The Angel and the Warrior Read online

  Angelia coughed on something that seemed to be stuck in her throat. As quickly as she could, she regained her poise, smiled prettily, wiggled her hips—if only slightly—before replying, “Of course he’s not hiding. Not that it’s any of your business.”

  “I do not know what this word ‘business’ is.”

  “Good.” She set her lips into a line. “You do not need to know.”

  “He is your brother?”

  “He is.”

  An emotion she could scarcely fathom flitted over the man’s features, and then it was gone. He said, “And you speak to him openly?”

  “Of course I speak to him openly.” She frowned. “Why shouldn’t I? He is my brother, after all.”

  The Indian shook his head disapprovingly. “It is a dishonor for you to do so. And you, who should know better. Why would you abuse him in such a way?”

  “Abuse him?” Wide-eyed, Angelia could only stare at the man, hardly believing she was having this conversation. “Dishonor him? Of all the audacity, of all the poor manners…” She shot her nose into the air, but her shoulders jiggled. “And this, on top of Julian… Honestly, I don’t know how you men do it.”

  The Indian raised a sardonic eyebrow.

  “How do you manage to twist a simple conversation—and a private one at that, I might add—into some sort of dishonorable discourse? But I can tell you right now, Mister…Mister…ah, Indian, that I do not like your words, what you’re saying…or you, if you must know.” She settled back on her heels. “However…” she raised her hand to straighten her glove, “…whether you meant to do so or not, you have at least answered one of my questions. Perhaps you would respond in a like manner and answer my other inquiry…ah…sir.” She placed a sarcastic edge to the last word.

  When the Indian did no more than stare back at her, his glance seeming to dance off the shape of her eyes, her nose, her lips, she swallowed hard. “My other question being this, of course: Did you hear what we were saying?”

  The man paused, looking for all the world as if he were having difficulty reflecting upon that past moment. Then he said, “I did.”

  “Ah, I see.” Dropping her voice, she observed, “Well, this is a problem.” Without conscious thought, she brought a hand to her chest.

  If the Indian were aware of her reaction, he did not comment on it. “I learned much from your conversation, also. I know you both have some trouble. Trouble enough that you would seek to leave here. And I must disagree with you and remind you that it is a dishonor to speak to your brother as you have done. After a certain age, a brother and a sister should not be allowed to converse with one another. They should show respect, yes, but never, not ever, should they speak openly to one another. And especially, a sister should not scold her brother.”

  “Oh? What are you, sir, some sort of walking conscience, that you feel compelled to take me to task?”

  “I do not know what this ‘conscience’ is,” he said. “But I do know that you should not be having words with me either, nor I with you, for in doing so, I bring you dishonor.”

  “You do? And do I bring you dishonor by speaking to you?”

  “I am already dishonored,” he replied. “There could be nothing you could do that would bring me more than that which I already have.”

  “You are dishonored?” How strange. How very, very strange.

  He nodded.

  “What did you do?”

  “It is not what I did, but rather what others did, those I represent.”

  She gave him a quizzical look. “You are an odd one, I must say. Even for an Indian.”

  The ghost of a smile appeared on this hard man’s face. “And do you know many Indians?”

  “No,” she said, “you are the first.”

  “Then perhaps I am not so strange as you might believe.”

  “Perhaps. But do tell me, do you intend to carry tales to the colonel?”

  “Carry tales?”

  “Yes, do you intend to tell the colonel what you overheard my brother and myself saying?”

  The Indian drew back, as though coming to his full height, and his mouth tightened. “Is it your intention to insult me?”

  “No, I—”

  “Do I appear like a jealous wife? She who brings those around her nothing but the secrets and bad tidings of others?”

  Angelia stared up at him. “I really wouldn’t know, seeing as how I don’t know you.” She looked away from him, but as she did so, another thought occurred to her, and she found herself glaring back at him. “While we’re on the subject, tell me please, why shouldn’t a brother and sister converse?”

