Tales of Western Romance (12 page)

Winter Star did not begrudge the hours she
spent caring for the white man. When he grew restless, she sang to
him, pleased that the sound of the old songs soothed him. Other
times, she stroked his forehead with her fingertips, and this, too,
seemed to calm his troubled spirit.

She stayed at his side throughout the day and
night, leaving only long enough to perform her evening chores and
eat a hurried meal with her parents.

Though they had told her to look after him,
now that his wound had festered, it seemed a waste of time and
effort to try and save him when he was fated to die. Elk Hunter
said as much as he lit his pipe and Eagle Woman nodded in
agreement. But neither thought to try and stop Winter Star from
going to the white man.

Winter Star sat with the prisoner all night,
her hand clutched tightly in his as the fever raged through him. It
grieved her to see him in pain.

The wound in his side looked no better in the
morning. Fearing the
vehoe
might die, Winter Star again
sought her grandfather’s advice.

The old man nodded as Winter Star described
the appearance of the raw, angry wound and the thick, yellow pus
oozing from it.

“
Dissolve a chunk of salt in warm
water,” Yellow Shield instructed. “After you have washed the wound
with the salted water, you must probe inside the wound. Perhaps
there is a bit of cloth or dirt lodged inside preventing the wound
from healing properly.”

“
What if I find nothing
there?”

The old man shrugged fatalistically.
“Sometimes people die in spite of all that we can do. The white
man’s fate rests with
Maheo
.”

Winter Star nodded, but she looked so
distressed Yellow Shield felt he had to offer her some ray of hope,
however slim. Handing her a bag of herbs, he said, “Try these,
child. Perhaps they will help. At best, they will ease the
pain.”

“
Na-e’ese, Namshim,
” Winter Star
said gratefully.
Thank you, Grandfather.

She hurried back to the white man, the bag of
herbs clutched to her breast.

The
vehoe
began to thrash about as she
washed the area surrounding the wound, swore mightily as she
swabbed the ragged gash with salted water.

“
You must lie still,” Winter Star
pleaded softly. “I cannot help you if you fight against
me.”

Culhane grew quiet at the sound of her voice.
Through a red haze of pain, he saw the Indian girl bending over
him. Reaching out, he tried to push her hand away from his side,
but he was weak, so weak. With ease, she removed his hand from
hers. He cursed softly, angered by the pain she caused him. Why
didn’t she just let him die in peace?

Winter Star chewed on her lower lip as she
gently probed the bloody wound, searching for whatever prevented
the wound from healing properly.

The white man groaned, his whole body
convulsing with pain as her finger inched deeper into his mutilated
flesh.

Winter Star uttered a triumphant cry as her
questing finger brushed against something besides muscle and torn
flesh. Seconds later, she pulled the object from the wound. It was
a piece of wadded up blue cloth, no bigger than the tip of her
thumb.

Tossing the scrap of bloodied cloth aside,
Winter Star rinsed the wound with salted water; then, making a
fresh poultice, she laid it over the wound and bound it with a
strip of clean cloth.

With a heartfelt sigh of gratitude, she
offered a silent prayer of thanksgiving to
Maheo.

Chapter 3

Winter Star knelt beside the river, filling a
waterskin, her thoughts, as always, drifting toward the white man.
She wondered who he was, and where he had come from. And if he had
a woman waiting for him somewhere.

She was about to return to her mother’s lodge
when she heard Willow call her name.

“
Winter Star,” Willow called again.
“Wait.”

Winter Star smiled as her friend ran up to
her.

“
I have not seen you for many days,”
Willow said. “Tell me, what is the
vehoe
like? Does he smell
bad? Is he built like our men? Does his skin feel the
same?”

“
Willow! What are you
saying?”

The girl shrugged. “I have never seen a white
man up close. My mother has forbidden me to go to your lodge while
the
vehoe
is there. I just wondered if white men are, you
know, different.”

