Savage Illusions Read online

  Giving Char­lot­te the ne­eded pri­vacy, the men wal­ked away and sto­od in a gro­up, dis­cus­sing the find.

  Charlotte ope­ned her dress to the tiny baby girl. Te­ars ca­me to her eyes when the child be­gan suc­k­ling from her bre­ast. She ga­zed with won­der at the child's be­a­uti­ful cop­per skin and tiny to­es and fin­gers. It ca­me to her that the child was now mot­her­less and that per­haps Kirk co­uld ha­ve an in­s­tant sis­ter. She was not su­re if she co­uld ha­ve any mo­re chil­d­ren. It had ta­ken so long to fi­nal­ly ha­ve her ado­rab­le Kirk…

  Bryce still sto­od be­si­de the wa­gon, wat­c­hing the baby nur­sing. "I don't know what to do," he sa­id, his vo­ice drawn. "If we try and find the vil­la­ge from which this wo­man ca­me, we might so­me­how be ac­cu­sed of the wo­man's de­ath. I don't think I want to tra­de my scalp for the chan­ces of trying to find this wo­man's pe­op­le."

  "And the child?" Char­lot­te sa­id, her he­art po­un­ding at the pros­pect of get­ting to ke­ep the child as her very own.

  "We've got to ke­ep her, Char­lot­te," Bryce sa­id, gi­ving her an easy sta­re. "Wo­uld you mind? It's yo­ur bre­asts that wo­uld be fe­eding her."

  Tears ca­me to Char­lot­te's eyes as she ga­zed down at the tiny bun­d­le of joy that still so hun­g­rily fed from her bre­ast. "Do I mind?" she sa­id, slowly shif­ting her ga­ze to her hus­band. "Dar­ling, I co­uldn't le­ave her be­hind, not af­ter ha­ving held and fed her. She'll be our da­ug­h­ter. Kirk will be ra­ised with a sis­ter. We will gi­ve her the na­me that we had pic­ked out sho­uld we ha­ve a da­ug­h­ter in­s­te­ad of a son."

  "Jolena?" Bryce sa­id, re­ac­hing a hand to to­uch the soft thigh of the girl child.

  "Yes, Jole­na," Char­lot­te sa­id in a sigh, as she aga­in wat­c­hed the child with ado­ra­ti­on. "It's such a lo­vely na­me to fit such a be­a­uti­ful lit­tle girl."

  "Then it's set­tled," Bryce sa­id firmly with a nod of the he­ad. "She's ours from now on."

  He tur­ned and lo­oked to­ward the bus­hes be­ne­ath which lay the lo­vely In­di­an wo­man. He had not ta­ken much ti­me to lo­ok at her, be­ing too wor­ri­ed over the child's wel­fa­re. But in one glan­ce he had se­en her ex­qu­isi­te lo­ve­li­ness and knew that so­me In­di­an war­ri­or wo­uld mo­urn de­eply over such a loss. If Jole­na to­ok her lo­oks from her mot­her, this new da­ug­h­ter of his wo­uld one day be just as ex­qu­isi­te!

  "I can't bury her," Bryce sa­id qu­ickly. "I must le­ave her out in the open for her pe­op­le to find her. Her so­ul wo­uld not rest if she was not gi­ven a pro­per In­di­an bu­ri­al ce­re­mony and pla­ced with her pe­op­le's de­ad. We ha­ve no cho­ice but to le­ave her li­ke that, in­s­te­ad of hi­ding her in a gra­ve in the gro­und."

  "How so­on do you think she will be fo­und?" Char­lot­te as­ked, wor­rying abo­ut ani­mals fe­eding on her.

  Bryce kne­aded his brow tho­ug­h­t­ful­ly as he lo­oked in­to the dis­tan­ce. "It is sa­id that the In­di­an wo­men go far eno­ugh away to ha­ve the­ir child so that it ta­kes three days' tra­vel on fo­ot to get the­re," he sa­id. "On hor­se­back, the way the war­ri­or hus­band will tra­vel when he co­mes lo­oking for her, it will ta­ke only one day. So he sho­uld be he­re I'd say at le­ast by to­night."

