Wild Whispers Page 3

  “Get off the burro, Running Fawn,” Black Hair said as he glared at his daughter. “You are not going with the others this time to San Carlos.” He hated to even think about the gossip about his daughter—that she was suspected of having trysts with young Mexican men her age.

  Running Fawn, her black hair loose and flowing around her shoulders, her face beautiful, but twisted now in a stubborn glare, folded her arms defiantly and refused to budge from the burro.

  “Do as you are told, Running Fawn,” Black Hair said, trying to speak in a softer tone so that the others might not hear. He tried to invoke the sternness that was necessary to make his daughter realize just how angry he was at her insolence.

  Still she did not stir from the burro.

  Black Hair’s face flamed with anger. He placed his hands at his daughter’s waist and lifted her bodily from the burro and placed her feet on the ground before him.

  “You shame me among our people by not only gossip that is ugly about you, but also now, when you refuse to do as you are told,” Black Hair said, his jaw tight, his nostrils flaring. “Tell me, daughter, are your pockets filled with chilies? Or is your reason for going to San Carlos today to see a young man? Running Fawn, do you not see the wrong in being so loose with yourself? You should remain a virgin to the day of your marriage. Until you have spoken vows, you should be completely innocent of men.”

  Running Fawn’s lips parted in a gasp. She paled and looked shyly from person to person as they stared back at her. Tears crept from her eyes as she looked quickly up at her father. “How could you?” she cried, then ran to her lodge, sobbing.

  There was another moment of strained silence, then Fire Thunder went to his sister and gave her another hug and a kiss. In sign language he told her good-bye, and that he loved her, and to be safe while away from him.

  She nodded, her eyes wide and shining.

  Fire Thunder gave Good Bear a nod, then stepped back as the slow procession of burros started down the mountainside on a separate path from that which was used to bring the longhorns to safe pasture.

  Black Hair went to Fire Thunder. “My daughter, she is such a worry,” he said, his head bowed.

  “You will in time work things out,” Fire Thunder said, taking the reins of his horse. He swung himself into his saddle. “Let us go and see to our longhorns.” He laughed throatily. “We have some changes to make, do you not agree?”

  Black Hair eased into his saddle and grabbed his reins. “I find it hard to concentrate now that I am back at home, where my daughter disappoints me over and over again,” he said thickly as he rode off with Fire Thunder through the village.

  At first sight, when anyone came to call on the Kickapoo, the village of wigwams, with an occasional Mexican jacal, hut, seemed to sprawl randomly through the valley.

  But upon closer examination, one perceived that it was laid out according to a plan. The village had been built at the site of eleven crystal-clear springs, protected by a sharply rising hill.

  Fire Thunder and Black Hair passed across a large cleared plot of land where ceremonial ballgames took place, then rode onward to where great seas of grass provided food for their cattle.

  “How can you let your worries about your daughter linger in your mind when you have this to please your eyes and your heart?” Fire Thunder said. He swung his hand in a wide arc before him toward the great herd of longhorns grazing peacefully on the tall, thick, sweet grass.

  “Can you tell me that you do not have a woman still bothering your heart?” Black Hair said, giving Fire Thunder a lingering stare. “Or have you forgotten the woman with the green eyes and raven-black hair?”

  Fire Thunder’s heart skipped a sensual beat at the very mention of the woman that he had seen with the carnival caravan. He gave Black Hair a slow smile. “Thinking of that woman is much different than thinking of a daughter,” he said, laughing huskily. “And, yes, she is still on my mind.”

  “Is it not a waste of time to keep thinking about her?” Black Hair taunted. “You will never see her again.”

  “Perhaps yes, perhaps no,” Fire Thunder said, shrugging.

  When they reached the other warriors, who were heating branding irons in a small fire, they both drew tight rein and dismounted.

  Women, daughters, and otherwise were soon forgotten in their anger as they checked the blotched attempt of the Texans to change the Kickapoo brand.

