White Dusk (6 page)

Night Thunder sighed. “If you seek the truth, then yes. And you know that in your heart, or you would not have given the white woman to another.”

Remaining silent, Swift Foot knew there was nothing he could say; his friend spoke the truth. Aside from Wind Dancer, their shaman, Night Thunder was the only other person who knew about Emily. And he knew of her only because he’d known Swift Foot so well that Swift Foot had not been able to hide his pain or resentment. Had anyone else known of Emily and his feelings for the white woman, they’d have been starkly reminded of his father, and Swift Foot’s role as leader would have been questioned.

“Do not worry, my friend. I will not do any thing foolish,” Swift Foot reassured his friend, glancing over at the other man.

Night Thunder lifted one brow. “I never thought otherwise. I seek only to ease your pain so that you may enter into your joining without bitterness. There is already too much of that.” He shifted his gaze to the right, where several Hunkpapa warriors rode half a horse-length behind.

Swift Foot glanced over and spotted Kills Many Crows and Lone Warrior riding among the hunters. He grunted. Both resented his position as chief, and Lone Warrior had made his displeasure over the joining of the two tribes clear. “That, my friend, may be asking far too much. Of both others and myself.”

Spurring his mount faster, Swift Foot headed for a low rolling hill. Silently and single-file, the hunting party urged their horses up the slope after him. At the top, they fanned out without instruction, lining the rise. To their left and right, rounded hillocks dotted the landscape. Some cut sharply from the earth; others rose like the spine of a buffalo; while others still, like the one they stood upon, rolled gently from one grassland to another.

Less than a hundred feet from them, the river continued on its sluggish way, winding and cutting a path through the rocky land. Here there were no trees to provide relief from the hot rays of the sun. The banks along the river varied from steep, rocky shale to patches of short green grass and clumps of shrub.

In the midst of the greenery, a large herd
of hehaka
grazed, rested and took their fill of water in the heat of the afternoon. Opposite the herd, the bank rose sharply upward. Using hand signals, Swift Foot split the hunting party in half. The elk, once warned of the hunters’ presence, would either run to the right or left; Swift Foot and the rest must make their kills before the elk managed to cross the river through the flatter land on either side of the adjacent rock wall.

Putting all thoughts of both the future and the past from him, Swift Foot squared his shoulders and lifted his chin. He had responsibilities now. Others to think of. Glancing at the herd, he adjusted a gauntlet made of stiff deerskin. Brown rabbit fur edged the cuffs.

Preparing, he pulled his bow from the case inside the quiver resting slightly behind him on his horse. After adjusting the quiver’s shoulder loop so that it rested at his left side, he pulled out five arrows. Taking one in his right hand, he kept the others in his left with his bow, their points down and feathers up for quick retrieval.

Before giving the signal to attack, he offered a silent prayer for success. Each warrior did the same. Making a kill was not the joyful sport white men seemed to believe. The act of taking a life, even that of an animal, was
Wakan
—mysterious, holy. A pipe was smoked before an organized hunt, and an offering given before eating. A good hunter relied not only on skill, strength, and organization, but also on the power obtained from the spirits.

Nocking his arrow so its blade ran from top to bottom—the same alignment as the rib cage of the animals he hunted—Swift Foot gave the command:
“Hoka he!”

His warriors’ horses rushed down the slope toward the herd. The silence of the afternoon was split with the cries of his men as they tried to confuse the elk. By the time he hit level ground, Swift Foot had already fired off three arrows in a high arc. Those three shafts were followed by two straight shots. All five arrows struck at the same time.

In seconds it was over. Several elk were down. The rest of the herd split in two, fleeing so rapidly the animals appeared a brown blur flowing across either side of the rocky bank, jumping across the river to rejoin as one brown mass far from the reach of the hunting party.

Swift Foot reined up. His horse, Kastaka, displayed displeasure at being forced to halt by crow hopping, tossing his head and snorting.

“Later, my friend,” Swift Foot said, patting the horse on the side of his neck. “You have more work to do this day.”

A quick count of a half dozen fallen elk confirmed that the hunt had been a success. Moving among the beasts, the warriors checked the arrows embedded in each to see who’d made the kill; the meat, hide, antlers and all other parts of each animal belonged to that hunter.

