horse fast.

  Proudly, she stood holding his war gear, waiting for him to turn his attention back to her.

  “You will be happy to know I counted three coups in this battle,” he said formally, “and that I killed Bear’s Eyes himself!”

  She spoke in the halting Cheyenne that she had learned while he was away. “I am pleased that you have brought so much honor to your family and your tribe.”

  He smiled and she knew she had pleased him. “I am happy you are learning our language and our customs. Right now, I know you still think of yourself as Summer Van Schuyler, a white girl from Boston, because you have not yet fully given me every bit of your heart, holding nothing back.”

  “I’m not sure I will ever think of myself as anyone else,” she protested.

  He nodded, almost sadly. “Maybe the day I hope for will never come, the day you say what I want most to hear that will assure me you are mine and mine alone forever.”

  Summer turned away toward the tepee. “I am not sure I can ever completely turn my back and close the door forever on my own people and remember them no more. Nor do I know what it is you want to hear.”

  Iron Knife walked with her to the tepee. “I cannot tell you what it is, but you will know the answer in your heart if you ever have to choose between the two civilizations.”

  Now they were inside the privacy of their own tepee and he swept her off the floor, crushing her to him in speechless, mutual love.

  “Oh, I’ve missed you so much!” she murmured against his neck and he tilted her face up to his and kissed her deeply.

  “I thought I would not live to see you again!” he whispered. “I feel like pulling you inside me so that I will know this is reality and that we are together after all!” He embraced her so hard, she gasped and pulled away from him, laughing a little.

  “With broken ribs, I won’t be much comfort to you,” she teased.

  He laughed. “There is no time now for what I want from you. The war party will be expected to be guests of honor at a big feast and there will be dancing all night! I am going down to the river to clean up and then we shall put on our finest for all the festivities.”

  While he was gone, she laid out his best, softest deerskin shirt with the intricate beadwork, his finest moccasins, and hair ornaments.

  For herself, she put on a soft deerskin shift that Pony Woman had left over from the days when she was thin and young.

  She had taken down her hair and was brushing it as he returned clean and damp from the river. Wordlessly, he held out his hand for the porcupine tail brush and sat down on the floor with her body between his knees and started to brush her hair.

  Sighing, she leaned back against his damp chest, thrilling at the feel of his hard muscles. His breath was warm against her ear. “I can’t brush your hair, Little One, with you leaning against my chest.”

  Summer didn’t move and he ran his fingers through her hair. “I love for you to do that,” she whispered, closing her eyes as he stroked. There was something sensual and arousing, she thought, in having a man comb or run his fingers through her hair. She wondered as she enjoyed the feel of his hands why white men didn’t seem to realize that women liked this.

  “I love to do it,” he said softly. “Your hair feels like yellow cornsilk to my touch.”

  She could feel his damp, naked body against her and the light touch of his fingers made her shiver with anticipation. “You keep this up and we will never get to the feasting!” she warned.

  “Dont tempt me,” he chuckled as he pushed her forward a little so he could comb her long locks in slow, sensual strokes. He lifted her hair, kissed the back of her neck, and nibbled with small, gentle bites at the base of her skull. ”I’d rather stay here with you than go out to the festivities, but I can’t disappoint the people.”

  Summer smirked. “You don’t seem to mind disappointing me. I’m aching for you!”

  He stood, pulled her to her feet, and kissed both eyelids. “Later!” he promised. “Later!”

  It was indeed a great celebration, Summer noted as crowds of Cheyennes and Arapaho gathered. Each tepee sent wood for a big, main fire called hkao to be constructed in the middle of the circle for the victory celebration. The festivities started early and were in full swing by dark. The people painted themselves red and black and Summer herself proudly wore three red stripes across the top of her light hair to boast of Iron Knife’s new coups.

  The food was good and plentiful. Summer helped Pony Woman and Pretty Flower Woman prepare the mohktaen, the so-called Indian turnips, and the corn, squash, big haunches of venison and quail, fried bread, and even strong coffee from the traders heavily laced with sugar that the Indians called vikamapi.

  Someone who had just returned from the western part of the Indian Territory brought in part of a buffalo and the best parts, the tongue and heart, were reserved and served with much ceremony to the members of the victorious war party. But those few like Iron Knife who owned a dream shield, followed the old tabu and did not eat the heart or eat out of the kettle where the heart was cooked.

  As darkness fell and the dancing started, whiskey was brought in by some and she noticed the men she knew were from Gray Dove’s family were staggering about drunkenly.

  Iron Knife shook his head in disapproval. “The white man’s liquor will destroy the tribes much faster than bullets. If they are smart, they will not shoot at us but only find a way to bring whiskey to all the camps and annihilate the buffalo. Then we are truly doomed!”

  “Oh, let’s not be so gloomy tonight.” Summer smiled at him in the flickering light of the huge fire. “Let’s be happy we are together and not worry about anything else.”

  Glancing over, she caught Gray Dove’s glare and had a strange feeling that the girl
was plotting as usual. But somehow, the annoyed face told her something had gone wrong with Gray Dove’s plans. But then the dancing started and she gave no more thought to the sullen, dark girl.

  The Heemaneh, the half men-half women, led the scalp dances. These men who dressed like women and did women’s work aroused no scorn among the Cheyenne although they did not hunt or go on war parties like other men, Summer knew. They took no wives and lived with others like themselves. But there was only a handful of them among the Tsistsistas. They were great love talkers and played flutes and composed songs for different warriors who were trying to get a girl’s attention. The Heemaneh were in charge of most of the dancing and the music.

  One of the dances was “the sweetheart dance.” The Heemaneh stood out in the center of the dance square with the drummers in a line to one side. The women stood in a line facing south, the men opposite them. When the drums started, the man came over to his sweetheart opposite him and took her arm and they danced.

  Summer had a wonderful time, dancing in the firelight. In the long line with Iron Knife’s strong arm about her, she was proud to display her position as his sweetheart. In the shadows, she saw Gray Dove scowling as the night wore on but she was in too good a mood to let that bother her. If the girl gave her any trouble, she’d take her down and pull her hair again, Summer decided with spirit.

  Finally, the hour was late and the old storyteller sat down beside the fire and began to weave his magic spell of words beginning with the Sacred Stories of the Cheyenne’s early days. The people gathered around and sat down to listen. The Sacred Stories might be told only at night. To tell them in the daytime was tabu and would cause the teller to become hunchbacked.

  Summer was enthralled with the spoken history of a people who had no books, no written word, but told long-ago tales of bravery and things that had involved their folk hero, Sweet Medicine. Finally, the old man stopped. “That is my story,” he said. “Can anyone tie another to it?”