  “The fools,” Fire Thunder grumbled. “Yet they surely sold many at the market before we came and claimed the rest as ours again. Those who bought the steers looked the other way.”

  “Yes, the penalty for stealing cattle seems to depend, in large part, on who you are, and how you did it,” Black Hair said, placing his fists on his hips. “Longhorns are comparable to the nuggets of gold that miners find in creek beds. If a white man brings a steer to market for another white man to buy, and it is known, without actually saying it, that the steer came from Indian stock, nothing is done about the theft.”

  “That is for certain, for any man who knows our brand would have seen it on these longhorns, that the brands have obviously been changed,” Fire Thunder grumbled. “And who is to say where the longhorns were finally sold? At which marketplace? Texas longhorns can be driven one thousand miles to market with almost no ill effects.”

  He went and stood over a steed as one of his men held it with his lasso, while another prepared a red-hot branding iron. The branding iron was in the form of the traditional Kickapoo mark—a circle with a hook. By varying the direction of the mark and the place it was branded on the longhorn, different members of the tribe were able to identify their animals so that the whole herd could be kept together without any man losing his property.

  As Fire Thunder watched the brand sizzle while being placed on the rump of the longhorn, he grew even more somber. “We were forced to leave our land in Wisconsin because of the extinction of fur-bearing animals by not only whites, but also the Iroquois,” he said, his voice low. “We Kickapoo have been victims of battles, treaties made and broken by the white man, and encroachment on our lands. Then, too, came those who stole our cattle.”

  He turned glaring eyes to Black Hair. “But never again,” he hissed. “We, the Coahuila Kickapoo, have now amassed a herd of some three thousand cattle. No one will be allowed to take even one head of that cattle from us again. We have worked hard to improve the stock, importing expensive blooded bulls, breeding them to choice native cows. No one will get near them, except for those men at the markets we choose to take them to.”

  He swung himself into his saddle and rode away.

  Alone, he rode his horse to a prominent shelf jutting out to the east of the ridge, and surveyed the surrounding land. He looked at the grasses and pines, absorbing the panorama that belonged to his people.

  He could see the reddish-brown wapiti, the elk.

  In the valley below stood many elk, all ages, both male and female. Two elks were grazing in a stream bed.

  Then he saw two elks mating, and his mind returned to the beautiful, alluring white woman. He wondered where she was; how faraway she was from his home in Mexico.

  He felt this strange longing, as though she might be near.

  He did not feel foolish thinking that even she might have similar longings, and that she might be thinking of him. The moment their gaze had met and had held, something had been exchanged between them. It was as though their destinies had intertwined at that moment into one destiny charted in the heavens.

  “I have never experienced this before,” Fire Thunder cried as he stared up at the blue sky. “Why do I now? Why?”

  Chapter 3

  She’s loveliest of the festal throng,

  In delicate form and Grecian face—

  A beautiful, incarnate song,

  A marvel of harmonious grace.

  —PAUL HAMILTON HAYNE

  San Carlos was crowded with shoppers. Outdoor markets lined the streets. They displayed beautiful, colorful shawls, jewe
lry, and vegetables and fruits.

  The carnival tents had been pitched at the edge of town. People were crowding in and around the tents, the smell of popcorn and sawdust filling the air with their competing aromas.

  The carnival sideshows drew the most attention as the performers on small platforms just outside their tents tempted people with a portion of their shows. After enough tickets were sold, they would perform their entire show within the private confines of their tents.

  Some men, young and old alike, tasted the forbidden view of a naked woman who was tattooed from head to toe, a large, winding snake wrapping itself around her body.

  Kaylene was in her own private tent. The audience crowded in and stood around the roped-off area where she was performing. She was petite and beautiful. Her green eyes were sparkling. She wore a short skirt that shamelessly showed a good portion of her legs above her knees. The deep cleavage of her breasts was revealed where her drawstring blouse swept low in front.

  Kaylene held her head back and laughed as she rode her large and stately black panther around the circle, a sparkling, gold-sequined rein gripped in her dainty, tapering fingers.

