Savage Illusions Read online

  French do­ors ope­ned to a wi­de and spa­ci­o­us bal­cony that hung out over the high cliff that over­lo­oked the win­ding, muddy wa­ter of the Mis­sis­sip­pi. On a foggy day, the so­und of fog­horns waf­ted up­ward, myste­ri­o­us and be­a­uti­ful.

  Today, Jole­na wo­uld be a part of the mystery, her he­art thril­ling anew at the tho­ught of tra­ve­ling so far on the ste­am­bo­at, her des­ti­na­ti­on one of in­t­ri­gue and ex­pec­ta­ti­ons that she co­uld not deny ma­de her he­art be­gin thum­ping, as tho­ugh drums in­si­de her we­re be­ating out a ste­ady rhythm.

  Drums.

  Indians.

  The tho­ught of fi­nal­ly fin­ding at le­ast a part of her he­ri­ta­ge by be­ing ne­ar In­di­ans ca­used her to fe­el a stran­ge sort of he­adi­ness.

  If only…

  Her tho­ughts we­re in­ter­rup­ted by her fat­her's vo­ice. "Go and lay mo­re wo­od on the fi­re, Kirk," he sa­id, so­un­ding shal­low as he held his emo­ti­ons de­eply gu­ar­ded wit­hin him, tho­se sa­me emo­ti­ons that we­re the­re in his eyes every ti­me Jole­na lo­oked at him.

  He now sat at the tab­le and was spre­ading a nap­kin ac­ross his lap. Torn with emo­ti­ons her­sel­fe­mo­ti­ons that bat­tled in­si­de her over this de­ci­si­on she had ma­de to le­ave the li­fe she had al­ways known to step in­to the un­k­now­nJ­ole­na si­lently pul­led her cha­ir out from the tab­le and sat down. She gin­gerly spre­ad her nap­kin ac­ross her lap as Kirk la­id two mo­re split wal­nut chunks aga­inst the bac­k­log of the fi­rep­la­ce.

  Avoiding her fat­her's ste­ady sta­re, which ma­de Jole­na fe­el gu­ilty aga­in for le­aving him, she wat­c­hed Kirk as he ca­me to the tab­le. She felt bles­sed to ha­ve such a brot­her. He was a highly in­tel­li­gent yo­ung man, who was set­ting asi­de his fu­tu­re for her, to be her es­cort. To­day he was ever so han­d­so­me in his blue cor­du­roy tro­users and whi­te li­nen shirt.

  The one thing that was dis­t­rac­ting and so­mew­hat thre­ate­ning was the hol­s­te­red pe­arl-han­d­led pis­tol bel­ted at his wa­ist. It had be­en a gift from the­ir fat­her, for Kirk to carry with him du­ring the jo­ur­ney to and from the Mon­ta­na Ter­ri­tory.

  It ga­ve Jole­na a dri­ed-th­ro­at fe­eling to be­li­eve that her brot­her wo­uld ever ha­ve ne­ed of the pis­tol, yet she knew that the chan­ces we­re gre­ater than not that he wo­uld be for­ced to use it.

  There we­re re­ports of In­di­an at­tacks and mas­sac­res in the Mon­ta­na Ter­ri­tory.

  Not even re­ali­zing that she had pic­ked up her fork and was to­ying with her plat­ter of scram­b­led eggs, her fat­her was a sud­den, lo­ud re­min­der.

  "Stop pla­ying with yo­ur fo­od and eat, damn it," Bryce sa­id, frow­ning at Jole­na, prac­ti­cing his du­ti­es as a fat­her for as long as he was al­lo­wed to.

  Jolena smi­led we­akly over at him and nod­ded. "Yes, fat­her," she mur­mu­red. "I… I was just lost in tho­ught. Wit­hin the next ho­ur I shall be bo­ar­ding the ste­amer. I can't help but be ex­ci­ted."

  Bryce ga­ve her anot­her lin­ge­ring, un­ner­ving sta­re, then swal­lo­wed hard and lo­oked down at his un­to­uc­hed eggs. He so fe­ared lo­sing Jole­na on­ce she en­te­red the land of her an­ces­tors. If she ca­me fa­ce to fa­ce with her true fat­her and pe­op­le, she might want to stay with them and be­co­me one of the­mo­ne with them.