Pleased to find that two of his arrows had found their mark, Swift Foot called over a warrior who had not made a kill. “I give you first choice, Matoluta.”

The man nodded solemnly and chose the smaller of the two animals. “My wife will be pleased,” he said.

Swift Foot knew that Small Bird’s cousin, Makatah, was with child. By giving her husband enough meat not only to feed his family, but his wife’s, he’d shown selflessness and generosity to the other tribe. And proven his skill to them.

In a short time, all the elk were loaded onto the backs of the warriors’ horses. Night Thunder mounted at Swift
Foot
’s side, the elk he’d killed tied behind him. Swift Foot’s uncle had also made a kill, and Small Bird’s brother had
_;
made two. There would be plenty of fresh meat for the wedding feast.

The hunt over, the warriors rode back to camp in loose formation. Lone Warrior rode past without acknowledging Swift Foot. Two other warriors of Lone Warrior’s tribe did the same.

Night Thunder shook his head. “That one may give you trouble. He is not happy you are to marry his sister.”

Swift Foot lifted a brow. “It is not his concern.”

“The happiness of a sister is always of importance to a brother, my son,” Charging Bull, Swift Foot’s uncle, said, riding up beside them.

Swift Foot kept his gaze trained on the horizon and on the thin trails of smoke rising from his tribe’s camp. Thinking of his cousin Willow Song, he gave his uncle a respectful nod. “My future wife will be taken care of. Lone Warrior has no need to worry. She will have food and a place to live in safety.”

Frowning, Charging Bull gave him a sharp glance. “What about love?”

Swift Foot grimaced. “Love does not guarantee happiness, Uncle. Happiness did not last long for my parents, or even you.”

Seeing the brief flash of pain cross his uncle’s features, Swift Foot cursed his own anger and resentment. He had no desire to hurt the man. “I am sorry, Uncle. I have no right to talk to you in such a disrespectful manner.”

Charging Bull grunted. Swift Foot kept his silence, hoping the subject would end. His uncle didn’t know of Emily, he knew only that Swift Foot’s feelings had changed toward this joining. Before going away for much of the, summer, he’d been indifferent to the marriage. The council had ordered him to take a wife, and he’d complied. Simple.

At one time, no sacrifice had been too great for his people. But since meeting Emily on his journey and falling in love with her, he knew he was giving them the ultimate sacrifice: his life. And not physically, though he would gladly die honorably in battle to protect his people. He was sacrificing the life of his heart, his soul. For him, joy or happiness was not something he would ever again experience.

Kills Many Crows flanked his father and interrupted Swift Foot’s inner battle. “Perhaps Lone Warrior fears you bring dishonor to his sister as your father brought dishonor to us. Perhaps he fears she will die as my mother died.” The young man’s voice was filled with resentment.

Charging Bull’s head whipped around. He stopped his horse and glared at his son.

“What is past is past.”

Kills Many Crows and Swift Foot also came to a halt. “No, Father. The past will repeat itself. More will die. More will be maimed as my sister was. Lone Warrior has reason to be concerned. As do we all!”

Swift Foot interrupted: “Are we not talking with our enemy instead of fighting? Many Horns has come to us three times now to discuss peace.” Swift Foot stared his cousin down. Progress
had
been made toward peace between the two tribes. “There have been no raids, no attacks since the
maka
turned green,” he reminded Kills Many Crows.

“You are a fool. There will never be peace. Not as long as you walk upon the earth!”

“Enough,” Charging Bull thundered. “You show disrespect not only to your brother, but to your chief.”

Eyes filled with fury, Kills Many Crows slashed the air with his hand, startling all the horses. “It will never be enough, Father. The war will continue—the attacks and the deaths of innocent women and children.” He paused and drew in a deep breath. “He is not my brother, yet you regard and treat him as if he were your son.”

Furious with his cousin for his pettiness, Swift Foot tightened his hands on his reins, causing Kastaka to shift uneasily beneath him. Like water off the back of a bird, he ignored Kills Many Crows’s denial of fraternity; his cousin had resented his presence among their family all his life. Instead he addressed the issue of peace.

“Am I not doing all I can to find the path of peace between our tribes?” he repeated.

