Savage Horizons Read online

  Little Flower felt beautiful and more alive than she had for weeks. Black Antelope’s powerful, reassuring arm was wrapped around her from behind, and she felt dwarfed and small. He rode to a nearby river and halted his horse, staying on the mount as he breathed in the sweet scent of Little Flower’s hair and enjoyed the feel of his arm over her body.

  “What is it you wish to tell me?” he asked.

  She hung her head, afraid he would throw her from the horse when she told him. “I… I am… with child,” she managed to say. She squinted her eyes closed and swallowed, but nothing happened. He sat very quietly for several long seconds before replying.

  “I regret that I did not have a hand in killing the pale eyes,” he told her, his voice gruff with jealous anger. His grip on her tightened. “If you will be my wife, you will know only gentleness in my bed, honor as my woman. It will not be like it was with him. This I promise.”

  She raised her head, turning slightly to look at him. “But … I carry his child.”

  He studied her exquisite beauty. “Is that supposed to change how I feel for you? Remove my desire for you?”

  She looked away, feeling warm again. “But I would want you to love it and treat it as your own.”

  “Does any Sioux or Cheyenne man turn away a little one? Our villages are full of adopted children captured from our enemies. When they are small, they are not enemies, just children. It will be your child. You will love it, and therefore I will also love it and provide for it.”

  She smiled at him for the first time. “Then you may stay and we will talk. The moon last night was only half a moon. When it is full, I will decide.”

  He forced back an urge to take her then and there, to pull her from the horse and lay her down in the grass and make her his woman. But this one was fragile. She had known brutality and he sensed her fear. He would do as she asked. “Very well,” he said aloud. “I will take you back now.” He turned the horse and returned to the village.

  There followed two weeks of courtship. They spent time walking and talking, and Black Antelope brought her daily gifts and gave freshly killed game to White Bird.

  “The winds grow colder now,” the man told Little Flower on the fifteenth day of his stay. They stood beside the river, red and brown leaves floating by them. “Last night the moon was full. If you want to be my wife, I must know so that I can go back to my village and get the rest of my belongings, for you will want to stay here among your people for a while. Is this so?”

  She turned and looked up at him. “Ai, I would like to stay with Old Grandmother a while longer.” She looked down and shivered, wondering if it was from the cold or the wonderful feelings Black Antelope gave her. “The child grows inside of me, and I need a husband. But I would not take you for a husband just to be a father for my baby. I would take you because… because I desire you, and want to be your woman. But I am afraid. You must promise to wait until I am ready.” She thought for a moment about the horror visited upon her by Frenchy, and the little girl in her sobbed. “If you touch me before I am ready I will sink a knife into your belly the moment you are sleeping,” she blurted out.

  She stood shivering a moment, then felt warm, strong arms encircle her. Black Antelope pulled her close, his touch gentle and reassuring. “Then Black Antelope will do as you say,” he answered, “for he wishes to live a long life and to die at the hands of a warrior enemy, not at the hands of his tiny, young wife.”

  She sniffed and looked up at him, only to see a grin on his face, a most handsome grin. She could not help but laugh then at what she had said, and Black Antelope laughed with her. The laughter turned to smiles, and as their eyes held he could not resist bending down and touching her cheek to his own. Little Flower knew then she would not make him wait long.

  “Go to your village and get your belongings,” she told him, reaching up around his neck. He lifted her off the ground, pulling her tight against him. “I will build us a hut. When you return, I will be your wife.”

  There followed a winter of gentle love, and happiness at last for Little Flower. But it all came too late, and as her stomach swelled with the Frenchman’s child, she grew weaker. In the spring she gave birth to a son, a sturdy, dark, handsome boy. When Black Antelope entered the hut after the birth, he was shocked at the sight of his young wife. Her eyes were sunk deep into her face, with death written in the circles beneath them. She lay bleeding heavily, just as her own mother had bled and died when she was born some fourteen summers before.

