The Angel and the Warrior Page 6

  Were not these marks simply communication symbols? Those similar to the messages left by scouts on the prairie?

  Yet Swift Hawk had seen at once that the white man held great store in these black scratches—going so far as to force others to do his bidding because of them.

  It was certainly a strange philosophy to Swift Hawk’s way of thinking, and an even stranger thing to witness. It was, however, an observation that, if he were wise, he would pass along to the elder men in his tribe. Beware the white man’s black marks. For within those words on a page seemed to be certain pitfalls.

  “Do not despair, na-vesene,” said Red Fox, interrupting Swift Hawk’s thoughts, “for if you wish it, I will return to our people and seek out the old wise one, that we might learn if I have correctly understood your dream.”

  Swift Hawk shook his head. “That is not necessary, my friend. You hold great promise as a medicine man, for your power of sight within the spiritual realm is uncommon. As you have said, she is probably the one. I realized it at once. It is only that I expected her to be different than the person that she is.”

  Red Fox nodded slowly. “Have a heart, na-vesene,” he comforted. “No man can or should control the life of another. She is as she is. However, there is also the brother, who was a part of your dream, as well. How he will affect your destiny, I do not know. Perhaps he may yet play a role.”

  “Perhaps,” Swift Hawk agreed. “However, if I am at all critical of this woman—and I am critical of her—I would admit that I am more so of the brother.”

  “Haa’he,” said Red Fox. “I understand.”

  “What does one say of such a man?” continued Swift Hawk, as though his friend hadn’t spoken. “What does one say of a man who believes he knows as much as there is to know about a thing which is as vast as the world is wide? Do not our scouts constantly learn? Do not I? Are not our hunters ever alert for something that could teach them?”

  Slowly Red Fox grimaced. “The woman’s brother is surely a fool.”

  “He is if he believes he knows all about the life of a scout—from this book.”

  “And yet,” Red Fox observed, “have we not seen that the white man gives much authority to those blackened marks on these bits of paper?”

  “It seems to be so.”

  “And so perhaps the brother is fooled in this way. Truly, many of their race could be.”

  “However,” Swift Hawk added, “in this one instance, I would have to agree with the sister. As we both know, there are some awarenesses that go beyond the material world, and it is doubtful the white man has captured these on bits of paper. Plus, there are many skills that do require practice.”

  “Haa’he, na-vesene. That there are.” Quietly, the two men stood within the shadows of the buildings, gazing outward, toward the parade grounds. At some length, Red Fox continued, “I will go to the prairie and seek out the highest point there, where I might communicate with the Creator. Perhaps He can show me why these two imperfect human beings have been given to you in a vision.”

  “That is good, na-vesene. That is good.”

  With a quick nod, Red Fox turned away, stealing into the deep shadows of the buildings.

  Watching him leave, Swift Hawk found himself frowning, wondering. Had he been right in withholding what he had from Red Fox? Something that might be important?

  Truth was, there was another aspect to his reaction as regards this woman, one that troubled Swift Hawk, perhaps more than any other he had yet to contemplate. Something that even he found difficult to admit. And it was this: his innate and quite male reaction to the sight of this vision called Angel.

  As Swift Hawk pondered upon it, he recalled that it had been with a sense of wonder that he had overheard the brother address the white woman as his sister. Until that moment, Swift Hawk had not realized that, vision or not, the woman was available.

  Even now, Swift Hawk sighed as he experienced again the mixed emotions that this knowledge set to fire within him. For that awareness, as simple as it had been, had felt as sweet as a southerly wind, yet as wicked as the coiled snake.

  In quite a masculine way, he had yearned for her. She, the woman from his vision.

  It was something he could never admit; it was something that could never be. For the white woman could mean but one thing to him, and that was the means to an end, the learning of how to free his people.

  And yet, if all were to be known, Swift Hawk would have to confess that he was more than a little attracted to her. Alas, despite his own good sense on the matter, there was much about her that he found to admire.

