Lakota Surrender (29 page)

He looked at her there as she sat on the stage accompanying the other, musicians’ lead. And though he thought it strange that a woman be admitted into such a band, he acknowledged that there was much about his wife he didn’t understand, not the least of which being why she failed to recognize their marriage. She acted as his wife in all ways except one: She did not live with him, nor did she appear to have the inclination ever to do so.

Tahiska broke his gaze at her. What would happen when it was time to return home? Would she accompany him? Or would she break the bond between them and simply bid him farewell?

Raw emotion engulfed him suddenly and Tahiska, in an effort to control himself, shut his eyes.

“Look, brother.” Wahtapah elbowed his cousin. “See how the white men hold their women?”

When Tahiska at last opened his eyes, absolutely no emotion showed on his face. He stared ahead blankly onto the dance floor.

“You could hold your wife like that even now and no one could say a thing,” Wahtapah continued as though he didn’t notice his friend’s misery. “Go ask her to teach you this dance. She would show you.”

Tahiska glanced again at Kristina, finding her gaze upon him now. He looked away, then back. She smiled at him and Tahiska, without returning the gesture, quickly decided. Why not? Weren’t there traders dancing with their Indian wives? Why shouldn’t this Indian dance with his wife? What difference did it make if his culture was so dissimilar to hers, at odds with it even? She was his wife.

Tahiska nodded toward his friend. Wahtapah spoke wisely. There was no reason he should suffer. She was his wife, his interpreter, his link to this civilization. If he learned this dance, it would give him reason to hold her whenever these functions occurred, which seemed to be often.

He stepped away from the background, treading toward Kristina, unaware of the looks cast his way, as he broke through the crowds of white soldiers and their wives.

But Kristina noticed the utter disdain thrown at him. She set her guitar aside at once, stepping off the band’s platform, intercepting him as he paced toward her.

She met him face to face, three feet apart, a crowd of people all around and more than slightly interested in this Indian’s purpose.

“I wish to learn this dance.” Tahiska followed this with sign, then in only Lakota, “I wish to dance with my wife.”

Kristina smiled. “Of course,” she said, turning to those who watched. “He only wishes to learn this dance. Is there anyone here who would like to teach him?” When no one answered, she stated as demurely as possible, “Then I shall instruct him.” She gestured toward the dance floor, following closely behind him and whispering, “You realize we cannot touch each other out here. That part of the dance I will teach you in private.”

Tahiska pretended not to hear, though he understood all that was said; he had every intention of touching his wife.

He turned to face her. And when she smiled at him, he knew he had been wise to seek her out. She spoke to him softly in Lakota, pointing out her steps, gesturing toward him to follow. And though normally he would never follow a woman, he observed her lead, learning the dance in a matter of minutes.

He moved to take her in his arms, but Kristina skirted away from him, showing him yet another dance.

Tahiska, however, refused to learn this new dance. He merely stood, glaring at her.

“I cannot dance with you openly here in public,” she told him in Lakota.

“I did not seek you out to learn several dances and to dance none with you. All these other men hold their women and they are not even married. Am I to be denied the comfort of my own wife in a mere dance?”

Kristina blushed. “I can’t.”

Tahiska didn’t say a word. He simply held her gaze. Kristina had never felt so guilty. “Tomorrow in private. I promise you,” she said at last.

Tahiska waited until she lifted her glance to his. Then he smiled. “I look forward to it,” was all he said before turning away, and with Wahtapah and Neeheeowee following, withdrew to the quiet and safety of their own camp.

“There.” George Catlin set his brush aside, setting the canvas on the ground. “I’m ready for your friend. Where is he?”

Neither Indian responded. They hadn’t understood his English, and Kristina wasn’t here to interpret.

The artist turned to Julia, who stood inspecting the paintings of the two Indians Catlin had just completed. “Do you know where the other Indian has gone? I only need his portrait and we can return to the fort.”

Julia shrugged, but put the question to the Indians, speaking in Lakota. George Catlin directed a hard stare at her. “You speak their language?”

“Only a little,” she stated, smiling. “Kristina and I have learned a little of their language and customs over the few weeks they have been here.”

“I see,” he responded. “Then these Indians are often at the fort?”

Julia blushed. “Well, no, we…ah…oh, wait,” she called after Wahtapah, who had risen and was now sauntering from the camp.

She lifted the front of her skirt to rush after him, calling back over her shoulder, “Come with us, Mr. Catlin. I think he goes to find Tahiska and Kristina.”

George Catlin shook his head. Just what was going on here? He had accompanied these girls to the Indian camp, thinking himself their protector against a hostile Indian attack. He hadn’t understood at the time why the two women had insisted that no one else escort them. Now he grasped the situation. These women needed no protection. They were more than well acquainted with these Indians. In fact, they probably safeguarded his own position.

“Kristina?”

“Shh.” Wahtapah held his finger to his lips.
“Iho!”
he whispered and pointed toward the stream.

Julia halted with Mr. Catlin directly behind her. All three stared off into the distance. All three observed in silence as though watching the unveiling of a delicate, wild flower.

The two lovers were some distance off, almost indiscernible. Yet the love between them was visible, as an almost tangible entity. Tahiska held Kristina in his arms as though they danced to a waltz. The combination of sun and shadow, throwing them into light, then dark, created a magical effect while the Indian swept his partner around the clearing just like it was a dance floor. She gazed up at him in utter fascination and he, in turn, smiled down at her, completely enraptured with her.

None of the other three could turn away, the couple’s enchantment such that no one could deny its beauty nor fail to appreciate its purity. The two young people loved one another. No one could have missed it. It was manifested in every movement they made, every look they shared, their every touch a caress. And no one cared that they were white and Indian. This love between them was as beautiful as the nature all around them.