  When Good Bear saw the carnival tents, and the crowd of people rushing toward them, he was not able to hold back his excitement of possibly seeing, for the first time in his life, what a carnival truly offered.

  Gripping onto Little Sparrow’s hand, he sneaked away from the other Kickapoo women and children and rushed toward the tents with the crowd. Little Sparrow was as intrigued and willingly went with him.

  Elbowing his way through the crowd, Good Bear’s eyes widened as he went from tent to tent to see what sideshows were being offered in each. The smell of the popped corn made his stomach ache with hunger, yet something else that quickly drew his attention made him forget that he, nor Little Sparrow, had taken time to eat, as they had gone from house to house, selling the chilies.

  His heart beat like wild thunder within his chest as he pushed his way to the front of the crowd and gasped at what he saw. The tattooed, naked lady, with the monstrous snake coiled around her body, was gesturing toward the crowd with her hands, trying to lure them into buying a ticket, to see her private show.

  When the lady’s eyes met Good Bear’s, and she smiled seductively at him, he experienced the first stirrings of a man. His gaze lowered. He gulped hard and felt his face heating up with a blush as he stared at the woman’s large, thick breasts. He was so intently staring at them, he was not aware of anything but the hungry ache inside his loins.

  He did not feel Little Sparrow slip her hand free.

  He did not see her turn away from him and push her way through the crowd of people.

  Excited and intrigued, Little Sparrow moved slowly from tent to tent, then went from stand to stand, to see the beautiful ceramics that were for sale. One in particular caught her eye. It was a horse with small, sparkling sequins glued all over its body.

  She tilted her head one way and then the other, taken by how the sun reflected on the sequins, sending off rainbow colors.

  “You like the horse?”

  When Little Sparrow did not respond to John’s question, he placed a hand on her shoulder.

  Feeling the hand made Little Sparrow jump with alarm. She turned wide and questioning eyes up at the man, then watched his lips as he spoke to her.

  “Do you like the horse?” John Shelton asked, an evil gleam in his eyes.

  Little Sparrow did not respond right away. She stared at the man, studying him. He was tall, with thick, dark eyebrows over severe, unfriendly dark eyes. He wore colorful clothes, his red satin shirt casting a sheen on his pockmarked face. She stared at his thick, black mustache, and then looked again into his eyes. Their coldness caused a shiver to race through her flesh.

  Having always been taught not to befriend strangers, especially men, Little Sparrow ran away from the man and past a ticket stand and ducked quickly into a tent. The crowd of people were applauding as they stood in a circle around the tent.

  Intrigued anew, the man forgotten, Little Sparrow pushed her way to the front of the crowd.

  She stopped and stared as she stood at the roped-off area. She had never seen anything as wonderful, as intriguing, as the lovely lady riding the beautiful panther. Little Sparrow had always loved animals.

  She was unaware of eyes on her, and didn’t realize that she was being stalked, until a large hand suddenly grabbed her arm and whisked her away.

  When she looked up and saw that it was the same man who had spoken to her earlier, she tried to wriggle free of his grip.

  But his hand was too large. His hold was too tight. There was no way she could get free.

  Her eyes wild, Little Sparrow scanned the crowd for Good Bear. She had been foolish to slip away from him. She was afraid, more afraid than she had ever been in her entire life.

  She was taken to a dark and dreary tent.

  John Shelton stood her on a chair and clasped hard onto her arms.

  “Don’t be afraid,” John said, his eyes imploring her. “I’m not going to harm you.” He held her with one hand, while with his other he caressed her soft, copper face with his thumb. “Now tell me your name. Friends should know each other’s names. Mine is John. Yours is . . . ?”

  Although the lamplight was dim, Little Sparrow managed to read his lips.

  When she tried to speak and couldn’t, he realized that she was a “mute.” He felt even more fortunate to have found her wandering alone, without parents to look after her.