  Warming to his subject, he recalled the way she looked.

  True, many of his people considered the white man to be a pasty being, more ghostly than handsome. But the paleness of this woman’s skin, even the star-like hue of her hair, gave her a translucent image that was beautiful, as if she were the stuff of dreams, not reality. So fair were her features, she reminded him of the beauty of the white buffalo, at least in its innocence and magnificence.

  Was she also, as was the white buffalo, sacred?

  Sacred? he thought, rebuking himself. She, with the tongue of a shrew?

  Even still, how pleasing was his simple recall of her, of the honeyed scent of her, of the sexual tension that surrounded her with every breath she took, of the pale locks of her hair. In his mind’s eye, he saw again how the golden rays of the sun had reflected off her blonde tresses, as though the sun’s mighty radiance had endowed her hair with life.

  Despite himself, he smiled at his thoughts.

  She was a tiny thing, small-boned, delicate; even her stature was less than it should be, that is, if one were to compare her to the women of the Cheyenne nation. Indeed, so petite was she, the top of her head scarcely cleared his shoulders. Yet what she lacked in height, she made up for in feminine curves and allure.

  He shook his head, as though the action would drive such thoughts from his mind. But it did not. Instead, the urge to cease and desist this line of thinking only served to bring on more.

  Perhaps, then, this was to be the real test of his resolve. Was the Creator even now testing him? Taxing his vow of celibacy? A vow that had been quite necessary, as Swift Hawk remembered it.

  For as a young man of twenty winters, Swift Hawk had fallen in love with a beautiful Cheyenne woman, Juneberry Woman. She had been young, willing, beautiful and a widow, and in her presence, Swift Hawk had forgotten the seriousness of his life’s purpose. Even now, in the guileless remembrance of it, he shuddered.

  “You are my one true love,” proclaimed Swift Hawk to Juneberry Woman, having managed to meet her alone. “When I imagine my life, I remember you alone. When I dream, I dream only of you.”

  Juneberry Woman laughed, the sound of it as soft as the summer wind through the trees. “And how will you show me your love, my warrior?” She smiled up at him and trailed a finger down his cheek.

  “I will take you for my wife.” Swift Hawk captured her finger with one of his own. “I will do it now, if you please.”

  Juneberry Woman smiled back at him, releasing her hand from his. “I have no need of a husband. Why would I want one when I can have all I need without such a one?”

  “But surely you wish to marry again?”

  “Do I?”

  “Don’t all women? Who else will take care of a woman? Bring her meat? Honor her in old age?”

  Juneberry Woman giggled. “How young you are. How young, how ideal and how appealing, also.” She wound her fingers downward over his neck to his chest.

  Swift Hawk inhaled sharply, fighting the desire she instilled within him. “Come with me now and I will make you my wife.”

  Her grin widened. “We could do the things married people do without being married. I am a widow. This is permitted to me.” Her look up at him was full of seduction.

  Swift Hawk pulled back from her. “I would never dishonor you in this way. Come, let us marry and we can experience all there is in life together
.”

  But Juneberry Woman had turned away from him, and with a giggle, she had fled.

  Swift Hawk would have married her too, except for the insistence of a Cheyenne wise man who had taken Swift Hawk by the arm one fateful day and led him into the woods.

  “Marriage is a deed that should oftentimes be accomplished with the head, and not with the heart,” the wise man said.

  “With the head?” asked Swift Hawk. “Grandfather, how can you be a great sage and yet say such a thing? Is not marriage an act of love?”

  “Haa’he, that it is, my son. But beware, for there is a kind of love that is not really love, though it mimics it. There are in all life those things that pretend to be what they are not. And as there is in all the universe around us, so, too, there is a type of love that is as deadly as a slow poison, for it destroys all within it. It is a passion that takes, but never gives. It demands subservience, yet never submits. Come.”

  It was only because Swift Hawk so greatly respected the old man that he allowed himself to be led into those woods. After all, thought he, what did this old man know? He who spoke of marriage as being divorced from love?

