The Endless Sky (Cheyenne Series) (31 page)

      
“They sleep in another lodge,” was all she replied.

      
Red faced and burning with humiliation, Stephanie sank onto the surprising softness of the pelts which were clean and fragrant from the freshly cut pine boughs laid beneath heavy buffalo robes, forming a mattress of sorts. The fox and marten furs were piled on top, making up a most comfortable bed. But Stephanie was far too upset to sleep in spite of physical and mental exhaustion. Her mind churned with hurt, anger and frustration well leavened with fear. What would she really have done if Chase had tried to make love to her?

Chapter Fourteen

      
It was the time of the plum moon when they began their journey to the north, into the vast impregnable reaches of the high mountains white men called the Big Horns, after the fierce wild sheep inhabiting them. Every winter since Stands Tall had rejoined his Northern kinsmen, he had led his small band to an isolated valley hidden in a box canyon, a place that even he had discovered only by accident. Laden down with the meat they had dried and the fruits, vegetables and other foodstuffs they had gathered and preserved, the small band of Cheyenne would once more set their faces toward the mountains and the winter.

      
After a restless night's sleep, Stephanie awakened that morning to the sounds of the village crier yelling out his announcements. Although she could not understand what he said, she knew something important was going on the moment she stepped outdoors. The tranquil morning routine they had observed from the ridge yesterday had changed. None of the old men sat smoking and no women stood about gossiping, nor did the children skip about or play stick ball.

      
An air of excitement moved through the village. Young mothers gathered their children, giving them instructions, which the little ones scampered to obey. Some women packed up cooking utensils while a few others prepared a hasty morning meal for the rest of the camp. Lodges were being taken down one at a time by groups of women working together with the precision skills of a military drill team.

      
The camp was breaking up today! Stephanie hadn't understood they would head into the mountains to that isolated hidden valley Chase had spoken of so soon! She should have chanced an escape last night even though the men had not gotten drunk as she had hoped. Now they would drag her to a place no white had ever seen. She would spend the rest of her life living like a slave!

      
She stood for a moment, looking around, forcing herself to calm down. Panic would serve nothing. It was a long way to those mountains and in route with all the horses kept close to camp she might actually find it easier to plan an escape in the confusion. Yet the way the Cheyenne handled moving seemed quite orderly as she observed the youths herding groups of their family's horses, then separating out those selected to carry the travois loaded with household goods. The men carefully packed their ceremonial pipes and war tools.

      
Stephanie had believed all menial chores were done by Indian women. Seeing a warrior gathering his war weapons into a leather bag, she decided the best thing was to engage Red Bead in casual conversation so that she could gain her trust, and perhaps make the old woman just a bit less vigilant. Walking over to her, she asked, “Why doesn't that man let his wife pack for him?” The woman and two adolescent daughters stood waiting patiently as he loaded his gear onto a travois.

      
“Women do not touch sacred things or war weapons. Brings bad medicine to a man if his pipe or shield—anything he uses to ensure luck in battle—is contaminated.”

      
“I thought as much. When the oaf goes into battle, what does he do with his ‘contaminated’ privy part, I wonder.” Stephanie sniffed disdainfully to herself after the old woman turned away, busy bundling up her assortment of bone spoons and dishes. But then the soft ripple of laughter between a man and woman caught her attention. There was a husky warmth in his voice as he talked with a pretty girl who was obviously his very pregnant bride. He lifted the heavy buffalo hide roll of lodge skins onto a travois for her.

      
Stephanie turned away, feeling oddly like an intruder on such domestic intimacy. If only her life with Hugh could have been touched with just a tiny bit of that affection. But it never had been, never would be. She needed something to do. “May I help you?” she asked Red Bead.

      
Soon she was busily occupied assisting the surprisingly strong old woman position and tie the heavy parfleches of foodstuffs onto a travois. The load had to be distributed carefully so it would ride smoothly, not pull to one side. Within an hour she and Red Bead had all her worldly goods packed up. Several younger women had come to help take down the big lodge, Kit Fox among them. When they knelt to bind the lodge poles together with rawhide strips, Stephanie asked her friend, “What happened after you returned yesterday? I did not see you at the feast last night.”

      
“Plenty Horses was very angry. He would not let me attend the celebration which honored the White Wolf. My mother wishes me to wed Stands Tall's nephew. He will be a great leader one day. She and Plenty Horses argued,” the girl said sadly.

      
“I imagine Granite Arm was angry, considering what her son and Pony Whipper planned to do,” Stephanie said in consolation. “Is there nothing you can do to expose Pony Whipper's evil?”

      
“Not unless I also shame Plenty Horses. This I cannot do.” After they finished strapping the lodge poles to a travois, the younger woman said, “I must go now and help some of the other old women with their heavy chores.”

      
“Is it always the custom among your people to help the old and infirm?” The army said the savages left their elderly out to starve, but all she had seen here gave the lie to that.

      
Kit Fox looked puzzled. “Of course. With the passing of the seasons in men and women's lives comes wisdom. We honor them and their wisdom. Do your people not do the same?”

      
Stephanie nodded thoughtfully, knowing that life in civilization was not always as caring as it appeared to be with this small band of Indians.

      
And so the journey began. The village became a long orderly cavalcade of people and horses. Mounted warriors led the way with several dozen riding point to safeguard the women and children who followed with the laden travois. Some of the older people, who could not easily walk, rode the travois, perched among cook pots, buffalo robes and other household goods, as did the little girls. The boys rode horses and the older ones were responsible for herding the extra stock not in use. Dogs yipped and darted among the people who walked at a slow steady pace, their faces set to the mountains.

