Across the Sweet Grass Hills Read online

  She kept her eyes on her father, anxious that he might fall from the horse. If he did, would the Indian simply kill him and leave him? Liza bit her lip, her mind a crazy mixture of fear and anger. She had to keep her emotions under control or it might cost them her father’s life, even her own.

  Occasionally, out of the corners of her eyes, she stole a glance at their captor. The man was not big, but gave the impres­sion of being large with his confident and muscular demeanor. His black hair was long, longer than hers and blacker than Red Eagle’s, and it hung to his hips. She wondered if he had ever cut it. He was lean and dark and his eyes, again, much darker than Red Eagle’s, glinted like pieces of flint. He was dressed in breech­clout, leggings, and a breastplate that rattled as he walked. There was nothing about him that didn’t frighten her.

  After two hours, he held up his left hand. Removing a skin flask hanging from a thin belt about his waist, he offered her father a drink.

  He was too weak to respond so the warrior poured some into his palm and held it to her father’s lips; he took only a sip then shook his head.

  Liza rushed to his side. “Please, Papa, you need water.”

  “No,” he whispered. “It’s enough. Keep moving—”

  The warrior said something then, and his eyes swept over Liza, but the words seemed to come from the back of his throat, for his lips hardly moved.

  She colored fiercely. “All right,” she mumbled, wishing she had the strength of a man. She moved forward, pulling her shawl more closely about her shoulders, but was startled by a strange, intense regard reflected in the Indian’s eyes as she passed by. A new fear took hold of her.

  A dozen or so painted tipis were nestled in a small draw, and as the trio crested the ridge just after nightfall, Liza looked around in desperation. Smoke trails drifted from the tops of the tipis. Women and children were busy moving about. Several people stopped to point in their direction.

  Instinctively, an intense sickness swept over Liza and she wondered if she would be ill.

  The warrior nudged her with the barrel of his rifle, his words, but not their meaning, impossible to understand.

  She closed her eyes and stepped forward, wishing this was just a terrible dream. Perhaps she would wake up, home in her own bed, laughing at herself for having spun such a tale.

  Again the warrior poked her.

  “I’m moving,” she said, then turned her attention to the steep bank, sliding sideways and holding her bundle up to keep from falling head first.

  Reaching the bottom, she heard a shrill cry erupt in the distance and a handful of children ran toward them. The chil­dren splashed across the stream that criss-crossed in front of the tipis. One child, a girl, ran ahead of the others, her words like the trilling of a bird. But the others stopped and stared, their eyes round and dark.

  Two thin, brown-haired dogs ran out next, barking and baring their teeth. Liza pulled back, afraid they might bite, but the warrior spoke firmly and the dogs retreated. They looked hungry, and she wondered if they were more coyote than dog. Liza’s fingers reached for her father’s.

  “The Lord is with us,” he whispered.

  “He has abandoned us,” snapped Liza hoarsely. She squeezed his hand, her own palm sweaty as she looked from the faces of the children to those of the approaching men and women.

  The blunt end of the gun once more jabbed her and Liza turned, her temper flaring. “Don’t do that again.”

  The warrior smiled for the first time, a wicked smile, a taunting smile. His words came in a garbled rush.

  “I detest you,” she flung back, releasing her father’s hand. She wished more than ever she'd been able to shoot the Indian. Time for questions would have come later.

  “Move, for God’s sake,” croaked her father.

  Choking back another retort, she obeyed.

  Within minutes, the entire tribe had encircled them. The women and children crowded in trying to get a closer look. A group of older men, sober-faced and scrawny, stood aloof, some wearing little more than a scrap of fabric and an array of neck­laces and strange jewelry. The younger men wore little, too, hard­ly more than leggings and colorful loincloths or buckskin shirts. Laughing, they called out to the warrior. They seemed to admire him for bringing home captives.

  “They don’t look to hurt us,” said her father, leaning over the blanketed horn of the warrior’s simple saddle.

  “I don’t trust any of them,” she snapped.

