Dances Naked (15 page)

She stroked her hand down the outside front of his fly again. She carefully put the fingertips of one hand inside the top of his pants while unbuttoning with the other. She slowly worked her way down, unbuttoning one brass stud at a time until the access was open. She reached in, wrapped her fingers around his hard cock, and freed it from its awkward angle inside the cotton cloth. It sprung up of its own accord next to his belly, hot and pulsing, eager to mate.

Rachel wasn’t sure what she should do next. Surely
,
the Indians had their own way to make love. She’d let him take over. She was pretty sure, no, she was positive, that whatever he was going to do it wouldn’t be done in anger or with cruelty.

She wanted him. Even his wife hadn’t been so generous in her kisses and caresses. She had seen his predicament and taken care of the closures on his new pants, freeing his manhood and letting him know that she would take him as a husband. Now she was on the ground, waiting for him to make the next move. Yes, he would join with her and make her his
wife. H
is hands
were
on his hips, ready to shove his pants down, when he remembered Dances Naked’s advice: take off your moccasins first. He bent over quickly and untied his laces, stepping on the toes to remove his footwear swiftly and efficiently. Now it was time for the best part. He shimmied out of the white man’s pants and stepped over to his bride, straddling her now prone position. Maybe his seed would overtake hers and he’d make a baby on the first try. But
,
even if it didn’t, he’d keep making happy with her. Daylight was a long ways away.

August 21, 1781

B

reakfast for the group consisted of cold water consumed in a reserved silence. The two braves had already removed traces of their campfire by the time
Marty was back from his toilet—
they were ready to roll.

Red Shirt helped his new wife and son onto the mare, both unable and unwilling to hold his pride in check. He didn’t have to tell his m
en that this was his woman now—
they could see it in his face. Number Two would be back with his wife soon and The Young One still had a winter or two until he would be ready for a mate. Maybe he’d help Dances Naked get back to his woman and maybe he wouldn’t. That was a bad medicine area and he didn’t need any more problems. His tribe was still trying to recover from the terrors of the last two years.

Red Shirt set a respectable pace for their journey. They could have moved faster
,
but the white man was old and on foot. If he didn’t like him, he would have traveled faster to get to his home and not cared whether the man could keep up with them or became lost again. But
,
this man had done him no wrong and seemed to be on good terms with his new wife. He also helped subdue and punish the bad man, not arguing whether it was wrong or cruel to do so. Yes, Dances Naked was smart and obedient. If he weren’t
so old, he’d make
a good brave, regardless of whether he was red or white.

Marty could tell they were getting close to their destination. The men’s postures were changing, their backs now straight and vigilant. Their eyes darted quickly, surveying the surrounding brush and trees
as if
they were on the lookout for someone watching them. They were on sentry alert. Something was wrong here though. Shoot, he’d be happier than Christmas morning to be back to his home. These men didn’t seem to be sure of what they were riding into.

As it turned out, no one greeted the group. Red Shirt dismounted and signaled to the re
st of his band to stay mounted—
they might have to leave soon.

A bent over old woman with a tall walking stick
,
and even taller attitude
,
came out from a cobbled together hovel of brush and hides, commanding everyone’s respect with her deportment. Red Shirt listened to her questions but didn’t reply with words, only
grunted. Marty knew that sound:
he was pretty good at picking up on his new companion’s guttural emanati
ons. “I’ll handle these people—d
on’t worry about them,” he seemed to say without using his words, English or Cherokee.

However
,
Old Woman didn’t believe him; or maybe she just didn’t trust him to be capable. Either way, her determined scowl and labored walk over to the new people in the village was an insult to Red Shirt. Marty saw the way his offended companion sucked in his breath, deciding it was better to keep quiet than create a row. He pulled back his shoulders and waited for Old Woman to verify what he had just told her was true: these white people were harmless.

Old Woman came to within six feet of Marty and stopped. She pointed at him with her carved walking stick,
saying
words he didn’t understand. Her
body language wasn’t readable. A
ll he could tell was that she was ticked off. She walked a few feet closer then prodded his belly with the earthen end of her cane. He still didn’t understand her words except that they were the same ones repeated over and over again
.
H
er actions weren’t any clearer either. She nudged him again, this time harder and more insistent
,
with the same gruff, unintelligible command. Marty looked over to Red Shirt for guidance and saw him subtly touch his
own shirt: ‘pull up your shirt
.
’

“Yes, ma’am,” Marty said politely an
d pulled up his long, blue shirt,
completely exposing his breechclout and belly.
He
looked around and saw that several other old women had come out from behind the makeshift shelter and were now watching the physical examination. He looked down at his torso again and realized why she was so concerned. “No, ma’am; I don’t have the measles. See,” he said as he pulled his shirt off over his head then raised his arms so she could see his armpits
,
turning
to show his back, “no redness and
,
if you care to touch me, you’ll see I have no fever. She and the baby are fine, too,” he said as he pointed to Rachel. “No sickness,” he mimed fatigue and put the back of his hand up to his forehead as if to check for fever. “None,” he said
and
shook his head.

Marty perked back up to his healthy, white man persona, “We’re all good,” he said with a smile and started to put his shirt back on.

“Blah, blah, blah, blah-blah,” said Old Woman as she walked toward Rachel’s horse, doggedly stabbing the ground with her walking stick with each step. She was not a happy person and not satisfied with Red Shirt’s explanation.

