Golden Roses (33 page)

Cord finally turned away from the leave-taking. Some of the men were unashamedly crying. Each group—the ones leaving and the ones remaining—felt the other was doomed. As for himself, he did not know which choice was the wiser. He had seen awesome beauty that would be engraved in his mind forever. But he knew the fearful dangers just as keenly.

He felt a firm hand on his shoulder and turned to Major Powell, who was looking at him with moist eyes. “Go,” Powell said in a husky whisper. “Go with them, Hayden. Once you’re out of the canyon, go northeast along the rim. I’ve spotted a few wild horses and ponies. You may be able to rope one. When you can see the two pillarlike rocks the Indians call the ‘Wigeleeva,’ head for that point. You’ll find some Havasupais around, because the Wigeleeva have a significance for them.”

“Thanks,” Cord said with a curt nod, “but I’m not leaving you, Major. I joined for the duration. I won’t desert.”

Powell studied him hard for a moment, then said, “You did what you set out to do. You lived through wonders you will tell your grandchildren about. No need to risk your life any longer. Go with the others. One day, we’ll meet again.”

Powell squeezed his shoulder. “Go on. If it makes it any easier for you, I’ll fire you,” he added with a mischievous smile.

In that split second, Cord knew what he wanted to do. He wanted Amber, and he wanted her as fast as he could get to her. There wasn’t any question about his loyalty to Powell, or his love for this expedition. But he had carried Amber in his thoughts since the beginning, and in that moment when Major Powell released him, he knew that she had overwhelmed everything else. He would go.

Cord grinned. “I was never officially hired, Major. You just let me tag along. Godspeed.”

Giving his longtime friend one piercing look, Cord hoisted his rifle, and turned toward the rocky walls. He never looked back. That was his way. He had always felt it was bad luck…that he would never again see that which he looked upon in departing.

After four days of blistering walking in the late summer heat, Cord was able to find a wild horse and lasso him. He spent several days breaking him, then continued in the direction Powell had suggested. He was alone, the other three men having headed in the opposite direction.

He spotted squirrels and rabbits along his way, which he shot, cleaned, and cooked on a spit. The nights were long and lonely, and it was only through sheer weariness that he was able to fall asleep at all.

At last, after many weary and anxious days, he spotted the Wigeleeva. Making his way to the rocks took a whole day, for he had to descend into the canyon, forced to leave the horse behind.

Warily, he approached the valley. The Havasupais were friendly, but what if a lone warrior were frightened of a strange, white face? But he need not have worried, for the afternoon he met three Indians on horseback, they signaled eagerly in sign language. They had heard of the expedition, for the white man’s assault on the great river had not gone unnoticed among the inhabitants of the great canyon. They trusted him.

But they had sadness to relate. Making do with their sign language and Cord’s hasty attempts at creating his own, they told the story of the three men who had been killed by hostile Indians. Cord gave himself time to take it all in, then asked to be taken to the village where the silver-haired white woman was living. They agreed.

For the first time in his whole life, Cord Hayden knew fear. During his time in the canyon, he had searched his soul, and he knew without any doubt what he wanted…what he had wanted all along.

He only hoped she would still be waiting for him.

Chapter Thirty-Four

Amber looked about her at all the grandeur and wondered at such an awesome world. Never had she seen such splendor: red cliffs, lush green foliage, indigo skies, and turquoise waters.

She gazed into the distance at the two irregular red pillars, the Wigeleeva. Some of the Indians said they were a god and goddess, while others said they represented the petrified remains of two brothers, chiefs of many generations ago, who led the Havasupais into Havasu Canyon and were still standing guard over their people.

She delighted in her quiet walks along the creek, especially in the early morning light, when a lavender mist kissed the earth before rising and dispersing. She never failed to marvel at the hundreds of colorful birds that flitted about: white-throated swifts, goldfinches, little violet- and green-colored swallows, tiny hummingbirds, and the gloriously blue-and-brown-feathered birds which no one had a name for. Dancing in the creek could be seen grebes, kingfishers, green-winged teals and the great blue herons.