      
Chase and Stands Tall returned on the following day. As soon as they drew in sight of the people, the younger man's eyes swept the long column searching for Stephanie. Her bright hair stood out like a beacon, glowing in the waning afternoon sunlight.

      
“Any white who happened upon us would know she is a captive,” Stands Tall said, echoing his nephew's thoughts.

      
“I will see that she disguises her hair. I had not counted on running across a party of miners. They are directly to our south and could become nosy.”

      
“Have you decided what is to be done with her yet?”

      
The troubling question had haunted Chase's dreams ever since he had taken her prisoner. He'd hoped being away from her while they scouted the trail to the mountains would enable him to think more rationally about the situation, but it had not. He dreamed of her nightly. Sighing, he shook his head.

      
“Perhaps she could become one of us as your mother did.”

      
Stands Tall's tone of voice communicated the doubt both he and Chase shared. “She married that butcher Phillips, and spent the past three years living as a soldier's wife. She will never come to me as Freedom Woman did to Vanishing Grass.”

      
“Never is a long, long time,” Stands Tall said softly, surprising himself almost as much as he did his nephew.

      
Stephanie watched Chase ride in on Thunderbolt, sliding from the magnificent stallion's back with the effortless ease of the High Plains horse Indians. He was practically naked, clad only in breechclout and moccasins. If the proper ladies of Boston had swooned when he appeared dressed in immaculate white shirts and custom-tailored wool suits, she could only imagine how they'd react if he walked into one of their drawing rooms now!

      
He made his way to her after conferring briefly with Elk Bull. She refused to give him the satisfaction of waiting obediently like his horse until he deigned to speak to her. Instead she walked over to where several of the young women were unloading cook pots and other utensils and began helping with the task.

      
“You look too white,” he said peremptorily, as he approached her.

      
Stephanie turned to him and sputtered, “And just what am I supposed to look like—a Celestial or an African?”

      
“You will use some walnut stain to darken your skin.”

      
“Dye my skin!” she exclaimed aghast. He smiled sardonically. “What's the matter? Does the Boston matron shrink at the thought of dark skin?”

      
Her face reddened as she remembered loving the contrast between her paleness and his coppery darkness when they were in Boston. “I can't be what I'm not,” she replied stubbornly.

      
“I'm not trying to remake you into a Cheyenne woman—as if I could. I only want to keep you from attracting any unwanted attention. If any white hunters or miners stumble on us, I'd hate to have to kill them just to silence them.”

      
She looked at his implacable expression. “You'd actually do it, wouldn't you?”

      
“Go to Red Bead and have her disguise you. She'll know what to do,” was all he replied before stalking off.

      
Stephanie seethed, resuming her tasks. If she made a loud clatter with the iron cook pots, no one commented on it. “I'm getting so sunburned I'll soon be dark enough to pass as an Indian anyway,” she muttered to herself as she worked. She did not see Chase again until after the evening meal when she and several of the young women were on their way back from bathing in the river.

      
Stepping out from behind a copse of aspen, he barred her way. The other women quickly left them, knowing there was trouble between the White Wolf and his captive. Even her friend Kit Fox lowered her eyes in resignation and walked away. Stephanie looked up at him, waiting to see what he would do. He held a small vial in one hand. With the other he reached out and took hold of her wrist, heading back toward the river.

      
“I have already bathed,” she said as anger and panic took hold of her in equal measure.

      
“But you have not done as I told you.”

      
“No, I have not,” she dared him, trying to yank her arm from the steely grip.

      
He refused to relinquish it. When she continued to balk, he slipped the small vial into his waistband and quickly picked her up, tossing her over his shoulder before she could do more than let out an outraged gasp.
      
Approaching the riverbank, he slung her down and released her. They stood facing each other, eyes glowing in the dim light of evening. Slowly he withdrew the vial and uncorked it. A pungent not unpleasant smell assailed her nostrils. She wrinkled her nose as he offered it to her.

      
“Smear it on your face, neck, arms and hands.”

      
“It stinks.” She refused to take it.

      
“It's only walnut oil. As soon as the stain dries you can bathe away the odor.”

      
“No whites will see me here. There's no reason for this.”

      
He looked at the damp skin of her throat where a small pulse raced. She had left the tunic unlaced at the neckline. A small smile curled about his mouth as he fingered the lacings. “Well, at least you've finally taken my advice about loosening up.”

      
She backed warily away. “I'll scream, Chase.”

      
He smiled broadly now but it was not a nice smile. “Go ahead. Do you think any of my people will interfere between me and my captive?” He poured a bit of the dark oil into his palm and then slid it along the pale column of her neck, pulling her to him. She could feel the calluses on his hand, the slickness of the oil, the warmth of his breath as he drew her closer. His fingers dropped lower across her collarbone and she gasped, looking down to see the dark stain spread across her light skin. By now he had clasped her wrist in his other hand along with the small vial, all the while continuing the soft massaging motion along her shoulder, sliding the loosened tunic dangerously low. When he grazed the swell of her breast, she reached up and clasped his hand with her free one.

      
“Please...don't do this,” she whispered hoarsely.

      
“I don't know. The thought of massaging all that lovely white skin does hold a certain allure,” he murmured, noticing she did not pull away, only pressed her hand against his to stop him from reaching inside her tunic to caress her breast. He ached to do just that. Suddenly she seized the vial from him and slid from his grasp, standing still, her breasts rising and falling swiftly, her lips slightly parted, breathless. He could see the dark imprint of his touch across her throat, a stark contrast to the pallor of her face.