  Being a mute, she would never be able to tell anyone who was responsible for her abduction, or where, or when.

  In her he had found himself a new “sideshow.” He would present this child to the public as a “savage” who was uncivilized, who had never learned how to talk.

  He was extremely excited about having her; the many prospects of how he could use her.

  There were so many ways to use her.

  Yes, so . . . many . . . !

  Knowing the importance of getting far away from San Carlos as quickly as possible, so that no one could come and claim this little “jewel” of a child, John took Little Sparrow to a tent where a middle-aged colored lady sat in a rocker, mending socks.

  “Magnolia Jane, keep an eye on this girl until I return,” John said, releasing Little Sparrow.

  So glad to be away from the man, Little Sparrow ran to the woman and clung to her, her eyes wild as she watched John leave.

  Magnolia Jane Blankenship, long past being pretty and shapely enough to draw a crowd with her unique style of belly dancing, sensed the child’s fear. She had learned long ago never to question John’s motives for anything he did. She feared him more than she had ever feared anyone. His cruel streak ran long and deep. She bore scars on her back that had been placed there by the tongue of John Shelton’s whip.

  Magnolia Jane laid her sewing aside and picked up Little Sparrow and sat her on her lap. Slowly she rocked her back and forth.

  “Child, it’s going to be all right,” Magnolia Jane said, trying to reassure Little Sparrow, yet fearing, herself, the fate of the child. She was there to stay, that was for sure.

  But for what? What cruel task would John give her?

  Little Sparrow snuggled against Magnolia’s large bosom as tears streamed across her tiny copper cheeks. She watched the tent entrance, hoping and praying that she would be rescued.

  In her heart she cried out for her brother Fire Thunder.

  John hurried from tent to tent and told everyone they were leaving. Even if they had to return money for tickets already paid for, do it. It was imperative that they leave this town. They weren’t that far from their next stop. They would just stay a day longer there.

  Kaylene rushed to her father. “Why are we leaving?” she asked, breathless as she followed him as he yanked stakes from the ground so the tents could be dismantled.

  When her father did not respond, Kaylene placed a hand on one of his, stopping him from taking up another stake
. “Father, please tell me what’s happened,” she asked, finally getting his attention. “We’ve never left so quickly from a town. Especially not this one. Didn’t you see the crowd of people? And to give money back? That isn’t like you, Father, to give back any money.”

  Kaylene’s mother came and stood beside her, her eyes filled with worry. “John, what’s happened?” she asked, wringing her hands.

  John took Kaylene and her mother each by an elbow and led them aside, away from the commotion, and the others. “We’re leaving because we have a runaway child that came to me, begging to stay with our carnival,” he said, looking constantly over his shoulder. “I took pity on the child and gave her permission to stay. Who is to say whether or not she is an abused child, fleeing the clutches of some evil relative?”

  “Did she tell you that?” Kaylene asked, her heart going out to any child in trouble.

  “Well, not exactly. She can’t talk,” John said stiffly. “She’s a deaf mute.”

  “A deaf mute?” Kaylene said, her voice drawn. Her spine stiffened. “Father, if she is deaf, and she can’t speak, how could she beg you to let her stay with us?”

  John’s eyes became two points of angry fire. “Do you doubt my word?” he asked tightly.

  “Well, n-no, but—” Kaylene stammered out.

  “Then don’t ask any more questions,” John said, glancing over at his wife whose eyes were wavering on his. “Now let’s get to work. Let’s get the carnival out of this town. I cannot allow anyone to find the child with the carnival. I . . . might be accused of having abducted her. And that isn’t how it was at all. The child absolutely doesn’t want to be found.”

  “Where is she now?” Kaylene asked, looking slowly around her.

  “She’s with Magnolia Jane,” John said thickly. “The poor child. She’s scared to death. Magnolia Jane has ways to make her feel better.”

  Kaylene broke into a mad run and hurried to Magnolia Jane’s tent. There she found the small child curled up on Magnolia’s lap, sound asleep.