Nakoa's Woman (31 page)

“I do not know you!” she sobbed.

“No,” he replied. “We have already parted.”

Chapter Twenty Eight

In the next two days of their traveling, Maria did what Nakoa asked. She kept all talk between them impersonal. She slept in clothing, and when she bathed herself, he left the lodge.

When he spoke to her, it was as if he were not speaking. Upon the trail, in Indian custom, he was silent. At their evening fire he told her more about the tribe she was leaving, that the Pikuni moved to the mountains every fall so that the men could hunt elk, and the woman gather medicines—gray leaves for stomach pain, black root for coughs, sticky weed for the liver, blueberry for bleeding, and yellow fungus from the high pines for drying and placing upon fresh wounds. That in the mountains men procured new lodge poles chosen by their women from the lodge pole pine, and the women prepared them, and finished the new lodge skins for the coming winter. New lodge poles were needed every year, for they were used as travois in traveling, and so became worn and rough, breaking holes in the lodge skins and causing them to leak.

So close to her, and yet far away, he explained that in the mountain camp, men cut the red willow sticks they mixed and smoked with their tobacco. That, for ceremony, a man’s pipe was always passed from right to left except in the ending of a war. In sign of reconciliation the usual order was reversed, and the pipe was passed from a man’s left hand to the right.

He told her the Pikuni hunted horses from the wild horse herds in the spring when the horses, hungry from winter, had eaten too much grass and were weak from dysentery.

He talked to her quietly in his deep voice and Maria was lulled away from her fear. The wind still blew, but it did not seem a personal rage directed against her.

Ahead of them the two trappers were joined by a third. “We’ll follow this path until we hit water,” one said and the others agreed. The pelts would be plentiful and when night came and they built a fire, they all sat near its flame dreaming of what their trapping would bring them.

The next morning Maria and Nakoa started early upon the trail, eating cold pemmican and the last of the cooked meat while they rode. But there was a difference in the way he rode his horse; always alert, he was now as taut as a bow. Above them the wind was still roaring in the pines, the cones still tumbling down to the earth. They passed overturned rocks, sign of a grizzly looking for insects and ant eggs; they passed the fresh tracks of the coyote and the timber wolf, the tracks of elk, and Nakoa saw to it that their horses walked silently. “What is it?” Maria wanted to ask, but upon an Indian trail talk was dangerous. A white wolf sprang out at them suddenly from some bushes, and the bay reared and neighed excitedly. “Silence him!” Nakoa hissed, and subdued the animal himself. Some loosened rocks went crashing down the mountain. He held the horses still and looked carefully around them, listening for the slightest repetition of noise. It was late afternoon, the light of the day was rapidly going. “We will sleep here—away from the trail,” he said in a low voice.

“We haven’t come to water,” Maria complained.

“There is a large stream ahead. We can fill the paunches again in the morning.”

They moved quietly away from the trail, Maria looking for a place to assemble the lodge.

“We will sleep in the open tonight,” he said.

“It will be too cold!” she replied.

“We have robes.”

“We will have no fire either?”

“No.” He led the horses away, watered and picketed them so that they were well hidden in a thick clump of trees. Silently he returned and they ate without words. They each fixed their beds and prepared to sleep.

“Nakoa, what is it?” Maria asked, trying to speak over the rising wind.

“I feel death too,” he said quietly.

“It is the awful wind! I hate the wind!”

“Tonight it is sad and wailing, like a lost woman’s cry. The wind goes back, Maria, around and around the world, and it still wails.”

Maria had started to doze when suddenly she heard a terrified scream. “Nakoa!” she called, sitting up and looking around her in panic. She could see his face in the moonlight. He had not stirred from his bed. “It is a mountain lion,” he said quietly. The eerie noise remained in the darkness around them. She was cold with terror. He turned his back to her, and she tried to calm herself and go to sleep again. Above them the pines brushed against the sky with the same madness they had upon the night of her rape. “I cannot sleep,” she whispered, more to herself than to him, and when he turned back toward her, she was almost numb with relief.

“You want talk,” he said.

“Yes. I am so cold!”

“I cannot warm you.”

“Can’t we build the lodge?”

“No.”

A star streaked across the sky, and Maria imagined it falling to the earth in a shower of sparks. “What does a falling star mean to your people?” Maria asked him.

“That is Smoking Star,” he said. “He comes to bring the death of an Indian warrior.”

“Do you believe this?”

“It is Blackfoot legend.”

“Smoking Star has not come to take your life!”

“If my path is finished, I do not want weeping, even in my father’s heart.”

Maria felt sorrow constricting her throat. “Nakoa,” she said gently. “Nakoa …”

“Speak tenderly to me when my ears are deaf and my tongue silent. Look up at the stars, like your woman of the river. Look at the north sky; you will see six stars bunched together. We call them the six lost children of the prairie. They are there because they did not want to be different. They alone had no skins from the spring buffalo hunt when the hides are yellow. They felt that they were unblessed with the touch of the sun, because they wore skins of brown. But it was they alone who felt this, for the children who wore yellow skins were not saddened by their brown ones. The brown skins did not keep them from walking in the sun, or finding food and drink, or from finding even those with lighter skins. Still the difference in their own eyes was too much for their hearts, so the six little children left the earth and their home seeking the yellow skins though it made no difference whether they had them or not. As they would not be of this earth, they sought the Wolf Trail and the fires that burn there, and they were lost in light, for those of the earth have to be of both light and shadow.

“There they are, all six of them,” he continued. “The legend is that they only show themselves in the fall when the skins of the buffalo are brown. They are frozen there because they did not want to be different, but all of the children they knew are gone and would not know their difference anyway.”