  If her question or her manner irritated the man, his glance at her did not show it, for his expression revealed nothing except perhaps a tiny bit of patience. “It is ill-mannered for a brother and a sister to speak directly. Young girls from good families do not do so.”

  “My family is fine,” she defended. “And why, I wonder, would your people have such a custom?”

  He shrugged.

  “Well, personally I think it is a silly one.”

  “Silly?”

  “Yes, silly. It means something without merit. In my opinion, this custom of yours—and I’m assuming it is a custom—does not allow for open communication between people who should be able to speak to one another about important matters.”

  The man raised an eyebrow. With what appeared to be a minuscule degree of patience, he explained, “Perhaps in the long ago there was some danger that this custom cured.”

  “Cured?” She shrugged. “Perhaps. But if there were a reason for it and it happened a very long time ago, you should not expect a woman of today to follow it, should you? I mean, after all, a person should not be required to live in some past time period and ignore the present, should she?”

  “What did you say? Live in that time period?” The Indian paused, frowning, his attention pulled inward. “Perhaps you do not have to live in that long-ago period. But I…? I do.”

  Angelia tilted her head as she stared up into this man’s unusual, although handsome features. What a peculiar thing for a person to say. Moreover, what a peculiar conversation to be holding at all. Still, she found herself responding. “You are truly an odd one, sir. But, the good Lord help me, I am beginning to be of the opinion that I can trust you.”

  This seemed to please him, for a corner of his mouth lifted in what might be an attempt at a smile. “Haa’he, you can trust me.” As soon as the words were said, his gaze at her became serious. “But tell me, may I trust you?”

  “Trust me?” She shrugged and moved her shoulders and hips in a way that she knew was a nervous gesture. “I suppose so,” she reflected, looking away from him. “As much as anyone else can.”

  “Good.” He nodded. “E-peva’e, it is good.”

  “Is it?” she countered. “Well, if it is good, then I suppose I should tell you that you are taking a chance in speaking with me as you are.”

  One of his expressive eyebrows flicked upwards. “Am I?”

  “Yes, you are. In my society, brothers and sisters may speak to one another in private. This is accepted. However, men who are not related to a woman should never be alone with that young woman for any length of time. Not without a chaperone. So I’m afraid that if you are caught speaking with me as you are, you might have some trouble pulled down on you.”

  “Do you think I am the sort of man to avoid trouble?”

  “I really wouldn’t know.” She smoothed a gloved hand down her dress, straightening imaginary wrinkles. “I, however, try to avoid trouble whenever I see it. So, in light of that, I must beg that you let me take my leave of you.”

  Without awaiting his reaction, whether positive or negative, she turned and stepped away from him. Before she left him completely, she glanced over her shoulder and, pasting a smile on her face, asked, “What is your name?”

  “A warrior does not speak his own name. To do so is a sign of disrespect.”

  “Ah, I
see.” She placed her hands on her hips. “Then you probably will not mind if I give you one?”

  He shrugged.

  She narrowed her brow as though she were in deep thought. “I think I shall call you Scowling Man, for you have certainly done your share of that today.”

  He grinned. The man actually smiled at her. And then he said, “Swift Hawk. I am known as Swift Hawk.”

  “Oh, really? Well, thank you. It’s been nice meeting you, Mister Hawk.” She hoisted her skirts up to her ankles in preparation to leave, but before she took a step forward, she gazed back at him. “Mister Swift Hawk, one more question, if I might?”

  He nodded.

  “What is it that you do here at the fort?”

  “Do? Do you mean what service do I perform?”

  She nodded.

  “I scout,” he said simply, though there was a definite smile hovering across the fullness of his lips.

  “You?” She turned slightly. “You scout?”

  “Haa’he, yes.”

  “And…you heard…Julian say that…” She paused, collecting her thoughts. “Ah…have you…have you ever taught another how to scout?”

  “I have.”