  Black Antelope’s heart was heavy with grief as he looked at the woman he loved. Her eyes fluttered open at his presence, and she motioned weakly for him to come closer to hear her speak. Black Antelope knelt beside her, leaning over and gently pushing the dark hair back from her face.

  “You have been kind to me,” she whispered. “And I have loved you, my husband. The spirits call me now… but I do not want to go.”

  “No,” he groaned. “They cannot have you. We will have many more years together, Little Flower. Such a short time I have had you. I want you to stay and bear more sons—my sons.”

  “It cannot be so. I was not made well… for such things. And I was too young for this one.” She turned her face to look at her beautiful son. “You must promise me he will be cared for.”

  Black Antelope looked away. She placed her hand gently on his forearm. “It is not the child’s fault… for what his father was. He is of my body, my blood. He is Cheyenne. I want him raised to be brave and strong like you, my husband. Promise me you will care for him.”

  He turned back, unable to hide the tears in his eyes. “This I promise,” he choked out. “What—what shall I call him?”

  “I heard a hawk’s cry… and saw it flying while I was in the pain,” she answered. “It cried out to find its home. My son’s eyes are blue. He should be called Blue Hawk … and you must help and protect him. You must guide him, for always his soul will cry out to know where it belongs… in our world or the vehoe’s world.”

  Black Antelope leaned closer and placed his cheek against hers. “Do not leave me, Little Flower. I cannot live without you.”

  “You will live, my husband, for you are strong… and there are many young women who make eyes at my man. You will someday desire one of them. And she will give you more sons… the children I could not give you.”

  “I desire only you.” She felt a wetness on her cheek.

  “And this you have shown me in the night,” she replied softly, breathing in his sweet scent, wanting to remember and take it with her along Ekutsihimmiyo, the Hanging Road of stars that led to the heavens where all was peace and happiness. “Better that I have… had this time in your arms … than to live to an old age with that evil white man. You have been good to me, Black Antelope. You kept… your promise.”

  Black Antelope looked up to see her eyes closed again. Her body shuddered.

  “May Maheo curse that man forever,” he growled.

  She grasped a piece of his hair, as though to hang on to life itself. “One more… promise,” she said weakly. He moved closer still, so that her lips were near his ear.

  “Tell me,” he whispered, “and it shall be done.”

  “The blue quill necklace. … Keep it … for my son … a gift.… May he always honor … his mother by wearing it … and remember his Cheyenne blood.”

  “This I will do, Little Flower.”

  “My … husband,” she whispered lovingly.

  Her hand fell away. He looked up and stared at her a moment before realizing the last bit of life had gone out of her. Black Antelope threw back his head and let out a long cry of grief. His woman, the source of such brief happiness and ecstasy, was dead.

  Eight-year-old Blue Hawk raced with the other Sioux children into camp, excited that Black Antelope and the other warriors were returning from a raid on the Chippewa. The painted men held up lances in victory, yipping war whoops, some laughing. The women and old ones gathered around the warriors, calling out and pra
ising the men for the successful raid against their old enemy, who weeks before had raided the Sioux village and killed two warriors and one woman. Behind the warriors a herd of stolen Chippewa horses thundered into camp, their nostrils flared in nervousness.

  It seemed to Blue Hawk that the very earth was shaking with the thunder of the returning men and horses. He ran to his aunt, Small Hands, who had nursed him and raised him from his birth. She was Black Antelope’s sister, since Little Flower’s death, Black Antelope and Blue Hawk had lived among the Sioux in the north. To Blue Hawk, Small Hands was like a mother, much more a mother than the new wife Black Antelope had taken just two moons before. She was called Two Stars, and she joined Blue Hawk and Small Hands now, shouting out to Black Antelope as he rode by.

  Blue Hawk watched proudly as the man rode past them leading several stolen Chippewa horses. The man handed the ropes to another warrior before turning his mount and riding back to his family, sliding off the painted animal and pulling a tomahawk from his gear. He walked up to them, and Blue Hawk’s heart swelled with joy when Black Antelope spoke to him first, handing him the weapon.