  Bryce slowly shif­ted his eyes to Kirk. He had ta­ken his son asi­de mo­re than on­ce and had beg­ged him to ke­ep Jole­na from the truth of who her true tri­be of pe­op­le we­re, at all cost.

  But he un­der­s­to­od too well that Kirk was the less wil­lful of his two chil­d­ren.

  If Jole­na set her mind on so­met­hing, not­hing on God's earth wo­uld chan­ge it. Not even her de­vo­ted brot­her.

  He threw his fork down and slap­ped at his legs an­g­rily. "Damn the­se legs," he sa­id, his vo­ice bre­aking with emo­ti­on. It was his pla­ce to watch af­ter his da­ug­h­ter and he was no lon­ger ab­le. "Damn them all to hell and back."

  Tears ca­me to Jole­na's eyes as she wit­nes­sed her fat­her's frus­t­ra­ti­on. She felt ut­terly hel­p­less and for a bri­ef in­s­tant tho­ught she sho­uld chan­ge her plans.

  Then the dre­am of the han­d­so­me Blac­k­fo­ot war­ri­or ca­me to her aga­in in her mind's eye and she knew that not­hin­g­not even a gri­eving, sad fat­her­co­uld sway her de­ci­si­on from se­eking out her des­tiny.

  Chapter Four

  Three Months La­ter

  The Mon­ta­na Ter­ri­tory

  Montana. A wil­der­ness of ste­ep, wo­oded slo­pes and flo­wery mo­un­ta­in me­adows, whe­re stre­ams tum­b­led over the wa­ter­fal­ls and blue la­kes lay in pe­ace­ful val­leys.

  The le­aves of the cot­ton­wo­ods rus­t­led and whis­pe­red in the wind, se­emingly an­s­we­ring the soft so­unds of the bro­ok as its crystal-cle­ar wa­ter rip­pled and splas­hed over the rocks.

  The glow of the mo­on re­ac­hed down from the vel­vety black sky of night, ca­res­sing the grassy mo­und upon which lay a fresh spray of wild flo­wers, the da­isi­es with the­ir gold and brown fa­ces the most pro­mi­nent of them all.

  Spotted Eag­le res­ted on his ha­un­c­hes be­si­de the gra­ve, so­met­hing li­ke a si­lent bid­ding that he did not un­der­s­tand ha­ving drawn him to Swe­et Do­ve's bu­ri­al spot. He had be­en the­re this ti­me sin­ce the sun had be­gun its des­cent be­hind the dis­tant mo­un­ta­ins, pra­ying and of­fe­ring his gift of flo­wers to a wo­man who was long go­ne from him, yet who still re­ma­ined wit­hin his tho­ughts and he­art as vi­vidly as when he had lo­oked upon her lo­vely fa­ce as a yo­uth ena­mo­red with an ol­der wo­man.

  When she di­ed, a part of him had go­ne to the gra­ve with her.

  And be­ca­use of his in­fa­tu­ati­on, even still at his age of twen­ty-eight, he had not yet fo­und a wo­man who com­pa­red with Swe­et Do­ve, and so his blan­kets we­re only war­med at night by his lo­ne­li­ness.

  "Spotted Eag­le, ok-yi, co­me. Wo-ka-hit, lis­ten, my fri­end. If we are to ma­ke Fort Chan­ce by mor­ning, we must le­ave now," Two Rid­ges sa­id, chan­cing dis­tur­bing his fri­end's pri­va­te mo­ment.

  Two Rid­ges did not un­der­s­tand his fri­end's fe­elings for Swe­et Do­ve, for he him­self enj­oyed the com­pany of wo­men his own age, ha­ving at six­te­en ta­ken many be­a­uti­ful ma­idens to his blan­kets with him, enj­oying the sen­su­al mo­ments sha­red with them. Al­t­ho­ugh he knew that Spot­ted Eag­le was not prac­ti­cing ce­li­bacy, he still had not cho­sen a par­ti­cu­lar wo­man to swe­eten his dwel­ling.

  Two Rid­ges plan­ned to ma­ke a cho­ice so­on, so that he wo­uld lo­ok ol­der and mo­re vi­ri­le in the eyes of his mo­re ma­tu­re, spe­ci­al fri­end. Now it so­me­ti­mes se­emed to him that he was only an an­no­yan­ce to Spot­ted Eag­le.

