Across the Sweet Grass Hills Read online

  The only problem was, she didn’t feel like celebrating.

  CHAPTER 12

  Just as the yellow sun melted behind the western peaks, Crying Wind signaled a halt.

  He had brought them to a level, wooded area cradled by several bluffs. It was well protected and Liza had learned that location, even for a night, was important. The Blackfeet had other enemies besides the army, and it was impossible to pre­dict when they might strike.

  The women set up their lodges as quickly as they’d taken them down. Each tipi had a designated location, and in less than an hour, the women were tending fires in front of their decorated lodges while laughing children gathered wood or set off to explore and play. Several young men rode off, bows slung across their shoulders. Hopefully, they would return with fresh meat before nightfall.

  Liza assisted Crow Woman as she loosened the thongs that bound her father to his travois. Together, they helped him to the willow backrest Crow Woman had made for him. He dropped his head against the frame, exhausted, face pale.

  Liza brought him fresh water. He drank greedily, then closed his eyes and sighed. “Do not fret, Daughter,” he said through half-closed eyes. “It is tiredness, not sickness, that makes me feel faint.”

  Liza straightened her shoulders and clenched her hands until her nails dug into the flesh of her palms. Caught between concern and love for her father and great, unspoken anger, she felt like a child’s top, ready to spin out of control.

  Indeed, her life was out of control. She had no power over the choices being made for her. As in their former life, Father had returned to making decisions for her without asking for an opinion. Accountable to no one, he did as he pleased. But for once in her life, Liza wasn’t sure she could obey him, at least not without a fight.

  She squatted nearby, her attention on Crow Woman. The older woman was showing her father how to use an awl.

  “The Pikuni are incredible, aren’t they?” he remarked.

  “Yes, they are,” she said. “I can’t believe how quickly they move and how far they travel in a day. Even the children. I’m exhausted. My feet hurt.” She glanced down at her narrow boots and sighed. “Of course, these boots were not made for walking twenty miles a day.”

  “Didn’t I tell you that back in St. Louis?”

  “Yes, you did,” she said. “But then again, when did you do anything besides ‘tell me’ what to do?” she snapped.

  Her father fell silent. The muscles of his forearms hard­ened and Liza turned away. Would there be a confrontation?

  What difference did it make anyway? Even if she could leave, where would she go? It was too late to bring Mother back. It was too late to bring life back as she once knew it. It was simply too late.

  Without another word, Liza jumped to her feet. “Sleep well, Father.”

  She wandered away from the village. No one seemed to notice, and Liza was glad. She needed to be alone. To think. To rage. To cry.

  Sliding her hands over the folds of her dress, she glanced down and frowned. It had long since grown ragged. No longer a rose-brown, it was simply a dirty brown. Smudges of soot and spots of blood gave it the appearance of a speckled brown egg and the sleeves, once white, were soiled and threadbare. One sleeve boasted a tear along its seam.

  What a pitiful excuse of a dress, she sighed, remember­ing the calicos and velvets she had left behind in St. Louis. What a pitiful excuse of a woman, she added, holding up her hands in the fading light. Broken and split, her nails looked like those of a scrubwoman.

  ****

  That night, Liza dreamed of a dark-eyed man. Restless, she rolled over and blinked back the darkness. Haunting drums and eerie voices of men floated toward her.

  She glanced around the ring of sleeping figures. Crying Wind was not in the lodge. Her heart pounded as she sat up, and she lifted the edge of the tipi wall carefully. There was noth­ing to see, no feathered warriors or blood-red arrows, only a hazy line of clouds dancing across the silver-gray moon.

  But the strange songs continued and Liza grew curious. She slipped past her father and Crow Woman into the incan­descent night.

  Draping a buffalo robe across her shoulders, Liza looked up at the full moon—Old Night Light, Crying Wind had called it. It was high, pale, and partially shrouded by clouds. Many stars were also hidden behind a stream of long, thin clouds. It was a bewitching sight and, for the first time, Liza warmed to its mar­velous, wild beauty.