  “Taken from the enemy,” he said proudly. “Now it belongs to you, my son. Some day you will be a great warrior. Already you are strong and wise beyond your years.”

  Blue Hawk took the weapon proudly, but his happiness was marred when Black Antelope turned to his new wife, love and desire in his eyes. “There is much to celebrate tonight,” he told her. “I killed four of the enemy myself, and led the raid. The Chippewa will not bother us again for a long time to come. Tonight there will be feasting and dancing.” His eyes were hungry. “And it has been a long time since Black Antelope held his woman.”

  Two Stars smiled and dropped her eyes, and Black Antelope walked back toward the group of whooping, howling warriors now dancing around a fire sporting scalps on the ends of their lances. Two Stars followed, staying properly behind to watch. Blue Hawk stared after them, his lips puckered in jealousy. Small Hands patted his head.

  “Just because Black Antelope seems to have eyes only for Two Stars does not mean he has any less love for you, Blue Hawk. He came to you first, and has given you a treasured enemy weapon. But tonight he will want to be only with Two Stars. That is the way it is for a man with a new wife. When you are grown you will understand. And you should be glad Black Antelope has found someone to make him happy again. For many winters after your mother died he was not a happy man.”

  Blue Hawk studied the tomahawk. “She will give him sons. I will no longer be the only one.” He pouted.

  “Ah, but you will be the oldest, and you are special because you are the son of his first woman. He made a vow to Little Flower to love you and raise you to be a great warrior. It is a lucky child you are to be the son of Black Antelope.”

  “But I am not truly his son.” He looked up into his aunt’s kind face. “I am the son of a white man, and always I fear Black Antelope will not love me because of this.”

  “Blood has nothing to do with love. And the only thing white about you is your eyes. Your heart is Indian. Your skin and hair are Indian. And your courage is Indian. Wear the blue quill necklace proudly, and always remember it is a gift of love from your Cheyenne mother, who gave her life for you. You come from two worlds, Blue Hawk. Perhaps you will be the better man for it. Come, let us join the celebrating. Before long you will be riding with Black Antelope on the raids and hunts. You will take much game, and count many coup.”

  She started to walk away, but Blue Hawk tugged at her tunic.

  “Now what is it?” the woman asked, a patient twinkle in her eye.

  “I do not understand … about the Chippewa and the Americans. Why do the strange Americans want our land, and why do the Chippewa help them?”

  Small Hands put an arm around the boy’s shoulders. “The Chippewa have long been our enemies, Blue Hawk. They are jealous of our friendship with the Cheyenne. They are afraid that by being friendly with the Cheyenne and intermarrying with them, we will join together and have too much strength, perhaps chase the Chippewa away. So the Chippewa, too, try to be friendly to the Cheyenne, and are always trying to stir up trouble and hatred against us. But it does not work. Now the Chippewa see another way to bring us trouble and try to chase us away. Some of our people have aided the Red Coat soldiers in keeping this land from the Americans. So now the Chippewa help the Americans, because they are our enemy. But the Chippewa will soon learn that the Americans cannot be trusted.”

  “How do you know, Small Hands?”

  The woman sniffed as though disgusted. “Stories. We hear many stories about other tribes, tribes who lived in the east where the sun rises. They have died from the white man’s sickness and from starvation and murder at the hands of the wasicum. These Americans call the Indian friend when they need help or favors. But they turn on the Indian, steal his land, murder his people and plunder his villages. Some day the Chippewa will learn this and will no longer help those Americans. This Black Antelope believes. But until then, the Chippewa remain our enemy, for they are jealous and proud.”

  Blue Hawk frowned, trying to take it all in. “But won’t the Red Coats take our land like the Americans are trying to do?

  A warrior rode by and Small Hands waved him on, calling out her pleasure at their victory. “The redcoats like only to trade for our beaver skins,” she answered. “This is not their country and they do not settle here. But the Americans, they want the land, my child. Always remember that. They are not satisfied with just taking treasure from it. They want it all for themselves. We hear many stories of what is happening to the Iroquois, the Delaware, and the Shawnee. Some tribes along the shores of the great waters no longer live at all. They are all gone, killed by the Americans or dead from the white man’s sickness.”