  Two Rid­ges felt his fri­end's an­no­yan­ce even now, as Spot­ted Eag­le tur­ned angry eyes up at him for ha­ving dis­tur­bed his si­lent vi­gil at the gra­ve si­te.

  Yet Two Rid­ges did not al­low this an­ger to re­ach in­si­de him and ma­ke him lo­wer his eyes in sha­me, for he knew that he was right to re­mind Spot­ted Eag­le that ti­me was qu­ickly pas­sin­g­ti­me that sho­uld be spent in the­ir sad­dles in­s­te­ad of be­si­de the gra­ve of a wo­man who­se he­art and so­ul had be­lon­ged to anot­her man.

  Spotted Eag­le ga­zed up at Two Rid­ges. He had long ago wel­co­med this yo­uth as a fri­end, at first amu­sed by the yo­ung lad's way of sha­do­wing him from the ti­me he co­uld walk. The bond of fri­en­d­s­hip had stren­g­t­he­ned thro­ugh the ye­ars and had ma­tu­red in­to so­met­hing spe­ci­al. Spot­ted Eag­le co­uld not help but ad­mi­re Two Rid­ges' abi­lity to sho­ot, ri­de, and hunt.

  He smi­
led to him­self, even ad­mi­ring his yo­ung fri­end's pro­wess with wo­men. Spot­ted Eag­le at ti­mes tho­ught that he might le­arn from his fri­end's be­ha­vi­or with wo­men, yet still co­uld not al­low him­self to be that free with his he­art and fe­elings.

  He was one day to be a po­wer­ful chi­ef.

  He must pre­sent him­self as a man of gre­at pri­de and res­t­ra­int!

  Spotted Eag­le to­ok a last, lin­ge­ring lo­ok at the gra­ve, le­aned a hand upon the grass still war­med by the sun, then tur­ned his eyes up at Two Rid­ges. ''You are right," he sa­id, ri­sing to his full he­ight, which was not much over his fri­end's he­ight, Two Rid­ges stan­ding at le­ast six fe­et wit­ho­ut moc­ca­sins. "We must le­ave for Fort Chan­ce. It is an in­te­res­ting ti­me for us, wo­uld you not ag­ree? Who of our pe­op­le ha­ve ever se­en­how do you say the wor­d­lep-i-dop-ter-ist? I ha­ve to won­der if the­se whi­te pe­op­le will be as stran­ge lo­oking as the tit­le they be­ar?"

  Spotted Eag­le chuc­k­led as he swung an arm aro­und Two Rid­ges' sho­ul­der and then wal­ked to­get­her to­ward the­ir gra­zing hor­ses.

  "My he­art is happy that you cho­se this In­di­an to jo­in you in be­ing a gu­ide this ti­me, to help pro­tect the whi­te pe­op­le from the Cree re­ne­ga­des whi­le they se­arch for the ra­re but­terfly that you, my fri­end, spot­ted in this area," Two Rid­ges sa­id, cas­ting Spot­ted Eag­le a qu­ick glan­ce. He ad­mi­red, yet en­vi­ed mo­re, this man who wo­uld be chi­ef af­ter the pas­sing of his chi­ef­ta­in fat­her. "I will le­arn much from you du­ring this trip. Al­re­ady you ha­ve ta­ught me much that ma­kes me lo­ok go­od to the wo­men."

  "There will co­me a ti­me when you will find li­fe as go­od wit­ho­ut wo­men as with them," Spot­ted Eag­le sa­id, of­fe­ring a soft, amu­sed la­ugh to his fri­end. "When you find that spe­ci­al wo­man and jo­in hands with her, then per­haps you can find ot­her pur­po­ses in li­fe. She will tend to yo­ur nightly ne­eds, and du­ring the day­ti­me ho­urs you will not be as busy shif­ting yo­ur eyes from wo­man to wo­man, hun­ge­ring for each of them. You will be­co­me a man who­se wi­fe is en­vi­ed for the fe­ats you will per­form as a pro­ud war­ri­or of our pe­op­le."

