Forever Ecstasy (2 page)

“My vision did not say he wants to take the chief’s bonnet from Sun Cloud. It said he was denied his rank, land, and people and that Grandfather will draw him to us for help in a time of great danger.”

Sun Cloud’s heart pounded inside the bronzed flesh of his broad chest, scarred by the Sun Dance ritual. “My son is ten winters old. Do you speak of him? Will he be taken from us, but returned one moon?”

“I do not know. His face was kept hidden from me. When the moon comes, Grandfather will reveal all to me. I will
speak His words to you.”

“What of the other man, Wise One?” a council member asked.

“He is a white-eye who will come to help us defeat our enemies. He is unlike other white-eyes. He will prove himself worthy to become our blood brother. His words and ways will be hard to accept and obey, but we must do so to survive. The white-eyes will not honor the treaty we signed. After many snows have covered Mother Earth with their white blankets, our land will be darkened by dangers. The blood of many, Indian and white, will soak into Mother Earth. Peace lies within the grasp of the white-eye whose hair blazes as the sun and in whose eyes the blue of sky lives. His heart will side with us. Many foes, Indian and white, will try to defeat him. An Oglala maiden will be chosen to ride with him, and she will become a skilled warrior at his side. She will guard his life and help defeat foes.”

“Why does Grandfather use a white man?” another elder asked.

“I do not know. But I do know his eyes are as blue and calm at the sky when he will appear. His voice will blow as a strong wind one moon and as a gentle breeze on another. His attacks will beat as heavy rain upon our foes. His glory will shine as brightly as the glowing ball in the heaven where the spirits live. His anger at those who threaten us and betray us will rumble as loud thunder. As with snow in our sacred hills, his heart and mind are pure. He will come when Grandfather says the time is here. The maiden who is chosen to battle with him will know a great destiny; her legend will speak of She-Who-Rode-With-The-Sky-Warrior.”

“Who is this maiden, Wise One? Why must a female ride with a white warrior to defeat our enemies?” A third man asked the question in all their hearts.

“I do not know.”

During the ensuing silence, Sun Cloud glanced at the pictorial history of his Red Heart Band that was painted upon a tanned buffalo hide that hung on the lodge’s wall. It recorded the events that had taken place since the birth of his grandfather, Chief Running Wolf. It told of past conflicts
with whites and with enemy tribes. Sun Cloud dreaded the scenes that would be added to it one day. His dark eyes scanned the faces of his warriors and tribal leaders. He wondered who would live to see those ominous times. The thirty-four-year-old chief wondered if he would still be their leader then. “When will this black sun come?” he asked in a grave tone, believing the shaman’s medicine powerful and his counsel wise.

“I do not know,” Standing Tree said once more. “But not for many, many winters.” He took a seat cross-legged on a buffalo hide.

Sun Cloud did not understand the meaning of this strange and distant vision. Yet he trusted and believed the mystical shaman and the Great Spirit. His father, the legendary Gray Eagle, was with Wakantanka; as was his mother, Alisha Williams, a white captive whom his father had loved and married. Bright Arrow and his wife had joined their parents last summer. Sun Cloud felt it was good and merciful when the Great Spirit called mates to His side on the same sun, as it had been with his parents and his brother. He knew it must be hard and lonely to live without the love of your heart.

Sun Cloud heard the others leaving the meeting lodge while he was deep in thought. Except for the Crow, Shoshone, and Pawnee, peace had ruled their land since the treaty with Sturgis in 1820. That truce had followed the ambush of his father and a painful struggle with his brother over the chiefs bonnet. He had won that honor and duty and won the hand of Singing Wind. Years of joy, success, and love had ensued.

Now it was nearing time to begin his son’s warrior training, and he prayed the man in Standing Tree’s vision was not his only child. Singing Wind, his beloved wife, would bear another child when summer came. Perhaps it would be another son. No matter, a second child at last would bring much pride and happiness to his heart. He would make certain there was no confusion or conflict over which child would follow him as chief, as there had been with his brother eleven summers ago.

The Red Heart chief of the Oglala/Teton branch of the Dakota Nation got to his feet. He flexed his muscular body and told himself that if dark moons were ahead, he must enjoy all the bright ones until then. A man’s destiny could not be changed; his Life-Circle was drawn by the Great Spirit before his birth. There was no need to worry over distant threats. Grandfather would always be there to guide, protect, and love His people.