  Moving carefully through the camp, she followed the sounds. Coming around a single row of lodges, she discovered one lodge, smaller than the others, sitting alone at a distance. Lit like a candle on the high plains, she could discern figures moving about inside. Some danced, others merely rocked, as voices rose in a strange melody accented by the somber beat of a single drum.

  Liza watched, entranced. Without realizing it, the melody touched her, soothed her, and soon she was tapping her bare feet against the earth. Suddenly, a second drum joined in, and then another. A chorus of drums filled the night air. Liza closed her eyes and swayed. The buffalo robe slid to the ground and her hair fell across her face.

  Finally, the drumming subsided and Liza flinched as if waking from a dream. She nervously searched the area. What if the warriors spotted her? Perhaps they would be angry if they found her here, a witness to their mystic rites. She picked up her heavy robe and wrapped it around her shoulders, still dis­quieted by her response to the music. She had never been one to act without thinking.

  Turning quickly, she stumbled and found herself face to face with Running Antelope. Angry and surprised, he stood with his legs apart, bare chest and legs glistening with pearls of sweat, his face painted in circles of blue and yellow. His eyes wore black rings of paint that made him look demonic.

  Should she run or stand her ground? He was only inches from her, and the black pools of his eyes traveled the open neck­line of her unbuttoned dress. Not soon enough, Liza covered herself with the robe and tried to move away. He reached out, one long, strong hand encircling her bare wrist. She jerked back, but he grabbed her other wrist, his fingers closing like a vise.

  He spoke harshly. The words meant nothing, but the tone of his voice was frightening as his eyes raked her face.

  “Please, let me go,” she whispered, her heart still beating like a muffled drum. “You’re hurting me.”

  His words came again, a string of harsh notes, punctuat­ed by his stern and angry face.

  Liza twisted in his hands but Running Antelope only frowned.

  “I shall scream,” warned Liza. “Let me go.”

  She jerked again, this time bringing one knee forcefully up between Running Antelope’s legs. He gasped, releasing her. She sprung away, running as fast as she could and did not stop until she dipped into Crying Wind’s lodge. Burying her face in the soft fur of sleeping robes, Liza’s heart continued to pound, echoing through her brain.

  ****

  Gray clouds were building along the northern skyline. Red Eagle studied them as he pushed himself into a trot. A covey of quail, startled by his presence, scattered across the path like marbles. Behind them scampered a rabbit. It bound­ed off in another direction. If he had more time, Red Eagle would devise a trap for the rabbit so that he could offer Liza and her father fresh meat.

  He hurried on. In spite of his wound, he had made good time. If only the rain did not come too soon. The clouds hov­ered close to the ground now, their bellies black and distended. They reminded Red Eagle of a herd of buffalo cows, ready to drop their calves.

  He climbed a rise where a patch of heavy brush grew higher than his head and wondered if he should camp here for the night. The shrub would provide a shelter from the storm.

  He looked at the sky and shook his head. No, he would go as far as he could. Perhaps he’d even make Liza’s camp before it rained.

  As he circled a wide patch of sandy soil, Red Eagle noted tracks. Left by a horse and two people on foot, they crossed the trail ahead of him.

  Hu
nching down, he ran his index finger along the heel marks left in the dry earth. There was no doubt as to the first set of prints. Not the mark of a moccasin or the tread of a soldier or settler, this was the unmistakable impression of a woman’s tailored boot. He spread his hand over the narrow, neat print, as if some hint might have been left there, some indication as to Liza’s state of mind and destination.

  The second track was clearly that left by a Blackfeet war­rior. Whether he was one who might hurt Liza, Red Eagle could not guess. He frowned, his gaze now turned down the long trail that led northeast. Was Red Eagle once more too late to rescue Liza from imminent danger?

  And what of Liza’s father? Perhaps he had also been taken captive. Or had he been left for dead?

  Hesitating only a moment, Red Eagle turned his eyes toward the distant horizon. Ignoring the oncoming rain, he broke into a trot. He would find her soon, he promised himself.

  If it took days or weeks, he would find Liza.

  ****

  Early the next morning, as the storm passed on, Crying Wind’s band moved again. The wind blew in gusts and the air was wet and cold, so Crying Wind called a halt midday.