  "Yes, so­on I will cho­ose that per­fect wo­man to warm my bed at night and swe­eten my te­pee with her smi­le," Two Rid­ges sa­id, nod­ding. "I ha­ve be­en thin­king that Mo­on Flo­wer might be the right one." He shif­ted his ga­ze on­ce aga­in his fri­end's way. "You, al­so, must find that cer­ta­in wo­man. Is it not im­por­tant that you so­on bring a son in­to yo­ur li­fe, to te­ach him all that you ha­ve ta­ught this boy who is fast gro­wing in­to ways of a man? To ha­ve a son, you must first ha­ve a nit-o-ke-ma­na wi­fe."

  "You ne­ed not tell me the ways of the world and what is re­qu­ired of me to ma­ke sons," Spot­ted Eag­le sa­id, his vo­ice no lon­ger light and ca­ref­ree, but an­no­yed at the im­per­ti­nen­ce of this yo­ung man at his si­de. "In ti­me, a wo­man will fill my arms and warm my blan­kets. Un­til now, no­ne has in­te­res­ted me."

  "Except for my fat­her's first wi­fe," Two Rid­ges da­red to say, gi­ving his fri­end a gu­ar­ded glan­ce af­ter he sa­id it.

  "Watch yo­ur words with me," Spot­ted Eag­le snap­ped back. He pa­used, then ad­ded, "I was a me­re boy then, yet I felt, I am su­re, the fe­elings of a man for yo­ur fat­her's first wi­fe. But I rig­h­t­ful­ly and res­pec­t­ful­ly kept tho­se fe­elings to myself. Still, I fe­el them and mo­urn her I be­li­eve even mo­re than yo­ur fat­her has ever mo­ur­ned her."

  "My fat­her did mo­urn Swe­et Do­ve and mar­ri­ed so­on af­ter her de­ath be­ca­use he co­uld not be­ar the lo­ne­li­ness and pa­in of his first wi­fe's ab­sen­ce," Two Rid­ges sa­id in de­fen­se of his fat­her, Brown Elk. "And sho­uld he not ha­ve mar­ri­ed my mot­her then, you wo­uld not ha­ve a best fri­end to sha­dow yo­ur every mo­ve now. Wo­uld that not sad­den you?"

  "It wo­uld not be so­met­hing that wo­uld ma­ke me sad, be­ca­use you wo­uld not ha­ve en­te­red my tho­ughts had you not be­en born," Spot­ted Eag­le sa­id mat­ter-of-factly.

  "That is so," Two Rid­ges sa­id tho­ug­h­t­ful­ly. Then he cast a big smi­le to­ward Spot­ted Eag­le. "You are glad that Fat­her re­mar­ri­ed and had a son, are you not?"

  "Yes, it ma­kes my he­art happy," Spot­ted Eag­le sa­id. Spe­aking of Brown Elk ha­ving a son ca­ta­pul­ted his mind back eig­h­te­en ye­ars, when Brown Elk had al­so had anot­her child born to hi­ma child that had be­en sto­len from its de­ad mot­her and ne­ver se­en or he­ard from aga­in.

  Spotted Eag­le had won­de­red of­ten abo­ut that child, whet­her or not it was a boy or girl, for that child wo­uld be a half-brot­her or -sis­ter to Two Rid­ges.

  Spotted Eag­le had won­de­red if Two Rid­ges had ever be­en told of the child. It was not a qu­es­ti­on he had ever tes­ted by as­king.

  It was for Brown Elk to ma­ke such con­fes­si­ons to a son!

  Having re­ac­hed the­ir hor­ses, Spot­ted Eag­le stro­ked the ma­ne of his mo­un­ta black stal­li­on, a very fast hor­se with a whi­te spot on its si­det­hen swung him­self in­to his sad­dle.

  Two Rid­ges fol­lo­wed his le­ad, so­on sit­ting tall and squ­are-sho­ul­de­red on his straw­ber­ry ro­an.

  "Let us be on our way!" Spot­ted Eag­le sho­uted, sin­king his moc­ca­si­ned he­els in­to the mus­c­led flanks of his hor­se. The frin­ges of his buc­k­s­kin shirt and bre­ec­hes blew and flut­te­red in the wind as he ro­de off at a fast gal­lop in­to the mo­on­lig­ht-dren­c­hed night, his fri­end clo­se be­si­de him.