  "That me­ans that we most cer­ta­inly must be abo­ard that ri­ver­bo­at be­fo­re he ar­ri­ves," Char- lot­te sa­id, her vo­ice wary. "Can we truly, dar­ling? Can we ma­ke it?"

  "I'll see to it," Bryce sa­id, clim­bing abo­ard his wa­gon. He le­aned out and sho­uted for ever­yo­ne el­se to be on the­ir way, then tur­ned to Char­lot­te with he­avy eyes. "I ha­te li­ke hell dep­ri­ving a man a lo­ok at his new­born child, but on­ce he finds his wi­fe de­ad, he will be­co­me en­ra­ged eno­ugh to kill an­y­t­hing and an­yo­ne in his path. We ha­ve no cho­ice but to ta­ke his child and ra­ise her as our own."

  "She will be gi­ven many mo­re op­por­tu­ni­ti­es than she wo­uld ha­ve had among In­di­ans," Char­lot­te mur­mu­red, ta­king the child from her bre­ast. She re­ac­hed be­hind her and grab­bed a soft blan­ket to wrap the baby in.

  Then she po­si­ti­oned a child in the cro­ok of each of her arms, a con­ten­ted smi­le on her lo­vely fa­ce.

  "One thing we must pre­pa­re our­sel­ves for," Bryce war­ned. "When she gets old eno­ugh to min­g­le with the ot­her chil­d­ren in Sa­int Lo­u­is, she will be po­in­ted out as dif­fe­rent, even as per­haps pe­cu­li­ar in her co­lo­ring. She might be tor­men­ted by the whi­te chil­d­ren, even cal­led a sa­va­ge."

  Charlotte pa­led at the tho­ught. "We will ma­ke up the dif­fe­ren­ce in our at­ti­tu­de to­ward her," she sa­id de­ter­mi­nedly. "We will te­ach her to ig­no­re tho­se who wo­uld be­lit­tle them­sel­ves by be­ing pre­j­udi­ci­al in the­ir jud­g­ments and vi­ew­po­ints."

  Bryce smi­led at Char­lot­te and nod­ded his ap­pro­val of that which she had so strongly dec­la­red in de­fen­se of this child that was the­irs by only mo­ments.

  Chapter Two

  A se­mi­cir­c­le of co­ne-sha­ped te­pe­es dot­ted the gre­en of the pla­in. A stre­am, tree-frin­ged, fresh from the dis­tant mo­un­ta­ins, flo­wed by the camp pit­c­hed upon a tab­le­land whe­re he the enemy, red or whi­te, co­uld pass by un­se­en.

  Men hun­ted. The Blac­k­fo­ot wo­men we­re busy drying me­at and tan­ning ro­bes and cow hi­des.

  The smell of ro­as­ting me­at and the so­und of chil­d­ren at play fil­led the af­ter­no­on air.

  Spotted Eag­le, who had only re­cently ear­ned his new na­me by ha­ving fas­ted far from his pe­op­le for fo­ur days and nights, pa­ced be­fo­re his pa­rents' te­pee. He fo­und the ga­mes of the chil­d­ren much too chil­d­li­ke this day. He had ot­her things on his mind which we­re mo­re im­por­tant to him. He knew that to­day Swe­et Do­ve sho­uld ha­ve re­tur­ned to her pe­op­le, pro­udly car­rying her new­born child wit­hin her arms. When Brown Elk, her hus­band, had be­gun to worry over her ab­sen­cet­he re­qu­ired days a Blac­k­fo­ot ma­iden sho­uld be go­ne to gi­ve birth to her child ha­ving pas­sed­he had left with many war­ri­ors to se­arch for her.

  "She is de­ad," Spot­ted Eag­le whis­pe­red to him­self, his long flo­wing ha­ir aro­und his sho­ul­ders as he ma­de anot­her tro­ub­led turn to pa­ce aga­in. "I know she is de­ad."