There was beauty here, and peace, and as she stared on out at the vast canyon beyond, cutting its ribbons of rocks through the earth, she could understand Cord’s hunger to explore.

She walked over to where buckskins were stretched to dry in the sun, touching the glorious white color. They would, she knew, make warm and beautiful coats for her and Armand and the others, to ward off the cold winter ahead.

Winter. A knot rose in her throat. Would she spend her winter here? Was this to be her future? With each day, the fear that Cord was not coming back became stronger. Once, she had voiced her trepidation to Noahax, who had told her that the big white man had left something with their leader, saying that he was to use it if the leader did not return. Amber had asked the leader about it, but he had stared at her stonily and refused to answer.

She stared longingly at the creek, and lovely young Noahax, tending the turtle stew, saw her and said, “Bathing is not allowed during the ritual of death.” The young woman nodded toward the bluff below where they were standing.

Amber heard a sudden, howling wail of grief and knew it was the women keeping watch over the body of old Hutegu, who had died two days before. He had been taken to his hut while a coffin was made of split logs and mud, and, his family hoped, give ample time for the dead man’s son to return from the hunt he and so many of the other warriors had been on for almost a week. The hunt was for deer and antelope to dry for winter.

She admitted freely that she would miss these gentle people who had taken her under their wing and made her feel as though she truly belonged, and she knew Armand would miss them badly. He had been made to feel loved, even wanted. Perhaps, she realized with trepidation, he might not want to leave.

Amber was standing beside Noahax when the midwife, Tuilate, called out to them.

“Go to her,” Noahax said, without turning to Amber. “I must tend the stew. The other women are all mourning.”

When she hesitated, Noahax snapped uncharacteristically. “You should want to learn all you can. One day, you will need to know the ways of birth,” she added with a sly wink, “for when your man returns, he will sleep with you, and you will become fat with his child.”

Amber sputtered indignantly, “He…he will not. I won’t!” Sometimes she regretted the ease with which she and Noahax had learned to talk.

The young woman laughed and waved her away. “Go! You will make old Tuilate angry. Go. I will come in soon.”

Amber had no choice, not really. They treated her well, and she did not dare insult them. Warily, she approached the midwife, who was waving her to hurry, a frown in the time-ravaged lines of her face.

Amber stepped inside the hut and winced at the sight of the woman thrashing painfully on the floor. Her hands were stretched up behind her head as she pulled on the rope there. Her body pushed downward in the agonized thrusts of birth.

In a minute, Tuilate grunted with satisfaction and stooped to retrieve the wet, bloody infant who slid into her hands. She motioned to Amber to kneel beside her and follow her gestures. Amber held the writhing baby while Tuilate tied the umbilical cord.

She tied the cord about an inch and a half from where it entered the infant, then cut it and dusted the stump with a powder of red ocher. The powder came from a secret place known only to the Indians. As she worked, Noahax entered silently.

Tuilate took the baby from Amber’s outstretched arms and ran her fingers over its face, head, and body. This was to ensure that the boy-child would be handsome and well formed when he grew to be a warrior. Next, she wrapped a cloth around the stump of the cord. When the stump dropped off, she would wrap it once more and fasten it to his cradle.

“Why do you want to save that?” Amber asked Noahax.

“When a baby boy reaches the age of one year, what is left of the stump will be ground with red ocher and deer fat. The root of his birth will then be returned to him in three lines of painted drawings, lines drawn on his body. The ritual ensures that the child will not grow up to be troublesome and absentminded.”

Amber kept quiet. It was not her place to argue with their beliefs.

Together, she and Noahax tended the new mother, and when her newborn infant was asleep at her breast, they stepped outside the hut into the warm late afternoon sun.