“How can there be peace when you are the reason for the war? How can you lead our people when you are the one our enemy seeks to destroy!” Kills Many Crows’s voice rang out, drawing the attention of every warrior within earshot. “Like your father, you will bring death to our people.”

Swift Foot clamped his jaw shut as Kills Many Crows whirled and rode away. Beside him, his uncle’s shoulders slumped.

“My son has allowed grief to cloud his emotions,” the man explained. Sadness and disappointment lined his voice.

Swift Foot remained silent. There was nothing else to add. His uncle had never held him responsible for either the death of his wife or the injuries to his only daughter.

“I do not know what to do for him,” his uncle admitted, his face filled with defeat.

For the first time. Swift Foot noticed how old his uncle had become. The man’s face shone with the look of oiled leather. Age had pulled the brown skin around his eyes and mouth downward, while wrinkles carved deep grooves down the center of each cheek, around his eyes and across his forehead. His hair now had more white than gray. Even his sharp gaze had dulled with age. He was a proud man who’d seldom shown emotion, but now sadness clung to him. Without another word, the old chief dropped back as if ashamed to ride at the side of his brother’s child. The side of his new leader.

Swift Foot drew in a deep breath. He vowed to avoid any more confrontations with Kills Many Crows within his uncle’s hearing. Kills Many Crows was now his problem. As chief, he needed to have the trust and loyalty of all his warriors, yet he knew he’d never have those from his cousin. Too much resentment and hatred stood between them. And it didn’t stem just from the war Runs with Wind had started.

Kills Many Crows hated Swift Foot because of the status his cousin had earned that he himself hadn’t—and because Swift Foot’s status had come on the day of the death of his mother and so many others. Before that day, Swift Foot had been Calf-Boy—just another boy in the tribe aspiring to become a great warrior. But at the age of seven, Swift Foot had achieved what many warriors to this day had not—including Kills Many Crows—counting coup by touching the enemy, causing harm to the enemy by touching him. In his cousin’s eyes, Swift Foot had compounded his crime in the years following by becoming a great warrior and earning Charging Bull’s respect and loyalty, and the title of chief—things that were due to him.

As the dead elk weighed down his horse, the weight of so many lives settled across Swift Foot’s shoulders. Once more he found himself yearning for those few weeks during the summer when he’d been carefree and truly happy. For the first time since saving Small Bird’s life, he’d felt responsible for only himself.

Of course, he had quickly taken on more responsibility—that of the life of a young white girl stranded in the wilderness after an Indian attack had killed her parents. But no one had any raised expectations. No one had expected him to train harder or ride to war with grown warriors. During those few blissful weeks with Emily, he’d been able to leave everything behind. For the first time since boyhood, he’d savored each day, each moment as it came—not worrying about being the best, but simply living. As the mounds of rock near his people’s camp came closer, along with thin wisps of smoke carrying the scent of food, Swift Foot tried not to think of what could not be. But with the lingering sorrow of his uncle, the resentment of Small Bird’s brother and his own cousin’s hatred, Swift Foot’s inner spirit flagged. Starved, wounded and desperate, he needed to remember—to dream, if only for a moment. He closed his eyes, his horse needing no guidance from him to find his way back home.

The bright afternoon sunlight burned through Swift Foot’s eyelids, lighting his inner mind. His gaze turned inward, seeking the dark, shadowy recesses of his heart, inviting a petite figure to emerge from his memory. Long hair the shade of a new sun framed her shoulders and fell over one breast. Her eyes, as bright a blue as the sky after a rain, smiled at him. She held out slim arms, begging him to come to her, to bring her fully out into the light. Back into his life.

She danced around the edges of his heart and mind, carefree, filled with life and laughter. He saw himself running to her, grabbing her, twirling her around. He saw the two of them falling to the ground, arms and legs tangled, lips merged as one, his body sliding into the slick warmth of hers. He heard her cry of pleasure, felt her trembling, heated warmth and shook with fulfillment he’d never known. He reached for her, needing to hold her close, but the sound of high-spirited warriors intruded. In the blink of an eye, she was gone.

Swift Foot’s eyes flew open, and he cursed
Mato,
the spirit of the bear in charge of love and hate, bravery and wounds, and many other powerful medicines—but he was also the patron of mischief.