  Blue Hawk folded his arms in a manly fashion, as he had seen Black Antelope often do. “I have never seen a pale-skinned man. Yet I hate them all, even though one was my father.”

  “I have seen two such men, trappers. But mostly they stay out of here and let your father and the others trap the beaver for them. Three Skies and some of the other braves take the skins to a place where they meet with the Red Coats, on the great river, and trade with them for food, honey, beads and blankets. Perhaps one day you will be one who takes the skins and you will see the white men who wear the red coats and those who trap the beaver and trade with us. Your own father was a trapper.”

  Blue Hawk held the tomahawk tightly. “I do not want to meet them, especially the bad ones like my father.”

  “Ah, I am afraid some day you will have to meet them, nephew. And I am afraid I see a dark future for us, in spite of our victory today. I see more and more white men coming, and I fear we will have to flee to the land where the sun sets to get away from them. They say the land there is brown and barren and gives no life, and there are great mountains that rise to meet the sky. I would not want to go to such a strange land. And I would miss these deep woods, the green grass and cool trees.”

  Blue Hawk thought hard about all she had told him, touching the blue quill necklace that hung loosely around his small neck. Often he removed it to admire the brilliant blue color and the little yellow and red designs on it. He wished again he could have known his real mother, who had given him his dark skin. They said she had been very beautiful. He studied the back of his hand, wondering with a child’s curiosity just how “white” his father really had been. Would his own skin turn whiter? He hoped not. He did not ever want to be white.

  Over the next year, life was happy for Blue Hawk. Black Antelope took him along on several hunts, and man and boy became closer. Blue Hawk all but worshipped his Sioux stepfather, wanting nothing more than to some day be as great a warrior and gain as much respect as Black Antelope. But the brief interlude of peace was soon broken. The Chippewa had cunningly schemed to wait many months before retaliating for the Sioux raid, wanting to have the element of surprise in their favor. They purposely allowed the Sioux to b
elieve that perhaps there would be no retaliation, and they waited until the Sioux were weary from a long hunting season before attacking.

  They came from the south, raiding and burning Cheyenne camps along the way, killing men, stealing women and horses. The Chippewa were made braver from whiskey, given to them by the Americans in payment for attacking Indians who were friendly with the British. Chippewa blood was hot, their thirst for vengeance great. Cheyenne runners from other villages who tried to warn the Sioux were cut down by tracking Chippewa, and no one in Black Antelope’s village was aware of the impending disaster.

  They came in the deep of the night, a time when attack was least expected, a time when the entire Sioux village slept peacefully, secure in the knowledge that their lodges were full of meat and supplies for the winter. It began with one piercing war cry, followed by a well-planned attack on each hut, most of the thatch rooves hit with flaming arrows. As Sioux men, women and children fled their flaming homes, Chippewa warriors struck them down. It was a bloody, grotesque attack, with no mercy. Most of the Sioux were unaware of what was happening until they saw flames and smelted smoke, then felt the horror of hatchet and knife as they fled their homes.

  Blue Hawk felt himself grabbed up in his father’s strong arms, but rather than send his family through the entranceway, Black Antelope chopped a hole through the back side of the hut. “Go,” he shouted. “Run to the woods.” He shoved his wide-eyed young wife through the hole. “Hurry! Run!”

  The woman clung to their newborn son, and amid screams of horror, Black Antelope grabbed Blue Hawk and shoved him through the hole. Black Antelope followed, grabbing Blue Hawk and running fast. He picked up Two Stars in his other arm when he caught up with her, carrying both her and Blue Hawk until they reached the woods. “Find a place to hide,” he told them quickly.

  There was no time for good-bye, no time for parting words of love. The man was quickly gone, returning to the burning village to do what he could against the Chippewa and save the other Sioux women and children. Blue Hawk watched the man’s silhouette against the orange flames, and his heart tightened: somehow he knew it was the last time he would see his beloved stepfather alive.