  He lif­ted his eyes to the sky. "I am only a boy of ten win­ters, but I will mo­urn such a de­ath as tho­ugh she we­re my own wo­man," he pra­yed. "Ne­ver ha­ve I lo­oked upon such a fa­ce of be­a­uty. Ne­ver has any wo­man be­si­des my mot­her be­en so ca­ring, so un­der­s­tan­ding. Oh, he­ar me now, Sun, the sup­re­me chi­ef of the Blac­k­fo­ot. Let Swe­et Do­ve en­ter the camp so­on with her child held clo­se to her bo­som. Oh, po­wer­ful one, ple­ase he­ar my pra­yers."

  The so­und of ho­oves en­te­ring the far si­de of the vil­la­ge, ma­king a so­und li­ke dis­tant thun­der aga­inst the ba­re, pac­ked earth, ca­used Spot­ted Eag­le's he­ar­t­be­at to qu­ic­ken. He wan­ted to run and me­et the war­ri­ors, to see if they had fo­und Swe­et Do­ve ali­ve and well.

  But it was as tho­ugh his black moc­ca­sins we­re fas­te­ned to the gro­und, for he co­uld not mo­ve, fe­aring the worst.

  And he was only a boy with an in­fa­tu­ati­on for an ol­der wo­man!

  Many wo­uld call him fo­olish if he sho­wed his fe­elings for Swe­et Do­ve. He had gu­ar­ded them well, even whi­le run­ning, pla­ying, and hun­ting with the ot­her yo­ung bra­ves of his vil­la­ge.

  Dressed in only a bre­ec­h­c­lo­ut and his pri­zed black moc­ca­sins, with a be­aded he­ad­band hol­ding his wa­ist-length, ra­ven-black ha­ir in pla­ce, Spot­ted Eag­le sto­od with his hands do­ub­led in­to tight fists at his si­des. His he­art throb­bed so hard that it felt
as tho­ugh so­me­one we­re in­si­de him, be­ating drums.

  With wor­ri­ed, dark eyes, he wat­c­hed the so­lemn pro­ces­si­on of hor­se­men. Then ever­y­t­hing wit­hin him cri­ed out with des­pa­ir when he saw the tra­vo­is be­ing drag­ged be­hind the last hor­se, on which lay a body co­ve­red with a be­ar pelt.

  Spotted Eag­le's ga­ze shif­ted jer­kily up­ward, and he co­uld hardly con­ta­in the cri­es wit­hin his he­art when he saw that the war­ri­or who­se hor­se was drag­ging the tra­vo­is was Brown Elk. He then knew that the one be­ne­ath that co­ve­ring of fur was the be­lo­ved Swe­et Do­ve.

  As Brown Elk stop­ped his hor­se and dis­mo­un­ted, the pe­op­le of the vil­la­ge crow­ded aro­und him and the tra­vo­is, wa­iting for him to un­co­ver his wi­fe's body. When she was fi­nal­ly in full vi­ew, and ever­yo­ne saw that it was in truth the ado­rab­le Swe­et Do­ve, who­se sha­ring gen­t­le­ness had to­uc­hed ever­yo­ne in the vil­la­ge du­ring her li­fe­ti­me of only eig­h­te­en win­ters, wa­ils burst forth in­to the air.

  Fighting back te­ars and trying to mus­ter the co­ura­ge to push his way thro­ugh the pe­op­le to get his own lo­ok at Swe­et Do­ve, Spot­ted Eag­le swal­lo­wed hard and wal­ked stiffly to­ward the as­sem­b­la­ge of wa­iling Blac­k­fo­ot, fi­nal­ly ma­na­ging to squ­e­eze thro­ugh them.

  He so­on fo­und him­self stan­ding over Swe­et Do­ve's body. The sight al­most ca­used his kne­es to buc­k­le be­ne­ath him.

  She was so qu­i­et.

  She was so de­ad!

  And the sight of the blo­od on the skirt of her dress ma­de him stif­le a sob be­ne­ath his bre­ath, kno­wing that chil­d­birth had ca­used the bright red sta­in.

  A sud­den tho­ught ca­me to him. He lo­oked des­pe­ra­tely up and down the full length of the tra­vo­is, pa­nic se­izing him when he did not see the child an­y­w­he­re.

  ''The child?" he blur­ted, lo­oking up in­to the wo­eful eyes of Brown Elk. "I… see no child."