A hungry smile softened his handsome features. Sun Cloud headed for his tepee and his wife, who would chase away the night’s chill with fiery passion. Until Grandfather sent Sky Warrior to them, he would forget the perilous times ahead. For the present, all the chief wanted to think about were his wife, his young son, and the child Singing Wind carried.

May 1851

“Hello in camp! Can I join you for coffee and rest?” Joe called out before approaching the camp. It was a precaution he had quickly learned to take in this wild Dakota territory to avoid getting shot by accident.

“Come on in,” a voice replied, “but take it slow and easy.”

Joe dismounted and secured his reins to a bush. He didn’t unsaddle the animal, since he always liked to be prepared for a quick escape. It was chilly tonight. He removed his leather riding gloves and stuffed them into his saddlebag, but kept on the thin wool jacket he had donned a mile back.

Joe headed through the wooded location toward a fire near the riverbank. As he passed two wagons, he saw a beautiful Indian girl secured to one of the wheels. Her arms were extended, her wrists tied to the spokes, and her legs were bound at the ankles. He was intrigued by her presence, but ignored her for now. He had other matters on his troubled mind.

Not far away, he noticed, eight horses for pulling the two wagons were tethered and grazing. An abundance of trees, with the river eastward, had forced the men to leave those wagons thirty feet from their waterside camp. Yet the spacings of oaks and cottonwoods and a three-fourths waxing moon made the female prisoner visible to her captors.

Joe’s azure gaze studied each of the three men as he approached
them, just as they were eyeing him with interest. The condition of the camp—the large amount of coals, the trampled ground, more than a few hours’ smell of manure, and the many items scattered about— told him it was several days’ old. When he’d found their trail, he had known the wagons were a few days beyond him. He hoped he wasn’t wasting valuable time and energy on what could be an impulsive chase. “Thanks,” he answered the man. “I was getting tired, sore, and hungry. This area is mighty deserted. I’m glad I happened up on you men. Mind if I share your coffee and beans? My last meal was a long way back.”

“Help yourself, but ain’t you out late tonight, stranger?” a barrel-chested man remarked. He gestured for the new arrival to sit on the ground.

As Joe poured himself some steaming coffee and set the tin cup on the grass beside him, he explained, “I was about to make camp earlier when several Indians chose the same clearing I had. I thought it best to let them have first choice,” Joe jested with a wry grin. “It doesn’t take long in this wild territory to learn you don’t want to meet up with them when you’re alone.”

“What tribe was they?” the youngest man asked.

Joe glanced at the towhead with dark-blue eyes as he guilefully remarked, “Indians are Indians, aren’t they?” He took in details: the man was just under twenty and had a long knife scar on his left cheek.

“Nope” came the reply. “Some are friendlies; others, real mean.”

“Friendlies, hell. They’re all blood-thirsty savages. Ain’t worth the salt it’d take to cure ’em fur dog meat. Only good ones are on your payroll or dead,” the third man refuted with a cold chuckle, then sipped his whiskey.

Joe didn’t like these crude men. The third one was tall and slender, with a pockmarked face and dirty hands wrapped around the bottle he was nursing. He appeared to be about thirty. His brown hair was as filthy as his clothes, and his hazel eyes had an emotionless expression that put Joseph Lawrence, Jr., on guard. His father’s friend Stede Gaston had told him to never trust a man whose eyes stay frozen
when he smiles. He had found that warning to be accurate.

Joe stopped dishing up beans to feign surprise. “Indians work for whites?” he asked. “I thought they were independent free-roaming men who lived only to hunt and raid, and that they made their women do all the work.”

“If ya give enough trinkets, they’ll do most any chore fur ya.”

The burly man scowled and spat on the ground. “What you work too much is your jaws, Clem. Put up that fire water; you’ve had enough. What are you doing in these parts?” he asked the stranger.

To be convincing, Joe used half-truths. “My father’s in the shipping business, and I got tired of making voyages for him,” he said. “I hated being a sailor. Sea trips aren’t any fun when you spend most of your time heaving your meals over the rails. I heard it was exciting and challenging out here, so I decided to leave dull Virginia and seek a few adventures.”