  Camp was set up not far from a narrow stream and as the women unpacked their lodges, the children ran off to play. After them ran several dogs, some yapping at the heels of the boys as they dashed along the water’s edge. Their laughter and wild howls were carried away on the wind.

  Liza sighed and turned back to her work. Crow Woman had given her a basketful of nuts to crack and grind. She would use them in fried cakes.

  Crying Wind stepped up to Liza as she knelt beside her grinding stone. Nodding in the direction of the children, he said, “You go. Watch. Learn. They can teach you.”

  Liza glanced over at her father who had been propped up just outside the lodge opening. A large robe had been draped around him to keep away the cold. He held his small, pock­et Bible.

  He smiled. “Go, Elizabeth,” he encouraged her. “Follow them. And if you take a notion, you might find some berries or wild onions to bring back to Crow Woman.”

  Liza set her pestle down, glancing once more at Crying Wind. “All right,” she said. She gathered up the pecans into Crow Woman’s nut-gathering basket and set them inside the lodge. Then, taking her own robe, she wandered down to the stream bank where the grasses grew knee high or higher.

  Around her, a group of young boys had found their way into the water, while some younger boys waded in and out, gig­gling and splashing each other. Their naked bodies glistened in the pale afternoon sun and Liza shivered, wondering how the children could bear the cooling autumn air.

  She passed two girls who huddled together, their toes not far from the edge of the water. They whispered, almond eyes flashing as they watched several of the oldest boys. It seemed years ago that Liza and her friends had sat spying on boys older and devilishly daring.

  Liza turned downstream, stopping long enough to break off a cattail spike. Just then she spotted Running Antelope standing on the far side of the stream. With him was another young warrior, Little Otter.

  Little Otter called to her haltingly in English. “My friend wishes to speak with you.”

  Liza straightened her shoulders and frowned.

  Little Otter repeated his words, adding, “My friend is a brave and strong warrior. He has battled many enemies and is respected by the elders.”

  Again Liza frowned, this time shaking her head. She pur­posefully avoided Running Antelope’s arrogant gaze.

  The two girls, curious, watched the stern warrior, their eyes wide, mouths turned up at the corners. They clearly found him appealing.

  Little Otter continued. “My friend will speak to Crying Wind and the one called Many Words. He will speak to them before the next full moon crosses the night sky.”

  Liza flashed Running Antelope a searing glance. Angry now, she pivoted and ran all the way back to camp. Several women watched her stumble past their lodges, witnesses to the encounter.

  Liza turned on her father. “How dare you subject me to these savages. How dare you.”

  Her father opened his mouth to speak, but Liza pulled the door flap aside and disappeared into Crying Wind’s tipi. From inside she yelled, “You can grind the nuts. I hate them anyway!”

  CHAPTER 13

  Red Eagle finally reached Crying Wind’s settlement three days after discovering Liza’s tracks. Approaching the village, he was surprised and delighted by the familiar banners and tipis of his mother’s tribe.

  The camp was nestled in a coulee not far from a small creek, but under the protection of several high, jagged rocks. A tangle of brush and scrub provided a hedge-like boundary on the west side.

  Red Eagle was not surprised to see a party of braves ride out to meet him carrying rifles. Seeing that it was Red Eagle, they whooped loudly, circling him and calling out his name. One brave rushed back to camp with the news.

  Running Antelope was not one on horseback, but when word reached him of Red Eagle’s arrival, he stepped out of his lodge to wait. Behind him stood Black Quail. Liza wondered if Running Antelope’s sits-by-him-wife was as miserable as she appeared.

  The entire village turned out. Children returning from the creek jumped up and down, awaiting the newcomer’s arrival. Liza stood with her father, a wave of apprehension sweeping over her. Would Red Eagle be surprised to see her? Certainly, he couldn’t have known she’d be here.

  She saw him across the open meadow. He rode behind Little Otter but he loomed over the young brave. As the pair crossed into the camp, Red Eagle slid quickly to the ground, a smile across his face. Liza felt her pulse quicken and turned away, embarrassed. Running Antelope stared at her. He wore a hard and brittle frown.