  Seeing Spot­ted Eag­le as a me­re boy, who sho­uld not be sho­wing such an in­te­rest in an ol­der wo­man, es­pe­ci­al­ly Brown Elk's very own wo­man, Brown Elk lo­oked away from Spot­ted Eag­le, flatly ig­no­ring him.

  Spotted Eag­le's mot­her ca­me to her son's si­de. " No-ko-i, my son, this is not a pla­ce for yo­ung bra­ves," she sa­id, ta­king his hand.

  When she tri­ed to mo­ve him away from the tra­vo­is, Spot­ted Eag­le de­fi­ed his de­ar mot­her for the first ti­me in his li­fe, re­fu­sing to bud­ge.

  He had not ta­ken a long eno­ugh, fi­nal lo­ok at Swe­et Do­ve be­fo­re she was pre­pa­red for bu­ri­al.

  No one, not even his mot­her, co­uld deny him that! And still, the­re was the won­der of the child. "Mot­her, ple­ase tell me," he ple­aded, his eyes dark and wi­de as he ga­zed up at her. "Whe­re is the child?"

  His chi­ef­ta­in fat­her ca­me to Spot­ted Eag­le's si­de and la­id a he­avy hand on his sho­ul­der. " No-ko-i, my son, the child was go­ne," Chi­ef Gray Be­ar sa­id sadly. "So­me­one to­ok the child be­fo­re Brown Elk and our war­ri­ors fo­und Swe­et Do­ve. They ha­ve se­ar­c­hed far and wi­de. The child is now­he­re. They se­ar­c­hed even as far as the ri­ver. The­re we­re many wa­gon, ho­of, and fo­ot­p­rints the­re, but no pe­op­le. Tho­se pe­op­le we­re su­rely many mi­les away by then, down the ri­ver. Tho­se who bo­ar­ded the lar­ge whi­te ri­ver raft might ha­ve se­en the chil­d­might ha­ve even ta­ken the child from her mot­her."

  The tho­ught of whi­te pe­op­le ha­ving a child bor­ne of a Blac­k­fo­ot wo­man, es­pe­ci­al­ly Swe­et Do­ve, ca­used an in­ten­se pa­in to cir­c­le Spot­ted Eag­le's he­art.

  He co­uld not en­vi­si­on a whi­te wo­man ca­ring for the child that was me­ant to fe­ed from Swe­et Do­ve's bre­ast!

  And no one wo­uld ever know now whet­her the child was a boy or girl.

  Wanting to flee to the hills to say his pri­va­te pra­yers for Swe­et Do­ve, Spot­ted Eag­le spo­ke no mo­re, only ga­zed sadly down at the wo­man who­se hand had be­en soft in his and who­se vo­ice had spo­ken to his he­art as tho­ugh he we­re her bra­ve, and she his wo­man.

  She had ne­ver known the depth of his fe­elings. Only now she might, when his pra­yers lif­ted high in­to the he­avens, whe­re she wo­uld be star­ting her long jo­ur­ney to the land of the he­re­af­ter. He wo­uld spe­ak to her, as well as to the fi­res of the sun.

  She wo­uld he­ar!

  He knew that she wo­uld he­ar!

  And she wo­uld pro­tect the­ir sec­ret well un­til one day he jo­ined her in de­ath in the Sand Hills, the ghost pla­ce of the Blac­k­fo­ot.

  His eyes he­avy, his mus­c­les tight, he ga­zed with a lon­ging now de­ni­ed him at this wo­man who­se de­ath had to­uc­hed him so de­eply. Even in de­ath she ra­di­ated a na­tu­ral be­a­uty, with her ha­ir blac­ker than char­co­al, her eyes brow­ner than the bark of the tal­lest fir tree.

  Spotted Eag­le's he­art bled when, for the last ti­me ever, he was ab­le to lo­ok at her ex­qu­isi­te fa­ci­al fe­atu­res, so per­fect that su­rely the­re co­uld be no one that co­uld com­pa­re to her.

  Not ab­le to con­ta­in his fe­elings much lon­ger, Spot­ted Eag­le tur­ned and pus­hed his way thro­ugh the wa­iling pe­op­le and ran from the vil­la­ge. His he­art po­un­ded, and te­ars flo­oded his eyes as he so­ught to find that hig­hest pe­ak, ho­ping to one day find the child bor­ne of the wo­man of his chil­d­ho­od dre­ams.