  A hush fell over the small throng as an elderly man stepped forward. He wore a fringed buckskin shirt that hung several inches past his waist. It was painted and intricately beaded; several tufts of hair hung from the seams. His own hair was drawn up, brass bangles hanging from the knot. He wore earrings and several bone and bead necklaces.

  “Welcome,” he said.

  Liza jumped. She had not expected him to speak such perfect English. Tightening her hold on her bundle, she nodded.

  “Your father?” he asked, pointing.

  “Yes,” said Liza. “And he’s in serious need of help,” she added, biting her lip.

  His broad-carved face twisted in deep concern. He spoke quietly to two men on either side of him. They rushed forward and helped her father down. Liza stepped back, still frightened, but relieved the old Indian had responded.

  Her father’s eyes opened slowly as the men eased him to his feet. “We come in peace,” he whispered, “in the name of God the Father.”

  The older man reached out with one hand. “We welcome you in peace, in the name of your god.” Then he carefully slid his fingers under the V of his beaded shirt and held up a crucifix tied to a leather thong. “Is this the god of which you speak?”

  Liza stared at the silver crucifix, unable to breathe. Had this heathen stolen it from some settler? Had he pulled it off a poor man’s body after torturing him?

  She glared at him, but he had turned to her father. “Indeed,” whispered her father, a smile across his pale, drawn face.

  “Perhaps The God Who Hangs on the Cross has sent you to us for a purpose then,” returned the old man, sliding his own hand under his elbow. “I have offered up a prayer to him just this morning.”

  “The Lord hears all our prayers.”

  Her father slumped forward then and the three men quickly slid their arms under and around him, half-carrying, half-escorting him to one of the lodges. Liza followed nervous­ly behind, taking in their surroundings, her fingers clutching the edges of her shawl. She tried not to look into the curious faces of the men and women still crowded around them, but fol­lowed her father into the dark, animal-scented tipi.

  The warrior that had found them trailed behind, his own gaze never leaving the girl and her father. Frowning, he sur­veyed the situation. He would have to make his own desires known before many days had passed, for he had seen the admiring glances of more than one man in the crowd.

  CHAPTER 11

  By morning, the tribe had learned that it was Red Eagle who first befriended Robert Ralston and his daugh­ter. With Crying Wind’s assistance, Liza’s father explained that he was a holy man and had come in peace. He also shared how they had survived because of Liza’s courage.

  Crying Wind listened intently. After a time, the old war­rior began to speak of the problems facing the Pikuni and the other Blackfeet tribes. He told of the army’s attempts to deceive his people. A man of deep emotion, tears filled his eyes as he spoke.

  Then Crying Wind offered to share his lodge with Ralston and Liza. Since he had no children and only two wives, there was plenty of room for his guests.

  At first Liza sat apart, reluctant to speak or move outside the lodge, especially while her father slept, wrapped in a buffa­lo robe Running Antelope had brought the first evening.

  The stern warrior came again several times, bringing food and provisions for Liza and her father. Crying Wind accepted the gifts and encouraged Liza to acknowledge them, too, but she was still afraid of the warrior and refused to speak to him.
Confused by her response, Crying Wind’s wives shook their heads. It was clear that these women admired Running Antelope, a handsome man in their eyes.

  Liza’s consternation grew as two days melded into four. Still her father slept, waking only for brief periods. One of Crying Wind’s wives, Crow Woman, was middle-aged and had long black braids and a bright smile. Crying Wind treated her with great respect and kindness.

  Crying Wind’s second wife was Come Running. Liza did not meet her until the third day as she had been confined to another, smaller lodge for reasons Liza had not yet learned. She was as timid as Crow Woman was gregarious and refused to say more than a few words. Strangely, Crying Wind seemed to dis­regard her most of the time, though she rushed to and fro serv­ing him. Of course, neither woman spoke English.