“
I do not know if the
vehoe
is
different or not,” Winter Star retorted with a toss of her head. “I
have no one to compare him to.”

“
Surely you have seen a man without his
breech clout,” Willow replied.

Winter Star grinned. “Just one. Your little
brother, Black Beaver.”

Willow laughed. “Boys and men are all the
same. One grows into the other.”

Winter Star giggled behind her hand.

“
Why do your parents make you spend so
much time looking after the white man?”

“
They do not make me,” Winter Star
answered with a shrug.

Willow’s eyes grew wide. “You stay with him
because you want to?”

“
Yes,” Winter Star said
defiantly.

“
Why?”

“
I do not know.” Winter Star looked
down, her fingers toying with the handle of the waterskin. “He
needs me.”

Willow nodded, her expression thoughtful as
she studied her friend. “He is going to die soon.”

“
I know.”

“
It is good to kill the soldier coats!”
Willow remarked vehemently. “I wish I could kill him
myself!”

Winter Star nodded. She could understand
Willow’s hatred. Her friend’s father had been killed by the Long
Knives last winter.

“
You do not wish to see him dead, do
you?” Willow accused. “You like this man, don’t you?”

“
Yes.”

Willow shook her head. “How can you have
sympathy for him? He is
vehoe!
They have no honor. Their
words are like the wind, impossible to see, impossible to
hold.”

“
He is different.”

“
Different,” Willow said scornfully.
“How?”

“
I do not know.”

“
I do not understand you,” Willow said.
“The whites bring nothing but trouble to our land, and now you say
you care for this man. I think it is good that he will die
soon.”

“
I do not wish to speak of his death,”
Winter Star said curtly. “There must be some good white men. They
cannot all be bad.”

“
I have never heard of a good white
man, nor do I believe there is any such thing.” Willow glanced past
Winter Star and smiled brightly. “I see Young Hawk coming this way.
Do you want to be alone with him?”

“
Not now.”

“
I thought you cared for
him.”

“
I do, but Magpie Woman and her sister
are also walking this way, and I do not want them to see me talking
to Young Hawk alone.”

Willow nodded. Magpie Woman would tell the
whole village that Winter Star and Young Hawk had been together,
alone.

Young Hawk nodded at the two girls as he
approached. Willow was a pretty girl, as slender as the tree for
which she had been named, but it was Winter Star who drew his gaze.
She was the most beautiful girl in the village and he was
determined to have her for his wife.

“
The Fox Soldiers are having a dance
tonight,” he said, his gaze on Winter Star’s face. “Will I see you
there?”

“
I do not know,” Winter Star replied
softly. “I must ask my mother.”

“
And if she says it is all
right?”

“
Then I will be there,” Winter Star
said. She glanced at the waterskin in her hand then smiled at Young
Hawk. “I must go. My mother is waiting for me.”

Young Hawk watched her out of sight before
turning to face Willow. “Does she speak of me?”

“
Sometimes.”

“
What does she say? Does she speak of
marriage?”

Willow smiled impishly. “Sometimes. Of
course, it is Black Otter she speaks of at such times.”

“
Black Otter!” Rage filled the young
warrior’s eyes. “He is old enough to be her father! And he already
has two wives. I...” Young Hawk glared at Willow. She was kidding
him, of course. It was the way of maidens.

He drew himself up to his full height as she
began to laugh. With a curt nod, he turned and walked down river,
the back of his neck burning with anger and embarrassment.

Willow laughed until she was breathless, and
then, suddenly, her expression grew serious. It was not Black Otter
that Young Hawk should worry about, but the white man.

Chapter 4

Two days later, Riley Culhane awoke
clear-eyed, as hungry as a grizzly after a winter’s sleep. Feeling
weak, he sat up, his hand going to his side as a twinge of pain
darted through him.

Peeling back the bandage swathed around his
middle, he examined the wound. It seemed to be healing. The skin
around the mouth of the wound was no longer raw and red but a
healthy shade of pink. The ominous red streaks had disappeared.