  When Fort Chan­ce ca­me in­to sight at the bre­ak of dawn, it was not the fort and the tall fen­ce sur­ro­un­ding it that drew the­ir at­ten­ti­on. It was the sight of a hu­ge pad­dle-whe­eler mo­ving down the Mis­so­uri Ri­ver, its tall smo­kes­tacks blac­ke­ned with smo­ke, many pe­op­le li­ning the ra­ils on the top deck, wa­iting for the bo­at to stop and de­li­ver them to the Mon­ta­na Ter­ri­tory.

  Two Rid­ges drew a tight re­in and stop­ped. He for­ked an eyeb­row and ges­tu­red to­ward the ste­am­bo­at with a wi­de swing of his arm. "Is not that a stran­ge flo­ating ca­noe?" he mar­ve­led. "It is so lar­ge! It car­ri­es many pe­op­le in its bo­wels!"

  Spotted Eag­le drew re­in be­si­de his fri­end, yet of­fe­red no con­ver­sa­ti­on. His in­si­des we­re tight with mo­re tho­ughts of Swe­et Do­ve. It had be­en sa­id that per­haps her child had be­en ta­ken by tho­se who ro­de the lar­ge ri­ver ves­sel tho­se many ye­ars ago.

  He tri­ed not to be an­ge­red by this pos­si­bi­lity.

  Long ago his fat­her had ma­de pe­ace with the whi­te pe­op­le. He had dug a ho­le in the gro­und and in it the Blac­k­fo­ot had pla­ced the­ir an­ger and co­ve­red it up, so that the­re was no mo­re war. His fat­her still be­ing chi­ef, de­alings we­re pe­ace­ful with the whi­te pe­op­le. The ri­val In­di­an tri­bes of this re­gi­on we­re now mo­re the­ir enemy than an­yo­ne el­se.

  The fri­en­d­s­hip of his Blac­k­fo­ot pe­op­le to­ward the whi­tes had be­en fos­te­red by de­ca­des of com­mer­ce with be­aver hun­ters who ro­amed the­ir mo­un­ta­in ho­me­land. Spot­ted Eag­le him­self had cho­sen to walk the whi­te man's ro­ad in pe­ace, ha­ving felt that it was im­por­tant to win fa­vor with tho­se who se­emed des­ti­ned to in­he­rit the fu­tu­re.

  Many Blac­k­fo­ot war­ri­ors had even go­ne as far as sa­ving many emig­rants' li­ves by gu­iding and pro­tec­ting them aga­inst the hos­ti­le In­di­ans of the ter­ri­tory, as Spot­ted Eag­le, in the ca­pa­city of a gu­ide, had ag­re­ed to pro­tect the­se pe­op­le ar­ri­ving on the ri­ver ves­sel from the Cree.

  This wo­uld be easily do­ne, for Spot­ted Eag­le now spo­ke the En­g­lish lan­gu­age well, from ha­
ving be­co­me so clo­sely as­so­ci­ated with tho­se at the fort and at the many tra­ding posts in the area.

  Feeling that eno­ugh ti­me had be­en spent wat­c­hing the lar­ge ri­ver ves­sel, Spot­ted Eag­le sank his he­els in­to the flanks of his hor­se and thun­de­red on­ward to­ward the fort, Two Rid­ges so­on be­si­de him.

  "There are many be­a­uti­ful whi­te wo­men," Two Rid­ges sa­id, smi­ling de­vi­lishly at Spot­ted Eag­le. "Yo­ur bu­si­ness is sco­uting, not wo­men-wat­c­hing," Spot­ted Eag­le sa­id, gi­ving his fri­end anot­her an­no­yed glan­ce. Two Rid­ges' lo­ve for wo­men wo­uld one day get him in a bar­rel of tro­ub­le.

  Silence fell bet­we­en them as they grew clo­ser and clo­ser to the ri­ver bo­at that was in­c­hing its way clo­ser to land for doc­king.

  Jolena le­aned her full we­ight aga­inst the ra­il as she com­bed her fin­gers thro­ugh her wind-to­us­led ha­ir, ab­sor­bing ever­y­t­hing as the ste­am­bo­at mo­ved clo­ser to sho­re.