  Blinded by te­ars, he ran on­ward un­til fi­nal­ly he was high abo­ve the fo­rest, his vil­la­ge in the dis­tan­ce hid­den to him by the thick co­ve­ring of tre­es that re­ac­hed up to this bluff on which he now sat on ben­ded knee.

  Spotted Eag­le be­ca­me con­s­ci­o­us of a drum- min­g­t­he do­ub­le be­at of In­di­an tom-toms, so far away that it was li­ke the throb of the pul­se in his ear. The drums we­re vib­ra­ting and spe­aking to the spi­rits.

  The wa­iling of his Blac­k­fo­ot pe­op­le re­ac­hed Spot­ted Eag­le's he­art with a re­ne­wed des­pa­ir.

  He lif­ted his eyes to the he­avens and be­gan ple­ading with the fi­res of the sun to gi­ve him strength to ac­cept this hor­rib­le thing that had hap­pe­ned to his pe­op­le, the de­ath of so­me­one so che­ris­hed, so­me­one that ever­yo­ne wo­uld so­rely miss.

  "Pity me now, oh Sun!" he cri­ed. "Help me, Oh Gre­at Abo­ve, Me­di­ci­ne Po­wer!"

  There was a stran­ge si­len­ce, and then Spot­ted Eag­le's eyes wi­de­ned and his he­ar­t­be­at mo­men­ta­rily wa­ve­red in its be­ats when he he­ard so­met­hing that se­emed un­re­al, yet won­der­ful!

  " A- wah-hehtake co­ura­ge, my son!"

  Those words, the strength of the vo­ice, star­t­led Spot­ted Eag­le. He lo­oked qu­ickly aro­und and saw no one, then lo­oked slowly up at the sky aga­in, smi­ling. He knew that Old Man, the chi­ef god of the Blac­k­fo­ot, the­ir cre­ator Na­pi, had he­ard his he­art's sad­ness, his pra­yer, and had spo­ken to him. The Sun and Old Man knew his fe­elings, even tho­ugh per­haps it had be­en wrong to lo­ve a wo­man twi­ce his age.

  He smi­led as te­ars rus­hed from his eyes, kno­wing now that, yes, they un­der­s­to­od.

  They wo­uld lift the bur­den of sad­ness from his he­art, for he must lo­ok to the fu­tu­re. They, as well as he, knew that he wo­uld one day be chi­ef of his pe­op­le. To le­arn the ways of a po­wer­ful chi­ef, one must pre­pa­re one­self for it.

  And a part of that pre­pa­ra­ti­on was le­ar­ning how to ac­cept de­ath…

  As the tom-tom dro­ned song upon song, Spot­ted Eag­le lif­ted his tho­ughts to the he­aven aga­in. "Oh, he­ar now, Sun! Wo-ka-hit, lis­ten to my ple­as. Help lift my bur­dens. Send them away from me, li­ke an eag­le in flight. Hai-yah, my he­art cri­es out to you to let me ac­c
ept my loss. Send my words in­to the he­art of Swe­et Do­ve as she walks the ro­ad of the he­re­af­ter. To­uch her he­art with a song that will stay with her un­til I, too, be­co­me one of the stars in the sky, twin­k­ling down upon tho­se I ha­ve be­en for­ced to le­ave be­hind."

  He pra­yed un­til night fell li­ke a black clo­ak aro­und him. He pe­ered in­to the depths of the stars, wat­c­hing the auro­ra as the de­ath dan­ce of the spi­rits be­gan. He se­ar­c­hed slowly for that spe­ci­al star, that which twin­k­led the brig­h­test, and when he fo­und it, he knew that Swe­et Do­ve was the­re, lo­oking down upon him with a smi­le, un­der­s­tan­ding a child's he­art and a child's des­pa­ir.

  There was no wind.

  Then sud­denly a so­und ca­me ac­ross the val­ley be­low him and up the hill li­ke the no­ise of thun­der, as a gre­at owl ca­me flying to­ward Spot­ted Eag­le, its wi­de wings just ba­rely mis­sing his fa­ce.