  Did the old man burn for Juneberry Woman as did Swift Hawk? Did he think of her as constantly as did Swift Hawk? Did he forget all else when in her presence? Even to the seriousness of his life’s purpose?

  And then it happened. With no words being spoken, the old man pointed at a clearing among the trees, nodding toward it.

  In it was she, Juneberry Woman, sitting naked atop a youth from his own band, a man two winters younger than Swift Hawk. Straddling the lad and wiggling to and fro, Juneberry Woman sighed as she clearly met her pleasure.

  Swift Hawk watched them for a moment, if only to be positive of what he saw. Then, certain at last, he turned away.

  “It is her right as a widow,” said the old man as they trod back the way they had come. “Perhaps Juneberry Woman grieves for her husband in a way that we do not understand. I do not know. I would ask you not to judge her too harshly however. I have brought you here only so that you might understand why I do not believe that she is ready to become a wife. Not now. Perhaps not ever.”

  Swift Hawk could not speak. A part of him had died back there in the woods. Worse, he knew shame.

  Had he not been willing to give up his quest? A quest that he knew in his heart to be of grave importance? And for what? To become Juneberry Woman’s husband?

  Yet he could not truthfully deny that he felt a need to be a husband, to hold his woman in his arms and give to her a love that a man was destined to give.

  Was this the way of things, then? Was this to be his life? That he would yearn for something that he could never have?

  Perhaps it was so. Perhaps.

  It had not been long after this that Swift Hawk had climbed to the top of the highest butte, there within Cheyenne country. Here he would pledge his sacred word to the Creator. Here he would promise to give his all toward the accomplishment of the task set before him. Never again, he vowed, would he be blinded by love. Never again would he even take a woman to his bed unless she too shared his same purpose. A thing that, with the impatience of youth, Swift Hawk had decided was unlikely.

  And why shouldn’t he think thusly? For in all this time, Swift Hawk had not found such a woman. Indeed, he was beginning to be certain that she did not exist.

  Most women held also to the belief that a husband should bring home meat to fill the bellies of their children. Most women desired to be safe, secure.

  It was not that these were bad things. Did not Swift Hawk desire such things himself?

  But Swift Hawk’s life demanded more from him than any woman would ever permit. His was a life alone, a life of wandering, a life of searching. In truth, his life was such that he would not be able to give a woman the things she needed.

  And so it was that since that time, Swift Hawk had gone without love. Difficult to accomplish at first, his life of abstinence had become easier, until now his celibacy was no longer a state of mind or of body that he wished to challenge.

  It was possible that he and the white woman would become friends, although Swift Hawk snickered at the idea. He knew no man who kept such a woman unless that woman be his wife. No, to the Indian frame of mind, to be with a woman meant either to marry her or shame her. There was nothing in between.

  Perhaps this was why his initial reaction to the white woman had been less than amicable. Alas, her charms were many.

  It was a blessing that this woman was worlds apart from him. Because of this, even if he were able to woo her, he would not do so. No, he was more than aware that she would not accept a suit from him, since he would represent something the white woman would not understand.

  Hova’ahane. He must put away these manly desires, for his was a nobler cause. His purpose was pure and one that must remain so.

  And yet, true though he meant to be, he could not rein in his thoughts, and again he found himself envisioning the rosy tint of the white woman’s lips, the delicate shape of her nose, the balmy fragrance of her femininity, the vibrancy of her presence.

  Taking in a breath, Swift Hawk frowned. Perhaps he should stop thinking altogether, for his thoughts betrayed him.

  But of one thing he was certain—if this woman and her brother from his vision were to make that trip into Santa Fe, then so, too, would he. And he would ensure that whatever were his physical responses to the woman, he would suppress them.

  In a moment of rare insight, he knew what he must do. He, like his friend Red Fox, would go out onto the highest rise in the prairie, that he might be closer to the Creator. There, he would throw open his arms and make the sacrifices to the Above Ones, that they might guide him in the accomplishment of his task.