  Liza glared back.

  She dismissed Running Antelope and his arrogance the moment Red Eagle came closer. She had forgotten how well proportioned he was, how strong and commanding his pres­ence, how handsome his face, and how deep and melodic his voice.

  He did not see her right away and seemed to be looking for someone in the crowd. Liza held her breath, afraid her pounding heart could be heard by others.

  Finally his eyes found hers.

  ****

  He had not forgotten how beautiful she was. He had not forgotten the proud way she held her head or the way she tossed her chestnut hair off her shoulders. He had not forgotten her pouting lips, full and sensual, or the swell of her breasts, the shape of her body.

  He was anxious to speak to her. Was she all right?

  He saw her father and, thankfully, he seemed all right.

  Taking a step forward, he shouldered past the people calling his name but then Crying Wind was at his side, one hand wrapped around his arm. “Come. We have been waiting for you.”

  Acknowledging his uncle, Red Eagle followed, relin­quishing the desire to seek out Liza. He would find her later.

  That instant, however, he caught sight of Running Antelope, his cousin and childhood adversary. Seeing the older warrior’s hard, forbidding expression, Red Eagle sighed. Did they have some kind of score to settle?

  Liza stepped back, trying to calm her erratic pulse. She hadn’t expected such an intense or immediate reaction to Red Eagle’s arrival. After all, he meant little to her. True, he had helped her father, but he had left them, gone his own way.

  Baffled by her emotions, Liza crossed her arms and moved away from her father. Before she could escape, he stopped her. He was smiling and his eyes twinkled. “So, that is our Red Eagle. You didn’t tell me he was handsome.”

  “I hadn’t noticed,” returned Liza.

  “No, I thought as much,” her father chuckled. He hob­bled over to the lodge. “Surely the young women in the tribe noticed. I suspect he will have his choice of brides before long.”

  Liza shrugged, as if she didn’t care, but her mind flut­tered in anxiety. How many of the young Pikuni women had already taken a fancy to Red Eagle? She hadn’t noticed, perhaps because her own eyes had been riveted
as he entered the village riding double on the back of Little Otter’s horse, slipping off into the throng of cousins and friends.

  “Good,” she said abruptly. Let the girls fight over him.

  “Yes, it would please Crying Wind if Red Eagle found a bride within the circle of his tribe. With no sons left, Red Eagle will be as a son to him. He certainly looks to be a fine man. Crying Wind has told me much about him.”

  Liza feigned indifference as she mumbled, “Such as?”

  “Oh, stories of his mother and father and younger broth­er, who died of fever when he was a baby. His mother’s name was White Weasel Woman. A beautiful name, don’t you think? Of course, Crying Wind preferred not to speak of her, but I’m afraid I pressed him. She was his only sister and she possessed an incredible ability to heal people. No doubt, Red Eagle learned something of her special gifts.”

  Liza took a deep breath. “No doubt,” she repeated. “I’m going to take a walk,” she announced suddenly.

  “Take Crow Woman’s gathering basket. It’s always good to make yourself useful.”

  Nodding, Liza picked up the berry basket. She liked Crow Woman.

  Winding her way down to the creek, she found a place where the rocks were flat and easy to step across. Her shoes were in desperate need of repair, so she dreaded getting them wet. A cool breeze had blown all morning and the air was crisp. There were several older women picking berries when Liza arrived at the brambly stretch of bushes. Concealing her inner turmoil, she greeted the women in the one or two Pikuni words she had learned, then set to work. She kept her distance, not wanting to suffer the stares the women cast. It was no secret Red Eagle had befriended her and that Running Antelope found her attractive.

  Suddenly, Liza had to smile. Gossip was gossip, even in a Pikuni village.

  It didn’t take long to fill the berry basket. Finished, she sat down beside the creek, wrapping her legs under the folds of her skirt. She could still hear the women chatting and laughing behind her. It was a comforting and reassuring sound, bringing back childhood days when she would listen to her mother and her friends as they talked in the parlor and she lay on her cot beside the kitchen stove.