“In this legend you have another lesson for me.”

“No, Maria, the lesson is for me,” he said sadly. “The six children who were afraid to be different remained children through the first time, past the burning and falling of new stars—their fear is frozen in the sky now for me to see!”

“I have never heard your voice so sad,” Maria said.

“Sadness weighs heavily upon my spirit. You are searching Maria, as the wind searches for the sound of its own voice, but there are those who seek and never find, for in the seeking alone there is no change! You have remained a little girl, frozen in your innocence, so far from the earth that you can never know a first spring.” His voice deepened with emotion. “I said with my tongue you are free. Now I say it with my heart. I release you—and my woman—my woman.”

Tears came to her eyes and touched her face. She could not speak, and for a long while they both listened to the hopeless wailing of the wind in silence. “Nakoa,” she said finally, “if we have a son he will be of my flesh and of my heart too. What if I cannot leave him? What if I cannot give him up?”

“Then you may stay near him, in the village of my people.”

“But not with you?”

“No. But you should return to your people. You will take another husband from among the white man and have another son.”

“It would not be the same child!”

“Nor would it be the first love.”

Maria sat up. “Nakoa,” she said. “I smell smoke!”

“That is because someone burns a fire ahead of us on the trail. They are camped by the stream. They are three white men. We have been following their trail all day.”

“Dear God! What does it mean?”

“Smoking Star has come for my life.”

“Nakoa!”

“I feel this. I want your word upon one thing, Maria.”

“What is it?”

“If I am to die before our son is born, I want your word you will still leave him with my people. I don’t want him to know the way of the white man.”

“I will make no such promise because of some legend!”

“It is not the legend. It is the knowledge in my heart. One of the three men will be the instrument of my death. It is clear to me now.”

Maria’s heart began to hammer in fear. “How do you know they are white?”

“By the mark of their horses.”

“They could have been traded from the white man!”

“No Blackfoot or their allies trade with the whites.”

“Then it could be Crow—Snake …”

“No Indian would light an evening fire in enemy territory. They are whites and do not know the land. They do not know they are traveling a trail into a Blackfoot camp!”

Maria sprang from her bed and went over to him. “Nakoa, they cannot kill you if you stay here, if we hide!”

“I will not hide. I will not stay here and wait for them to surprise me upon the trail. Following an enemy from a distance means death. I will go to their camp and kill them. I will try before they kill us.”

“Nakoa! Nakoa!” she exclaimed horrified. “They are my people! Are you as savage as the Snakes? They came to do you no harm!”

“They would kill me on sight.”

“No!” she said, clinging to him.

He pulled himself free from her.

“Nakoa,” she cried. “They have guns. If there are three of them, you would be killed.”

“Then Smoking Star would have come for my life.”

“I won’t have it!”

He looked up at her curiously. “Why?”

“I don’t want you dead.”

“What difference would this make, when you are safe in the streets with the lights shining from windows?”

She shuddered. “Why are you so cruel?” She wiped her eyes and pushed her hair back from her wet face. “All right,” she said. “We will make a bargain. I will leave your son with your father if you are killed.”

“I am glad,” he said.

“But I will promise this only if you do not seek out the white man. If you show yourself to them, if you try to kill them, then I will seek my freedom if I have to crawl all of the way back to the Oregon Trail and starve both myself and my baby! Without your promise, if they shoot you down, I will escape with them if I can, and your father will never know your son!”

“Your words are foolish.”

“They are straight! I will follow them. I will.”

“All right,” he said wearily. “But I want a chance for my life. Before daylight, I will go to their camp and see where and when they go. Stay here, off the trail, with the horses hidden. Do not follow me. Wait here until I return. You can wait here until the pemmican is gone and then ride ahead to the village. You have food for three days or longer.”

“My God, I can’t stay here alone for three days!”

“You won’t have to. But do not follow me do you hear?”

“Yes,” she said and went back to her bed. Soon she could tell by his deep breathing that he slept, but she could not. The wind quieted and she watched the stars move across the sky. The smell of smoke drifted to her more strongly, and when she turned to close her eyes another falling star streaked to the horizon. She shivered and finally, slept.

When the moon was low in the west he awakened her. “I am leaving now,” he said. She looked mutely up into his shadowed face.

“I will not try to kill them. I give my word and you have given yours.”

“Yes,” she whispered, wanting to touch him just once.

They looked at each other, each seeking the depths of the other’s eyes, but darkness was between them.

“Good-bye,” he said, and she watched his tall form as it silently vanished in and out of the patterns of soft moonlight.

Bright sunlight awakened her. It shone warmly upon her face. The wind was gone; it was a clear and beautiful day filled with the scent of pine. The mountain seemed to stir with the long life of summer. Maria rose, and, finding the food and water paunches, ate and drank. She went to see the horses and they were grazing contentedly.

Should he not be back? If the white men were close enough for them to smell the smoke of their fire, should he not be back? She walked noiselessly to the trail and looked ahead into its shadows. Above her, birds sang and squirrels loudly scolded each other. There was no sign of any person.

The sun climbed steadily higher and shone in noontime strength. If the trappers were alive they would have broken camp. If Nakoa were alive he would have returned. Would he leave her to bear a long night alone? She was frightened of the wilderness. In the full sunshine she was frightened of the forest with its strange secretive noises. She went to the horses again, and stroked their inquisitive faces. She packed the robes and food, expecting him back shortly. There had been no shots. Except for the sound of animals, the forest had remained quiet. Why, oh, why, had he not returned? He had gone before daylight! She walked about restlessly, panic pulling at her stomach and making her sick. She listened for his step. She went to the trail and hid and watched it in shadow.