Red Shirt took long, broad steps, almost ran, to his new family. Marty could see the reser
ve he was using. If he ran, it c
ould be seen as a sign of weakness. He
stood by
Rachel’s side
,
resolute, his arms crossed in front of his chest,
preventing
Old Woman
from
start
ing
her examination. Marty didn’t know the words he used but the meaning wa
s clear to him and to Rachel: ‘T
his is my woman and I will take
care of her. Do not touch her—
she’s clean.’ Red Shirt dismissed the
crone
with a nod then took the reins from Rachel and headed away from the belligerent old
woman
and her coterie.

“Good day, ma’am,” Marty said to the
matriarch
then made a hop, step, long stride movement, not quite a run, to catch up with Red Shirt, Rachel
,
and the baby. He didn’t know where they were going
,
but he definitely felt more comfortable with his new clan than the one, wary old biddy
,
and her big stick.

Evidently
,
their group had passed the medical examination. Number Two and The Young One, who hadn’t been interrogated or examined, followed behind them to the separate little encampment a few hundred yards beyond the first site. A young girl, Marty figured she was six or seven, was toting a crying baby. Actually, the lass was crying just as much if not more than the baby. Number Two jumped off his horse when he saw her and grabbed and held both of them to his chest. He listened to her words then he, too, was wailing.

“Rachel,” Marty called as he walked up to her, still mounted on the mare. “Give Junior to Red Shirt or me
,
then go see if you can take care of that little baby. I think Number Two’s wife died and those are his children. I don’t see anyone around here other than you who looks like she’s equipped to see to the wee’un’s needs.”

“Huh?” Rachel asked as she handed Junior to Marty in an act of faith and family.

“Go nurse the babe, will you?” he said plainly, canting his head
to the wailing trio then helping
her down.

Rachel walked up cautiously to the distressed family. She wasn’t sure how to communicate her desire to help them then realized she’d just show them what she was offering. She untied her blouse and bared her breast, putting out both arms to the father who was now
holding his baby. ‘Let me help,
’ she said without words.

Number Two had seen this woman feed her son. He knew she had milk. Yes, she was now his brother-in-law’s wife but she was still a white woman. If she gave her milk to his son, he’d be part white man, too. He looked down and saw his son, still crying but without as much energy as a young one should when distressed. Yes, he’d rather have his son part white than dead. He lifted his h
ead and ceded his son to her, ‘H
ere, please help; I appreciate it,’ was his heartfelt, unspoken message.

Little One rubbed his nose back and forth on the nipple. It wasn’t the same smell as his mother but it was milk and not the coarse mixture that Big Sister had been
urging
him to eat. He nursed heartily, letting the new mother pull him away after a few minutes to rub his back. He gave her a long, loud burp then nuzzled his he
ad back down toward her breast—
he wasn’t finished yet.

Red Shirt stood away from the group, assessing the situation without interfering. Marty walked over to him and spoke softly, “Looks like the measles got to your tribe here. Is that what happened to your other family?” he asked.

Red Shirt cut his eyes to him and shut them slowly in a tacit, affirmative answer
,
then opened them back up and watched Rachel feed his nephew. Now his sister was dead, too. He had always loved his sister, she was his twin, and he wanted to cry and wail as his brother-in-law had
,
but he needed to be strong. He thought that the red belly disease was gone but it had come back. His father had over fifty braves in this tribe two years ago. Now he was dead and there were only three braves left including him. They hadn’t been successful in the hunt and winter was coming. He still had to see to the needs of the old ones and the children first. He snorted in disgust. There weren’t many that he had to feed
,
but he still had nothing. He looked over at Marty. And now he had the white man to feed, too.

Marty had seen the look that Red Shirt gave him. To him he was just another mouth to feed. And
,
by the looks of
everyone’s leanness
, there wasn’t much food to share. There had to be a way that he could help these people.

“If there’s a town nearby, I have some money. Maybe I could buy some bacon or cornmeal or well, whatever I have is yours. You helped me and I’d like to return the favor. But
,
I think that I should be the one to do the purchasing. That is, I should be the one to go to the store. I don’t think the white man, the other white men, would be fair to an Indian with the value of the money. That and they probably wouldn’t believe that I just ‘gave’ you money. Some of those white folks are pretty nasty. But you know that already, don’t you?”

Red Shirt snorted in agreement. He didn’t understand everything Dances Naked had said
,
but he was pretty sure that he was offering to buy food for his people and to beware of white men. All he needed was to be shown the way to a store or trading post.

“Sound like a plan?” Marty asked. He saw the confused, uncertain look on Red Shirt’s face then realized he was using 21
st
century jargon. Think 18
th
century, Melbourne! “Take me to the white man’s town and I’ll buy food and give it to you.”

Red Shirt lifted his head; he understood. He looked hard at Marty; he knew that there must be more. Dances Naked wanted something for this.

“Yes, I want something,” Marty answered the unspoken question. “When we come back with the food and after you make sure that your clan or family or tribe or…sorry; I’m babbling.” Marty straightened his back and started again, employing more hand language. He shifted Junior to his hip and opened his one available arm toward Red Shirt then brought it back to himself. “I want to help you and would like for you to help me. I’ll buy food for your family
,
but I want you to help me get back to mine.” Marty ended his sta
tement of terms with the single-
handed air drawing of a curvy woman, bringing his cupped hand to his heart to make sure he knew he was speaking of his woman. He looked down at Junior once again, this time seeing in him his missing son, his eyes leaking tears as he recalled his dilemma. Red
Shirt was back with his family—
he wanted his, too.