  “Ah, I see.” Another pause, then, “Well, I must say it is a pleasure meeting you, Mister Hawk. A pleasure, indeed.”

  He returned her nod, and Angelia spun away from the man. Just as lively as that, she was gone.

  Chapter Five

  In this delightful Cantonment (Fort Leavenworth) there are generally stationed six or seven companies of infantry, and ten or fifteen officers; several of whom have their wives and daughters with them, forming a very pleasant little community, who are almost continually together in social enjoyment of the peculiar amusements and pleasures of this wild country. Of these pastimes they have many, such as riding on horseback or in carriages over the beautiful green fields of the prairies, picking strawberries and wild plums—deer chasing—grouse shooting—horse-racing, and other amusements of the garrison, in which they are almost constantly engaged; enjoying life to a very high degree.

  George Catlin

  Letters and Notes on the Manners, Customs, and Conditions of North American Indians

  Swift Hawk watched the white woman walk away, following her with his eyes until she rounded a corner and was gone. Even then he gazed long and hard at the spot where she had stood just a few moments earlier.

  Mixed emotions swept over him.

  Delight, gladness, longing—sensations he’d thought were long dead in him—soared to life. For he believed he had found the woman he was seeking, the woman from his vision.

  Even as he stood, he was aware his feet could have been raised off the ground, so light did he feel. Moreover, a marked sense of rightness swept over him, a feeling of being in the right place at the right time.

  Yet, conversely, his mind spun. For, as correct as this felt to him, it was also all wrong. She was all wrong.

  Could a vision, one who should be an image of perfection, scold her own brother? Could a vision hold no place in her heart for the Indian ideal of correct manners?

  Shaking his head, he scowled.

  “Na-vesene, my friend, she is the one you seek?”

  Swift Hawk glanced over his shoulder, realizing for the first time how caught up he had been in his own troubles, for he had not heard his friend Red Fox come upon him. It was a grave error for a scout.

  “I believe she is the one I seek. Although I must admit I have some misgivings about her.” Swift Hawk frowned. “She is not the same as I had envisioned she would be.”

  Red Fox nodded and placed his hand firmly over his friend’s shoulder. “Yet she is the image of the one you have described.”

  “Haa’he, that she is,” admitted Swift Hawk. “In looks perhaps.”

  “Saaaa, in looks alone? Na-vesene, my friend, what are these doubts?”

  Swift Hawk shook his head. “Perhaps I should not voice them.”

  “Hova’ahane, no, it is better to have them out.”

  “Is it?” Pausing, Swift Hawk frowned deeply. “It is my belief that the woman I seek should be perfect in all the ways that matter. The woman is, after all, she from my vision.”

  “I understand. But perfect? In all ways that matter?”

  “Haa’he, yes. Should not the woman of my vision honor those traits most admired in our own people?”

  “In our own people?” It was Red Fox’s turn to pause. “But na-vesene, she is white.”

  “Should that make a difference? Should not the woman from my vision be adept in all the skills necessary for Indian life? Should she not be efficient, yet quietly so? Should there not be gentleness in her speech? No scolding, and certainly no words of argument should ever appear upon her lips.”

  “Think you so?”

  “I do.”

  “Yet in all the world,” said Red Fox, “there is no single perfect human being.”

  Taking a deep breath, Swift Hawk spun slowly toward his friend and swept his hands out in front of him. “You speak truth, na-vesene, and yet, if she is indeed the one I seek, should she not be the vision of all that is good and honorable?”

  “Perhaps. Yet how do you know she is not?”

  “By her appearance. That is how I know.”

  “Her appearance? But she is beautiful.”

  “Haa’he, that is part of the trouble with her. She is beautiful. Na-vesene, the woman from my vision should be humble in her appearance.”

  “Humble?”

  “Haa’he. Never should she desire to draw attention to herself for the sake of attention. And surely she would never demean herself so much as to flaunt her beauty.”