Joe smiled to relax the wary man with his scraggly beard and muddy brown hair that flowed over his broad shoulders. It looked as if that tangled mane hadn’t seen a comb or brush in ages, and it didn’t take a keen observer to realize that their clothes hadn’t seen a washpot in weeks. It was apparent these rough characters cared nothing about their appearances. “A man who lacks pride in himself usually lacks morals and a conscience,” his father had told him, “so sail clear of him, son. Even poor folk, if they’re decent and honest, keep themselves clean and neat.” That wise remembrance told him to be vigilant. “My name’s Joe Lawrence,” he introduced himself. “As I said, I’m glad I came upon you tonight. I’ll admit I was getting a little nervous out here alone. Who are you?”

“I’m Zeke,” the leader replied, watchful of the newcomer. “That’s Clem.” He nodded to the disobedient man who had the bottle to his lips once more. “And that’s Farley.” He named the youngest of the group.

No last names were supplied, and Joe wondered if there was a special reason. He also noted that Zeke had silenced Clem to prevent him from revealing any facts the leery man wanted kept secret. The wariness aroused Joe’s interest as
much as the contents of those wagons. Between bites he made small talk to calm them while he tried to entice slips of the tongue. “Where’s the best place to look for work in this area?”

“What kind of job you got in mind?” Zeke asked, lazing against a tree.

“Haven’t thought much about that, but I’m not joining the cavalry. I don’t want to trade one boss for another one. If I didn’t like soldiering, I wouldn’t want the Army hunting me down as a deserter. Since I don’t know this territory, scouting is out. Besides, I don’t care to go tangling with hostiles every other day or two. When I get ready to return home, I want to take my hair with me,” he said with a chuckle. “From what I’ve read and heard, Indians like to take scalps as trophies, especially blond ones.”

“You kin bet your boots an’ pants they do,” Farley concurred. He stroked the lengthy knife scar on his boyish face and frowned.

Joe caught the hint. “I’m not much of a gambler, so I’ll take your word, friend. Where are you men heading? Maybe I can tag along for safety, if you don’t mind.” Joe took a few more bites of beans, then washed them down with strong coffee. Neither tasted good; his appetite was lagging, but he pretended to enjoy the scanty meal and company.

“Sorry, Lawrence, but we’re heading for a private camp.”

Joe focused his attention on the leader. “No jobs available there?”

“The boss don’t like to hire strangers or greenhorns.”

“I learn fast and follow orders good,” Joe told him, then set aside the tin plate and empty cup. “Most people say I’m easy to get along with, even on my bad days. I’d be grateful for help. I’ll give you a cut of my salary for a while to get me hired on and to teach me my way around these parts.”

Zeke tossed the two dishes and spoon into a pile with other dirty ones. “That’s a tempting offer, Lawrence, but no. Strangers are too nosy, and greenhorns are too dangerous. Both cause too much trouble.”

“Iffen he’s good with fightin’ and shootin’, Zeke, the boss might want him. We kin always use a skilled—”

“Nope. You know the boss’s orders, Farley. If I was you, Lawrence, I’d ride to Fort Tabor where the Missouri joins the White River or to Pratte’s Trading Post at Pierre. Men looking for work do best there.” Zeke’s distrustful gaze roved Joe as he talked. “You don’t appear a man to take to trapping or trading. If you don’t want to join the Army or do scouting, best I can think of is guarding places or hauling goods.”

Joe glanced at the two wagons thirty feet away. He knew they were loaded because of the deep ruts the wheels had made, the ones he had located and followed. He tried not to look at the female prisoner who was watching all four men with her dark eyes. The blond-haired man presumed she must be cold so far from the fire and without a blanket or long sleeves. But for now he had to ignore her plight. Later he would decide what to do about her. He looked back at Zeke and casually inquired, “That what you do, transport supplies?”

Zeke kept his gaze locked onto Joe’s face. “Not exactly.”

Joe sensed the man’s caution and let the touchy subject drop. He noticed how Zeke’s eyes stayed on him as tight as a rope on a capstan. The leader looked tense, and his dirty fingers kept drumming on one thigh.

“If you came from Virginny,” Zeke asked. “Why didn’t you stop at Fort Tabor or at Lookout? Or head upriver to Pierre? What kind of work you expect to find in a wilderness? This area’s a long way from civilization.”