Wind Rider (24 page)

“You must find the answer within yourself,”
Coyote advised. “Perhaps you should seek a vision. I can see that you are greatly troubled.
Only the Great Spirit can guide you. If you wish
it, I will go with you to the purification hut to pray and fast. I believe it is the only way/’

Coyote was a medicine man, and Wind Rider
recognized the wisdom of his words. He had
no idea if a vision would reveal something to
him, but for his peace of mind he was willing
to try.

With difficulty, Wind Rider made his way
up the wooded hillside to the crest of the hill
overlooking the village. He wore only a brief
breechclout and moccasins. His cheeks and chest were slashed with white and red paint.
When he reached the top he walked to the
edge of a ledge, balancing on the balls of his
feet as he thrust his arms high above his head.
Fervently he beseeched
Heammawihio
to grant
him a vision. Then he prayed for strength, and
the courage to follow the sign, should he be fortunate enough to receive one.

From the medicine bag hanging around his neck he removed tobacco, offering a pinch to the Man Above, to Mother Earth, and to the
four directions. The wind snatched it from his
fingers and flung it aloft. Then he offered his
hunger and thirst, for he would neither eat nor drink until his vision appeared. If that did not
prove to be enough, he would pierce his skin
with his knife and offer his blood. Having done
all that was required of him, Wind Rider sat
down on the ledge, crossed his legs, and rested his arms on his knees. He chanted and prayed, staring sightlessly into the sun, and when night came he focused his gaze on the moon.

At the end of the second day Wind Rider’s
lips were dry, his throat parched and his
tongue swollen, but he felt neither hunger nor
thirst. When no vision came he pulled out his
knife and slashed the flesh of his arms, offering
his blood as a symbol of his sincerity. But still
no sign came from the Great Spirit.

On the third day he was weak and dizzy.
Time lost all meaning as he stared fixedly at the
sun, chanted, and prayed for a sign from the
Great Spirit. He believed deeply in the magic
of a medicine dream. He had experienced one years ago, one that had provided him with his name, and he prayed desperately for another.

He thought of Hannah, of how deeply she had hurt him by lying to the blue coat. True, she had been his slave, but he had protected
her, not harmed her. He had loved her. ...

It had cut him to the quick when he heard
how eager she had been to leave with the
blue coat, and he desperately needed a sign
to give his life direction. Should he go after
Little Sparrow or remain with the People? His heart was Cheyenne, but he could not
deny that he was white by birth. Did the
Great Spirit want him to leave the People?
How could he do it? He hated white eyes.
He should hate Hannah for lying about
him. He
did
hate her. If that statement
was true, why then was his mind trou
bled? Why was his heart beset by pain?
For the
 
first
 
time
 
in
 
his
 
adult
 
life
 
Wind
Rider felt fear. Meeting Hannah McLin had changed him.

Hunger and thirst carried Wind Rider to the
brink of total collapse as he spun in and out
of consciousness. He had prayed and fasted
for three days and had received no sign, no vision. Perhaps he would die atop the hill, he
speculated, and the People would know he had not been worthy enough to receive a vision. He
picked up his knife and pierced his flesh, once
again offering his blood to the gods. His head
dropped to his painted chest. He welcomed the
chill of the night air against his flesh. Slowly,
he raised his eyes to stare at the moon . . . and
a vision appeared before his eyes like magic,
gradually sharpening until it was spread out before him in its entirety.

Groggy from lack of food and water, Wind Rider clutched desperately at the vision he had
finally been granted. Still seated, trancelike,
upon the ledge, Wind Rider saw two paths
spreading outward from where he sat, stretch
ing across the dark sky. He saw himself rise
and place one foot on either path. Several feet
from the ledge the paths curved outward, one
to the left and one to the right. A warrior in
full battle regalia awaited at the end of the path
curving to the right.

A guttural cry slipped past Wind Rider’s lips
when he recognized White Feather, his foster
father. Then he shifted his gaze to the path curving to the left. Two women stood at the
end of that path. One was Hannah and the
other a woman he was certain he had never
seen before. She had sable brown hair that surrounded her head in a riot of curls, white
skin, and gray eyes. She was smiling; Wind
Rider knew that because he could see the skin
crinkle at the corners of her eyes, as if she
was accustomed to smiling a great deal. Both
White Feather and the women were beckoning
to him.

Wind Rider felt keenly the indecision and the
physical pain of the man poised with one foot
on either path. Then he saw something strange
indeed. He noticed that each half of his image was dressed differently, as if his inner self was split into separate beings. His right side was
clad in Indian garb and his left side wore white
man’s clothing. He grasped the implication of
the vision immediately.

The path leading to White Feather was the
spirit path. If he took it, he would remain with
the People and walk the spirit path to death. But if he chose the other path he understood
instinctively that he could never return to the
People.