  On the fourth day, Liza’s father was able to sit up. Crying Wind, anxious to visit with the holy man, prepared a place for him in the sunshine just outside the lodge. Liza, fearful that her father might not be strong enough to carry on a conversation, sat nearby. The women brought food and water and waited on the two men. It was plain they adored their elderly husband.

  Liza had to agree the old Indian was kind and gentle. She was surprised to learn that he was Red Eagle’s uncle, but it pleased her just the same. She sensed the man and his nephew were much alike, at least in temperament.

  The frequent talk of Red Eagle stirred Liza more than she cared to admit. Crying Wind spoke of him with fondness and related tales of his childhood when he stayed with the people, explaining that the boy’s father had, indeed, been a white man, but a well-respected one. Anxious to please and quick to learn, the boy became a favorite with everyone.

  Liza tried to imagine the curious and lively young Red Eagle.

  Crying Wind expressed hope that his nephew would join the tribe soon. Surely he had been on his way when he stum­bled across the holy man and his daughter. The old man did not ask, however, why Red Eagle had not remained with them.

  Restless on the morning of the fifth day, Liza took a walk. Crow Woman was busy preparing food, while Come Running was stitching a tunic.

  Liza moved through the village cautiously but no one seemed concerned by her presence. She studied the settlement more closely, noting the individual faces of women and chil­dren. The Pikuni were a handsome and seemingly carefree peo­ple. The women laughed easily with each other, calling to each other between lodges, teasing the children and younger women as they passed by their open fires. Children ran freely, wearing little or nothing in the warm autumn sunshine. Their laughter filled the village, and their running kept everyone jumping out of the way.

  One group of boys and girls were playing together under the trees with miniature replicas of everyday things such as tipis, cradleboards, and horses. Liza had already noticed the children had dolls, many made of sticks with cut-off branches for arms and legs. Others were much fancier, with fully beaded clothes and what appeared to be real hair.

  Two boys looked up at her as she passed by but appeared unconcerned. One small girl smiled timidly. Liza returned the smile. Had other white women ever come into their village? If so, were they captives or friends?

  Liza glanced back at Crying Wind and her father, still seated outside his lodge. Was it wise for her father to trust this man? Was he what he seemed to be, or would he betray them some night as they lay sleeping? She had heard too many stories not to be fearful.

  Picking up a handful of dry leaves, she rubbed them between her fingers until there was nothing left but flakes. Studying them, Liza couldn’t help but think their lives had become just as fragile and tentative.

  She returned to where the children played.

  Silently, a small boy approached her, his hands wrapped around something. Not more than six or seven and naked from head to toe except for a thong belt wrapped around his stom­ach, Liza watched him, keeping her eyes averted.

  The boy spoke, then opened his hands slowly. She stepped back, anticipating something dead or perhaps ugly. Instead, she took a deep breath and smiled. In his hands cow­ered a baby rabbit.

  “How beautiful,” she whispered and he grinned, nod­ding eagerly.

  He held up the bunny. Liza reached out and stroked its satin-like fur. Its whiskers quivered as it wiggled its delicate nose.

  “I’ve never seen anything so small,” she continued, gig­gling softly. Then, looking into the boy’s dark eyes she said, “Thank you.”

  Instantly the boy was gone, the rabbit with him. Liza watched him disappear into the trees, but his kindness had unnerved her. She had once thought Indians incapable of gentleness.

  She turned back to the village. In the early morning light, it appeared almost like a mirage. Smoke rose from the tipis, dis­sipating into the pale blue sky, and the muted sound of the women and children was like a melody. Liza closed her eyes, feeling moved. This was not what she had imagined Indian life to be like.

  Unexpectedly, she heard the rapid steps of someone approaching. Opening her eyes, she spotted Running Antelope. Dressed in a new tunic and leggings, he nodded as he stopped in front of her. His sharp features were made sharper by his determined stare.

  Instantly she drew herself up, regarding him coldly. She saw the desire in his hard glance and trembling, she attempted to step past him, but he extended one hand as if to grab her.

  “I will scream if you touch me,” she said, under her breath. She could feel her cheeks grow hot.