He took a deep breath and struggled with the tide of emotion racing through him. Nothing was amusing about his current situation. Though he’d proven his bravery many times over, the elders still demanded that he marry before he’d be allowed to fully take over as chief. At twenty, he was the youngest chief his tribe had ever appointed.

Holding the exalted position of chief had meant everything to Swift Foot: it was the means for him to restore honor to his family. Thus, he’d agreed—having no idea what he’d have to give up.

Riding back into camp, Swift Foot guided Kastaka to the place where Small Bird sat with her cousins. Dismounting, he untied his kill and pulled it to the ground. Around him, cries of joy went up at the amount of fresh meat he and the others had brought. But for Swift Foot, there was no joy. Only duty. Without meeting Small Bird’s eyes, he left. For him, there was only a broken heart and no hope of love or happiness.

Smoke-gray skies hid the dawning of the new day. Rough, jagged thunderclouds rose above moisture-laden air propelled by blustery wind. Kneeling at the bank of the stream with the other women and children, Small Bird ran a wet square of cloth over her skin to clean herself for the wedding. The water was far too shallow at this time of year to actually bathe. Warm and murky, some days it barely seemed to move at all.

A breath of cold air nipped at her. Small Bird’s skin roughened with tiny bumps of raised flesh. Shivering, she glanced up into the dreary sky. The impending storm matched the confusion and anger in her heart. That the weather, which had been hot and dry for weeks, should suddenly turn, worried her. It was as if the elements were in tune with the confusion in her heart.

Or with her anger. All during the night she’d gone over her conversations with Swift Foot, examined each event leading up to his announcement that he would marry only be cause he had no choice.

This marriage was
meant to be.
She’d thought that Swift Foot believed it as she did, that he was the one who had sent his uncle to offer for her. True, she’d known his council had told him to marry, but she’d foolishly thought Swift Foot had chosen her because of their past.

Swift Foot’s uncle had, in fact, along with a few of the council members who’d accompanied him to present the marriage offer, reminded Small Bird’s father of that very thing. And their shaman, Wind Dancer, had spoken of their future. That was why, though her brother had wanted to refuse, she’d agreed. All her life she’d known that she and Swift Foot were to become as one—and she’d been eager and happy to fulfill her destiny.

Learning he did not share the same vision was a blow to not only her heart and pride, but to everything she was. It rocked her world and left her feeling like a fish landed by the swift swat of a bear’s paw. Her heart squeezed painfully.

Rocking back on her heels, Small Bird stared pensively out at the flow of the land. Nothing had changed, yet everything felt different. Scanning the riverbank to her left and right, she focused on a group of women belonging to Swift Foot’s clan. The wind whipped their laughter and the shrieks of their small children to her ears. She smiled.

She spotted her mother and cousins mingling there, as if they’d been a part of the tribe for years instead of a week. Sighing, Small Bird admitted that she was entirely at a loss. When her mother waved at her, she waved back, wishing she could confide her doubts to the woman. But speaking of her anger wouldn’t change anything, for there was too much riding upon this marriage: the survival and continuation of her tribe, her aunts’, uncles’, and cousins’ and friends’ lives.

To back out now would destroy their future—not by war, but by the very nature of the world. Their tribe had suffered greatly over the past few years: warriors had left to find mates in other
tiyospayes,
as was the custom, but few new warriors had joined. Deaths due to illness, old age and a harsh winter had left the clan vulnerable and without enough men to hunt or protect it. Allowing her people’s fears or her own desires to get in the way of this union would be disastrous. There was only this solution.

Standing, Small Bird put her dress back on and decided to return to camp. There was no way out. This was to be her future. In spite of the anger and disappointment weighing her down, she knew this was truly the only hope for her tribe.

A small voice in her head whispered,
Then Swift Foot’s feelings shouldn’t matter to you.

But they did.

The sound of feet running gave her pause. She turned just as Makatah raced up to her.

“Aren’t you excited?” Makatah linked arms with her.

The girl looked so eager. It was on the tip of Small Bird’s tongue to lie, to play the part of the happy bride, but right then she needed to confide in someone. “No,” she said. Sliding her arm free, she reached out and grabbed her cousin by the hand and pulled her off the trail.