“
Bless the girl,” he murmured
fervently. “She’s saved my life.” And cut me loose, he mused,
realizing for the first time that his hands and feet were no longer
bound.

Hearing footsteps, Culhane pulled the buffalo
robe over his nakedness, wondering, as he did so, what had become
of his uniform pants and boots.

He smiled at the girl walking toward him,
recognizing her as the one who had nursed him. She was a beautiful
creature, lithe and lovely as a young doe.

She came to a halt when she saw that he was
sitting up. Turning on her heel, she went back to her lodge.

Moments later, she returned, followed by the
warrior who had taken Culhane prisoner.

Before Culhane could protest, the warrior
yanked him to his feet, bound his hands behind his back with a
strip of rawhide, and dragged him to a stout wooden post near the
edge of the village. With a deft movement, the warrior dropped a
noose around Culhane’s neck, secured the end to the top of the
post, then strode briskly away.

Muttering an oath, Culhane sank down on his
heels on the hard ground, his back resting against the rough-hewn
post with his long legs drawn up to his chest to shield his
nakedness. From here, he had a clear view of the Indian camp. There
were about sixty lodges located in a wide circle. He noticed all
the entrances faced east, toward the rising sun. All the lodge
covers were decorated, some with animals, some with birds, others
with suns or moons or stars.

A range of mountains loomed in the West, a
forest of pine trees bordered the far side of the camp, a lazy
river flowed along the southern boundary.

Glancing around, he saw drying racks heavy
with meat. Shaggy, brown, buffalo robes were pegged to the ground,
hairy side down, while women scraped away the meat and fat. Tripods
stood outside most of the lodges. He surmised the women did most of
their cooking outside when the weather permitted. The Indian horse
herd grazed in the distance. He could see several young boys
wandering among the horses, swinging aboard their bare backs,
hanging from their necks with all the ease of circus
performers.

Shortly, people began to emerge from their
homes. Women made their way to the river for fresh water, or to the
forest for wood. Young boys tumbled out of the lodges like puppies,
eager to discover the adventures of a new day. Little girls tagged
at their mother’s heels, learning early how to prepare a meal or
tan a hide. Warriors emerged from their lodges stretching
sleep-weary muscles as they made their way to the river to
bathe.

Soon, the smell of roasting meat filled the
air. From somewhere in the distance came the rich aroma of looted
Army coffee. Culhane’s stomach began to growl loudly, reminding him
he hadn’t eaten a full meal in several days.

Children played all around him, not daring to
get too close to the strange white man, but curious just the same.
Occasionally a man or a woman would walk past Culhane, their dark
eyes filled with scorn when they looked at him.

An hour later, the girl who had tended his
wounds approached him. Kneeling at his side, she offered him a
drink of water from something that looked suspiciously like the
bladder of a deer. Then she spooned a bowl of hot broth into
him.

Culhane ate readily, though it was
humiliating to be hand-fed as if he were an infant unable to feed
himself. Even more disconcerting was the fact that he was stark
naked.

When the bowl was empty, the girl rose to her
feet.

“
Natonoson, nahotoetan,”
Culhane
called. “Wait, please.”

Winter Star paused, a smile playing over her
lips as he stumbled over the Cheyenne words.

“
You saved my life,” Culhane said,
speaking English. “I’m grateful.
Hahohesetanoxtoz,
” he said
haltingly. “Grateful.”

Winter Star nodded.

“
You understand me?” Culhane asked.
“You understand English?”

“
Taxce,”
she replied.
Not
much
.
“Ne-tsehese-nestse-he?” Do you speak
Cheyenne?

“
Taxce,”
Culhane answered,
grinning. “What are your people going to do with me?”

She gazed at him for a long moment, debating
whether she should tell him the truth, and then she shrugged.
Perhaps he had a right to know. “You will be given to the women as
soon as you have recovered from your wounds.”