  Running Antelope spoke, his hands sweeping past her in movements she did not understand. His voice was hard and demanding, his eyes clear and dark. Whatever it was he hoped to say meant nothing to her, but his gestures left no doubt that he wanted her to listen.

  She spoke again. “I do not know what you are saying, but I want you to stop.”

  His eyes narrowed and his lips turned down into a scowl as if he’d finally understood. Frightened, she stepped back, then broke into a run.

  She didn’t stop until she reached Crying Wind’s lodge. “And I want you to stay away from me, too!” she screamed at her father. Without explaining herself, she dove through the tipi opening and threw herself onto her pallet.

  Later her father looked in on her. “Elizabeth?”

  She rolled over, her eyes swollen and red.

  “Daughter, do not despair. Crying Wind intends to help us, not harm us—”

  “Oh, Father, how could you bring me here?”

  “Elizabeth, take courage. You have been so strong.”

  “Strong? I’m terrified.”

  “Of what? Crying Wind? The Pikuni people? Running Antelope? Has he hurt you?”

  “Haven’t you seen the way he watches me? He stopped me today and said something. I don’t know what. But his eyes told me all I needed to know—”

  “I will speak to Crying Wind. Running Antelope is a nephew to Crying Wind, just like Red Eagle.”

  Red Eagle.

  His name was a torment to Liza which didn’t make any sense. No sense whatsoever.

  She turned away from her father, anxious to be alone.

  If only she hadn’t sent Red Eagle away. If only she’d not judged him so unfairly. But was that what really bothered her?

  ****

  The next day, early dawn broke through the stillness of the night. The camp crier, Lone Person, announced that the camp was to move. Women immediately dismantled their tipis and had them loaded on horse and dog-travois before Liza real­ized what was happening. Nothing was left unattended, and nothing was discarded.

  The tribe was on the move in twenty minutes.

  Liza stood beside Two Dogs, the small boy who had brought her the rabbit. Undaunted by her silence, he had found several occasions to come and visit her. Once, he helped her carry the paunches used for water, and another time, he brought her a handful of freshly picked berries. She couldn’t help but like him.

  But Liza watched the procession anxiously. She did not want to leave and move deeper into Indian territory, only her father refused to listen. He
had grown intensely fond of Crying Wind and trusted him. He ignored Liza’s pleading, reminding her sternly, “Why would I choose to leave when we’ve only just arrived, Elizabeth? Besides, we are safe with these people. Crying Wind will help us. So trust me.”

  Trust him, she mused. Hadn’t she spent her life trusting him, while he had spent his deceiving her?

  As the people fell into line, each according to rank, Liza followed Crow Woman and Come Running, who carried a small puppy Crying Wind had given her the day before. Quiet and timid, she had said little more than good morning to Liza, but cuddled the pup protectively.

  Liza’s father rode on a travois pulled by a bay pony whose tail was so long it brushed the ground. Liza kept her eyes on him, frequently asking how he felt. At one point, he laughed, “Daughter, I’ve never felt happier in my life.”

  With that, she grew quiet and fell back in line.

  At the head of their small group, Crying Wind rode a spotted white horse while Running Antelope was on the same dappled mare he’d ridden when he found Liza and her father. Dressed in his finest clothing, several girls blushed as he rode past. One young woman watched after him longingly, her heart in her eyes.

  Liza frowned at the man’s obvious delight. She’d learned that he possessed one wife already, a spindly young thing as wan as a sickly child. Poor girl, thought Liza, avoiding the war­rior’s fleeting but frequent glances.

  She marched on, her attention diverted by Two Dogs and his bunny. He had hidden it inside a leather pouch dan­gling from his tiny waist. She smiled at him and he smiled in return.

  The procession proceeded slowly but steadily. Liza was amazed by the people’s stamina, for while some women rode their husbands’ finest horses, carrying their decorated shields, most walked, even the children and old people. They carried bundles in their arms and on their backs, but moved as if they carried nothing at all.

  It all reminded her of a Fourth of July parade.