  “Did she seek to do this?” asked Red Fox. “For if she did, I did not see it.”

  Swift Hawk clenched his jaw. “Did you not observe the color of her hair? The manner of her speech? For she quivers provocatively with every word she speaks.”

  “I did not notice it.” Red Fox’s expression bordered on that of humor. “But think, na-vesene. Do not the women in our tribe dress in their best clothing on many occasions? Do they not flaunt their beauty, spending hours on their appearance? Do they not show off their skills of beadwork, as well as those of making clothes, of caring for the home? Do they not do this that they might gain some attention?”

  Swift Hawk frowned, then just as quickly he sighed. “Haa’he, yes, perhaps you speak truth. Yet I wonder if any of our own women would dare to be so outspoken as she is?”

  Red Fox shrugged. “Perhaps not so in public. However, when a woman is alone with her man, within her own lodge… I remember well my mother talking in such a way to my father, many times.”

  “Maybe,” said Swift Hawk. “However, a good Indian woman would never speak in such a way to her brother, and certainly she would not chastise him and argue with him…not even in private.”

  “Yes, these things are true for us. But surely you have noticed within this fort that the white women speak thusly to their husbands? And they also extend this manner of speech to other men—men who are not related to them. Maybe the white women’s values are different than ours. This woman said so herself.”

  “Perhaps,” admitted Swift Hawk. “But there are other matters about her that worry me.”

  “Are there? What are they?”

  Swift Hawk did not respond at once. Nor would he utter another word until he had thought well upon this. For this next topic was one that he could not openly share with another. It was difficult enough recalling it privately. So simply he observed, “There are other things I must consider.”

  Red Fox frowned. Slowly, the other man took a step forward, bringing him on a level, shoulder to shoulder with Swift Hawk. Crossing his arms over his chest, Red Fox looked outward toward the fort’s parade grounds. More seriously, he voiced, “Perhaps my interpretation of your vision is mistaken. Is this what you are thinking, and why you cannot tell me your thoughts? It is possible that I am wrong, na-vesene. For I am still learning the
ways of the medicine man.”

  Swift Hawk didn’t articulate a word. In truth, he did not know what to say. He could not very well admit he might have thought this. For to openly speak his thoughts would be to infer that his friend had done him a disservice. This a man must never do.

  Besides, if an error had been made, it was his own. It was his foolish impatience that had caused him to act as he had. For in his rush to fulfill his destiny, Swift Hawk had enlisted the aid of Red Fox, asking his friend from his adopted tribe, the Cheyenne, to act as medicine man and to accompany him to the white man’s country.

  That Red Fox had agreed, that he had interpreted Swift Hawk’s dream, was of secondary importance. It was he, Swift Hawk, who had set the pace, who had felt the need for prompt action.

  But surely arriving at Fort Leavenworth in haste was not a bad thing. Hova’ahane, no, not bad. Misjudged, perhaps. For in leaving so swiftly, Swift Hawk had forfeited the chance to visit the old Cheyenne holy man, a man who could have interpreted not only his dream, but who could have foretold his future as well.

  Haa’he. It was to be regretted, it was true. However, it was not all misfortune. Had Swift Hawk not come to this place so swiftly, he would not have come by the leisure time in which to learn. And this, he knew, would have been an error.

  His speed had served him in good stead, allowing him several months to attain many skills. He had mastered the white man’s language, a proficiency first begun almost ten years ago at Bent’s Fort. He had learned also a bit of the white man’s rituals, had tasted the white man’s firewater and had witnessed the results of this “water” on himself. He had also deciphered the black marks that the white man made on those small bits of parchment, which was a very interesting concept indeed. For those black marks held a power over these men that Swift Hawk could not readily understand.

  Though his training as a scout might require him to flawlessly recall earth signs, those of animals, or weather or vegetation, and more, and to be able to recite these memories perfectly months or years later, it still hadn’t prepared him to understand the command that these black marks held over the white man.