“I wonder if Armand is still hurt because the men wouldn’t take him hunting with them,” Amber mused as they walked toward the simmering pot of stew. “Every morning since they left, he’s gotten up to wander off by himself with that bow and arrow, and he never comes back till sundown.”

Noahax nodded with understanding as she dipped a wooden spoon into the stew and tasted. “He is too young in body to hunt with the men, yet too old in spirit to play with the other children. He enjoys exploring by himself. I think he would have preferred being with your man in the deeper canyon.”

Amber smiled wistfully. “Yes, he would have.” And so would I, she thought.

Some of the men came up from the mourning area and helped themselves to the bubbling turtle stew. The women would eat after they had washed Hutego’s body one last time.

Amber sat off to the side, keeping out of their way, dreading the burial ceremony. She had no choice but to attend.

As the sun continued to sink, making dancing shadows of scarlet and purple, Amber became more and more gloomy. As it grew dark, Noahax held out her hand. “We go to mourn Hutego before he is taken to his final rest.”

They made their way down to a flat, rocky ledge deeper in the recess of the canyon. Amber mused silently that only a few hours before, she had been part of a birth. Now she was going to a funeral. Life. Then death. But, somehow, only that time in between the two was mysterious.

Beside her, Noahax lovingly fingered a faded, drying flower, which she had braided with a willow frond and hung about her neck. Amber knew how much it meant to her, for the handsome young warrior Sanakaja had brought it to Noahax from the dangerous inner reaches of the canyon below. Noahax had explained that when an Indian man loved an Indian woman, he proved his love by making the dangerous descent to the special place where a delicate golden flower bloomed. The flower grew only in very deep places. Some men died in the attempt to reach it, for the way was treacherous.

Amber had been fascinated by the delicate golden blossom, so like a rose with its satin petals. A golden rose. Unlike any she had ever seen. A symbol of love. True love.

Noahax caught her staring, and Amber whispered, “I am happy for you. Maybe I’ll still be here when you are married. I’ve seen birth here, and death, but not a wedding.”

“I would like you to be here.” Noahax touched her briefly in a gesture of friendship. “Perhaps one day you will have a symbol of your own to cherish. Perhaps a gift from the one who is journeying now.”

Amber said nothing. Cord was not thinking about loving her. She understood why he had gone with Major Powell, wanting to be part of the expedition and to learn about the hearing held in his absence.

She recalled all she could of the nights on the trail when they had slipped into the woods after Armand fell asleep, feeling the night wind against their faces. How lovely those nights had been, the moon bathing the forest in amethyst light. They had made sweet, passionate love, and he had held her naked in his arms, kissing her body all over.

The nights had passed too swiftly. They made love so many times Amber lost count. She knew she would always remember those precious nights, and she wondered if memories were all that were left to her.

Chapter Thirty-Five

On a plateau overlooking the Indian village, Valdis Alezparito stood beside his horse and stared down, the blazing sun scorching him. His eyes narrowed; he removed his wide-brimmed sombrero, jerking the kerchief from his neck to rub at his sweaty face. He cursed in a low whisper.

Beside him, Gerras watched silently, as he had been doing since early dawn, knowing it was not the time to speak. Never had he seen his leader so furious, so intent upon revenge.

Tracking the woman Valdis desired so fiercely had been hard and dangerous. Too, there had been much to take care of at home. Valdis had been delighted to know of Maretta’s shrewd purchase of the Mendosa land he so coveted. For a flicker of an instant, he was uncomfortable about taking her to a life within the walls of the convent. But pity quickly faded. Pity and compassion, those were what cowards were made of.

Now, after traveling countless miles over mountains and deserts, they had found Amber. Valdis’s other men had settled down to await orders while Gerras stood nearby, watching Valdis grow angrier with each passing hour. Finally, he dared to say, “It is foolish to think you can take her from Indians. Leave her. Let us return to the ranch. It is a certain death for us. There are only eight of us against all of them.”