Makatah raised her brow at Small Bird’s unexpected action, then smiled wisely. “You
are
afraid of mating with him,” she guessed, a gleam of humor in her light brown eyes.

Small Bird rolled her eyes. Several days ago she’d certainly been nervous about becoming a man’s wife, especially a man of great importance like Swift Foot. And yesterday—which already felt like a lifetime ago—she’d been as excited and eager to become a woman as any young bride-to-be. Today, the thought of giving herself to a man who didn’t even want her left her depressed.

“He doesn’t want this joining,” she blurted, stopping. She couldn’t meet her cousin’s eyes.

Makatah touched her arm. “What are you talking about? He chose you.”

Lifting her gaze, Small Bird couldn’t hide her anger and sadness—didn’t want to bear the burden alone. She needed advice, com fort and support. “That’s what I thought—what we all thought—but the truth is, he wants
no
wife.”

“But the council came and said he had to have a wife, and he chose you,” her cousin repeated.

Small Bird stared down at the ground. She kicked a small stone loose from the hard-packed soil. “He did not choose. They chose for him. Yesterday he told me. He had no say in the matter.” She stared with moist eyes past her cousin. “Unlike me, he doesn’t believe that the two of us have come full circle from a shared past to a shared future.” The last was said in a soft whisper as tears clogged her throat.

Frowning, Makatah took Small Bird’s hands in her own. “Still, you are the one who is to marry him.” She smiled gently. “Look at me, cousin.” When Small Bird complied, she continued, “I was not in love with Matoluta, and on our wedding night I was very afraid.”

Small Bird felt a wistful tug in her heart at her cousin’s soft smile and the love shining in her eyes. Right then, with all her heart, she wanted to see that same look in Swift Foot’s. But she was very sure that was one wish she’d never have granted. “Matoluta loved you. He offered for you. He
wanted
to join with you.”

Makatah’s smile broadened. Her hand lowered to lovingly cup the gentle swell of her own abdomen. “Yes. And now I love him. As you love Swift Foot. He will grow to love you, cousin.”

Small Bird bit the insides of her cheeks. Did she love him? She’d thought herself in love, but… How could a woman love a man she didn’t know? Learning Swift Foot’s true feelings had made her feel as though she’d been in love with dreams, not reality. “How can you love a man you don’t know?” she asked.

“But you do know him. We all know him.”

“No,” Small Bird argued, shaking her head. Fear skittered up and down her arms. “We know
of
him. We know his courage. His greatness in battle. But none of us know
him.
” Saying the words, she realized it was true. She least of all knew the man who would become her husband.

Yes, she’d always been attracted to Swift Foot. At the end of each summer when the Hunkpapa joined together for the Sun Dance and the last of the buffalo hunting, her eyes had eagerly sought him out. But the two of them hadn’t conversed since she’d left childhood behind. Each year his greatness had grown along with his responsibilities.

Yet, she recalled many summers when he’d greeted her, treating her like a younger sister. He’d even taken time to speak to her or to give her a small gift despite the teasing of his friends. That had been long ago. Somewhere along the way, she’d grown too shy to approach him, and he’d become aloof. A stranger.

With sudden clarity, Small Bird saw that she’d foolishly convinced herself that she loved him, that he would offer marriage and love her in return. Or at the very least, that he would desire her for his wife.

Unfortunately, it hadn’t taken but a few words to clear the stars from her eyes.

I have saved the lives of many. Should I take to wife all I’ve helped?

Small Bird felt her cheeks burn.
No,
she wanted to shout.
Just the one who set you upon your path, the one who will fight at your side for peace!
She shook her head.
Want the one who wants you.
From deep inside, the words burst from her heart. She wanted Swift Foot to love her. As if sensing Small Bird’s inner turmoil, Makatah remained silent as they walked back to the ring of tipis.

Glancing up into the roiling clouds gathering over her head, Small Bird stopped. Fingers of cold threaded through her hair, tossing the drying strands around her shoulders.

“
Mahpiya
shows his displeasure by withholding good weather,” she noted. As with the eagle, Small Bird knew this was another ill omen of the future. The spirit of the heavens, clouds and sky heard invocations, and if he was pleased, he sent good weather. He was displeased. The question was, with whom: her, or Swift Foot? She shivered when the breeze swept over her arms and face.