“I do not believe,” Wahtapah whispered to his friend, the white woman, “that I have ever seen two people who loved each other more.”

Julia nodded and glancing ahead, wished with all her heart that she would find such a love.

Even George Catlin stood, looking on in wonder. He wasn’t sure he could say just who possessed the most magic.

As the Indians would say, together they were good medicine.

“Tell him,” Tahiska signed, “that I would be happy to let the white medicine man set my image upon this board, but that I would make one request first.”

“And what is that?” Kristina signed in response.

“I would ask him with all my heart if he might capture the image of my wife upon this board first that I would see it every day of my life.” Tahiska spoke in Lakota, then picking up his pipe, set it down before the artist. “I would offer my pipe in return for this favor.”

“I…”

“Tell him this.”

Kristina turned toward the artist. Though Mr. Catlin had been amongst them only a few days, already he was like an old friend to her. At the artist’s request, Tahiska, along with his friends, had accepted the invitation to visit the fort. The artist had not had time to paint Tahiska’s portrait the other day and wished now to set the young man’s likeness upon the canvas.

Kristina hesitated. How could she make Tahiska’s request known when there were others in the small room, her father amongst those present? Her glance quickly scanned the room.

“Mr. Catlin,” she began at last, her voice no more than a whisper, “Tahiska wishes you to paint my portrait first. He would ask this as a favor to him.”

“Wife.” Tahiska stepped forward before the artist could answer. He spoke to her in Lakota. “You did not tell him I wish this because you are my wife and I wish to have your image before me, since it may be all that I will have.”

Kristina’s gaze went immediately to her father, then to Tahiska.

“There are others present here,” she said in Indian. “Is it your desire to have the whole fort aware of our relationship? Do you wish them to value your scalp?”

Tahiska shrugged, and Kristina noticed that he carefully masked his amusement. “I merely wish to inform this white medicine man why I make this unusual request. Is it every day that an Indian will trade his sacred pipe for the image of a white woman? Do you not think he is wondering? Perhaps if I, like other men, could hold my wife at night, I would not be so anxious for her portrait.”

Kristina blushed.

“What is the problem here?” Major Bogard demanded from his daughter, rising from his position along the side of the room to stride into the center.

“Evidently,” George Catlin answered for her, “this Indian here will only sit for me if I paint your daughter’s picture first
.”

Major Wendall Bogard stared at Tahiska, regarding his daughter lastly with a firm glare. “Why?” he asked the artist, although his gaze remained on his daughter.

George Catlin shrugged. “Perhaps, like you, the Indian desires something of beauty to gaze upon.”

“And how,” the major addressed his daughter, ignoring the artist completely, “do you know the Indian’s language?”

“I…” She opened her mouth to speak, but Tahiska growled. Startled, Kristina glanced up.

Something was wrong. Tahiska stood, suddenly crouched, and Kristina saw his gaze searching for a weapon. Her own hand felt for her revolver. What was wrong?

Wahtapah and Neeheeowee howled, and towards the doorway arose answering shrieks.

Kristina’s gaze spun towards the entry. Two Pawnee stood there, both suddenly alerted to danger, their own gazes leaping towards the three Sioux. Also weaponless, the Pawnee crouched down, their bodies ready to act as the weapons they needed.

“Father, do something!”

Wendall Bogard glanced from the Sioux to the Pawnee, then back to the three Sioux. Then, stepping between the adversaries, he picked up the peace pipe Tahiska had laid at the artist’s feet. He offered it first to the Sioux and then to the Pawnee braves, motioning in sign that all were here at the fort upon request and that while they were here, all would observe peace.

None of the Indians moved, but the major continued making the gestures of peace, offering again the peace pipe, knowing that amongst the Indians that symbol of peace was enough to have the strongest of warriors lay down his weapons, even in the midst of a fight.

Slowly the Indians, both Sioux and Pawnee, relaxed, but neither withdrew his gaze from his adversary, and though the Pawnee were admitted to the room, both parties continued to glare at one another.

“Why are they here?” Tahiska asked Kristina in Lakota.

“I don’t know,” she answered in the same language, then switching to English, addressed her father. “Did you know that the Pawnee were intending to come here today?”

He nodded. “They’re here to escort Mr. Catlin to their village.”

“You could have warned us.”

“Us?”

Kristina stopped. She glanced nervously at Tahiska.

“Miss Bogard,” George Catlin said, stepping up beside her. “Won’t you please be seated here?” He gestured toward the model’s seat. “I find that I have the desire to paint your picture, with your permission? You’ll excuse us, sir?” Touching Kristina gently on the arm, he guided her to the seat. “Little hot in here, isn’t it?” he whispered for her alone, as he helped her to sit.

Kristina gave him a shaky smile, grateful for his rescue.

Although the portrait was completed within a short time, Kristina was appreciative of the brief reprieve from her father’s anger and Tahiska’s insistence. And though hostilities in the room flared, she posed as calmly as possible.

Her father glared at her, but at least he didn’t speak. The two Indian parties scowled at one another.

Finally, the portrait completed, George Catlin offered the painting to Tahiska, the artist taking the pipe in his hand as the Indian offered it to him in exchange. He glanced at Kristina. “Tell him I’m ready for him now.”

Kristina made the request in sign, noting that the portrait would forever bear her lover’s grimace since he never once, during the entire sitting, took his gaze from his enemy.

The sitting done, Tahiska rose, and motioning his friends and to Kristina to follow, sulked from the room. He left her own portrait behind, and she wondered fleetingly if this was merely an oversight, or if perhaps he was angry with her.