  Haa’he, yes. This was a good plan.

  Breathing out with care, Swift Hawk knew a tremendous relief in his heart, and turning away, he disappeared into the shadows.

  Chapter Six

  They often had balls at the fort, and Blair would sit up all night playing the banjo in the “orchestra.”

  From the letters of George Bent

  George E. Hyde

  The Life of George Bent

  A few days later

  The sounds of music, of gay laughter, of the stomping of feet in time to the beat of a low-pitched fiddle, spilled out between the pioneers’ and the merchants’ pitched tents. Accompanied by the scents of roasting meat, freshly baked bread, vegetables and sweets, the festivities were too loud and too fun to ignore, especially when the evening ahead loomed large and full of promise.

  As the moon began its early ascent into an evening sky, Fort Leavenworth, as was custom, closed its gate to the outer world, including in its exclusion the tents of the pioneers, tents that were scattered far and wide across its lawn. If this bothered any of the settlers or merchants who frequented these shelters, it was not seen upon their countenances.

  Laughter and the hum of conversation could be heard from all quarters of the camp as the pioneers, merchants, soldiers and even the Indians intermingled.

  However, the Indians, most of the Mexicans and some of the shyer soldiers hung back from the general crowd, each group keeping to the shadows that were cast over the land by the tents. Here, if one observed closely enough, the Indians could be found to be frowning, while the Mexicans appeared somber. Most of the soldiers, however, were smiling, though within all three groups could be seen a fellow or two hurling a wistful glance toward the dancers.

  Indian women, white and Mexican women stepped lively, keeping time to the triple-time beat of the jig, no man or woman appearing to discriminate against the feminine persona, regardless of her age or color of skin. When it came to the male dancers, clearly the white men dominated the celebration. True, a scattering of Mexican men could be seen dancing, but due to the lack of Mexican women at Fort Leavenworth, these couples were very few indeed. And so, it could be said that only the braver of the Mexicans and the more courageous Indians dared to
draw in closer to the dancers.

  Swift Hawk was one of those few.

  Though Swift Hawk would have liked to believe that he had been drawn to this place by the promise of a feast, he knew he would be speaking in half-truths. Deep in his heart, he sensed that the real reason he was here was because he needed to see her again. Perhaps he would discover that he had merely imagined her beauty. Or maybe, if he were lucky, he would discover why this woman had appeared in his vision and was now haunting his dreams.

  Picking up a single, though rather large buffalo rib, Swift Hawk took a bite of the delicacy and gazed right at her.

  It was not simply her whereabouts that he had committed to mind. At what might appear to be a casual glance, Swift Hawk, in the time-honored tradition of the Indian scout, had taken note of many things in his environment—of the southerly wind and the warm, dry weather conditions; of the two guards who stood sentry over the dance floor; of the fact that the grass had been cut short this day; that the men had imbibed too much of the white man’s firewater, making them boisterous and maybe incapable of sensible judgment. He had seen that there were thirty-five men here total, that they were all armed, and that their firearms were primed and ready.

  Also, within Swift Hawk’s short look, he had sized up each man as a possible antagonist, had stared surprisingly at the group of musicians, noting that no one seemed concerned that no sacred drum accompanied their songs. And last but not least, he had seen that she was flirting.

  Swift Hawk frowned as his attention lingered over this particular detail, while mentally he cursed himself for his attraction to her. Anger at himself filled his soul, though a good bit of that same emotion was aimed toward the man who was the recipient of the angel’s banter.

  Shaking his head, he could only wonder at himself, at his naïveté. Truly, what had he been thinking to come here? Surely he should have known that she would be as beautiful as he remembered her to be—more so. And certainly he should have realized what his very male reaction would be to the sight of her beauty. Even now, that part of him that was wholly masculine twitched as though it alone understood what she might mean to him, even if he refused to acknowledge it.