On the other hand, Hannah awaited him in the white man’s world, Hannah and another woman he didn’t recognize. She resembled
Abby, yet wasn’t Abby. Wind Rider cringed
at his choices. Wanting Hannah when she
obviously didn’t want him was a weakness, a
flaw that he attributed to his white blood. Con
flicting thoughts and emotions whirled inside
his head as his vision began to fade away. But
before the shadowy forms disappeared com
pletely he saw his image firmly plant both
feet on the left-hand path and walk toward Hannah.

He cried out in dismay as the two paths
became nothing more than moonbeams and
the people beckoning to him slowly evaporated
into the misty heavens. The man walking the path merged with the motionless body sitting
on the ledge. And when the vision began to
disintegrate into shadows and vapors and his soul returned to his body he slumped to the
ground, unconscious.

His mouth was dry, his hunger acute. His swollen tongue flicked out to drag across his
cracked lips. The vision was still so clear in his
mind, it took several minutes for Wind Rider’s
body to react to his mind’s direction that he
rise and leave the mountain.

When he found the strength to return to the
village, a promising dawn heralded another day. After Wind Rider had slaked his thirst
and appeased his hunger he sat with Coyote inside his lodge and related the details of his vision. The medicine man listened intently, saying nothing until Wind Rider had finished speaking. After the long narration he stared
fixedly at Wind Rider for several long minutes,
searching the depths of his soul.

“How do you interpret the vision, Coyote?”
Wind Rider asked. Though he was more or less
certain what it meant, he nevertheless wanted the medicine man’s opinion.

“I think you have already guessed that you
walk two paths, Wind Rider. You have known
for years that the day would come when you would be forced to make a decision.”

“I’ve tried not to think about it,” Wind Rider admitted. “My heart is Cheyenne.”

“But your skin is white and you love a white
woman. The Great Spirit has shown you your
choices, and you may choose the warpath if
you wish. Only know that if you do, you will
meet White Feather in the spirit world very
soon.”

“And if I follow the path to the white man’s
world?”

Coyote shrugged. “I do not know what lies
in store for you.”

“What about Hannah and the other wom
an?”

Coyote closed his eyes, seeing things not
even Wind Rider knew. “Your heart is troubled. You are confused. I understand your
dilemma but cannot help you. It is some
thing you must decide for yourself. If you
choose the white path, your life will no
longer be a simple one. If you want Little Sparrow, you will have many problems to
overcome.”

“I’m not sure I want her,” Wind Rider mumbled beneath his breath.

Coyote smiled knowingly. “If you walk the
white path it will be because you want her. As
for the other woman, all I can tell you is that
she is someone you know.”

Wind Rider frowned. “I did not recog
nize her. I know few white women besides Hannah/’

“You will recognize her when you see her.”

Weary beyond words, Wind Rider grew intro
spective, recalling with haunting sweetness how
Hannah had taught him to kiss and how won
derfully her body responded to his touch.

Coyote’s question jolted him back to the pres
ent. “Have you made a decision, Wind Rider?”

“Heammawihio
has set my feet on the path he wishes me to follow and I will obey, but I know nothing of white men’s customs. I have
no money; I own nothing of value. How can
I survive in a hostile world? And what about Summer Moon and her child? Who will sup
port her if I leave?”

“If you tell Summer Moon her mourning is
over, I will join with her. I think she will be agreeable. Her son will become my son.”

Wind Rider felt as if a great weight had been
lifted from him. Responsibility for Summer
Moon had weighed heavily upon him.

“You can sell the furs you trapped dur
ing the winter. They are prime and should
bring a good price. I will help by giving you ten horses as a bride price for Sum
mer Moon. You can dispose of them at
the fort.”

“Ten horses! It is far too generous.”

Coyote shook his head. “Not generous
enough, my friend. Summer Moon is worth the price.”

Wind Rider closed his eyes, aware that all the
obstacles to pursuing Hannah had slowly dis
appeared. Clearly
Heammawihio
had set both
his feet on the white man’s path. His vision
had shown him leaving the Indian Nation. He
would find Hannah, he decided. But could he
face her without anger? He doubted it. Could
he face life without her? He doubted that
even more. And even if he managed to reach
Hannah, how would he gain her freedom from her cruel master?

A shudder rippled through him. He remembered her pitiful condition when he had first
seen her and wasn’t certain he could keep
himself from killing the man who had abused
her. The thought of her going back to being
an indentured servant made his blood boil.
It didn’t even matter that she had lied about
him to the blue coat; she was his wife. He had
joined with her according to Indian custom;
she belonged to him.

“I have never known such fear,” Wind Rid
er admitted in a voice he hardly recognized. Cheyenne warriors feared nothing yet here he was, admitting that he feared the future in a world he despised, with people he hated. “But
Heammawihio
has spoken. Visions do not lie.
Heammawihio
has set my feet on a path I
would not have consciously chosen for myself.
He must have a reason, though I cannot see it
now. I will obey.”

Wind Rider rode into Fort Laramie, surprised to find no wall or stockade surrounding the
outpost. He had never been this far north
before and was amazed to discover that the fort
had not been attacked in its entire history.