Tales of Western Romance (15 page)

Life on a western post was far different from
military life in the east. There was more tension among the men
when they rode out on patrol due to the ever-present threat of
Indian attack, yet there was great camaraderie, too, a sense of
belonging, of being united against a common enemy. Rules were less
strictly enforced, but they were carried out with a vengeance when
necessary.

Out West, there was less time for tedious
drills on the parade ground. On the frontier, it was more important
to have a well-oiled gun and a well-trained horse than to have
well-ironed creases and clean white gloves. Of course, a soldier’s
life wasn’t all hardship and danger. They were allowed time to hunt
and fish, since antelope, deer, elk, and buffalo provided a welcome
change in a diet that consisted mainly of beef and pork.

There was a lot of work on a frontier post.
Fortunately, or unfortunately, depending on which side of the
shovel you were on, most of the tedious jobs were assigned as
punishment. However, he’d done his share when necessary. Riley
learned to make adobe bricks, roof a building, plant and irrigate a
garden, and build walls. He had cleaned stables, whitewashed the
officer’s quarters, cut wood, and stood extra guard duty.

He soaked up knowledge like a sponge. He had
learned the sign language of the Plains Indians and picked up some
of their lingo along the way, learning a smattering of Sioux and
Cheyenne. Awed by the wild beauty of the land, he was fascinated by
the Indians, the buffalo.

After distinguishing himself in several
battles against the Sioux and the Cheyenne, he had been promoted to
Sergeant, for the fourth time. He was proud of his rank this time.
He had earned those stripes, and he meant to keep them...

A child’s laughter shattered his reverie,
bringing him back to the present. Glancing at the sun, he saw that
the day was already half gone.

* * * * *

Winter Star helped her mother prepare the
morning meal then took the sleeping robes outside to air. That done
she went for fresh water, gathered an armful of wood, then weeded a
portion of the garden.

She worked hard, trying to keep Culhane’s
image from her mind, trying to forget the touch of his mouth on
hers, the sound of his voice in her ear. Trying to forget this was
his last day.

She knew she was being a coward by refusing
to see him. She was the only friend he had, but she could not face
him. She could not be near him and not touch him. She could not
look into his eyes knowing her people were going to kill him.

At mid-day, she went to the river to bathe.
The water was cold against her skin and she swam briskly, wishing
she had never met Culhane, wishing she could put him out of her
mind, out of her heart. But she could not forget. Her mind kept
replaying scenes of their time together. She had only known him for
a few weeks, yet it seemed she had known him all her life. Leaving
the river, she stood in the sunlight to dry off, then slipped on
her tunic and moccasins and made her way to a place where she could
observe Culhane without being seen.

He paced back and forth, his skin lightly
sheened with perspiration. Was he afraid? How would be react when
the women began to peel the skin from his arms and legs and chest?
How would he withstand the pain when they began to cut off his
fingers and toes? They would gouge out his eyes and cut out his
tongue, exacting blood for blood, a life for many lives. How would
he stand it? How would she?

Several women paused to stare at him,
reviling him for being a killer of women and children. She could
not imagine Culhane killing women and children. He was a good man,
a kind man. She stared at Blue Dawn and Deer Girl and the others.
She had known them all her life. They were good women, loving wives
and mothers. But they would not hesitate to draw Culhane’s blood.
There wasn’t a woman in the tribe who hadn’t lost a loved one to
the white eyes. They would delight in the chance to avenge their
loved ones.

Winter Star groaned softly. How could she
stay here after he was gone? How could she continue to live with
the people who killed him?

Tormented by her thoughts, she watched
Culhane until the sun began to sink behind the mountains. She
memorized every detail of his face, every line and angle. She noted
the way his hair curled lovingly at the nape of his neck, the
strength in his arms, the powerful muscles in his shoulders and
thighs.

The village hummed with excitement as the sky
grew dark. Warriors pulled on their finest clouts and leggings,
painting their faces and chests, adorning their hair with feathers.
The women donned their best dresses, taking pains with their hair,
adorning themselves with beads and shells. The children ran merrily
through the camp, laughing with the exuberant innocence of
youth.

Culhane felt his gut tighten with
apprehension as the setting sun turned the sky to flame and stained
the clouds with touches of crimson. Like blood, he mused
bleakly.

He swallowed hard as the people began to
emerge from their lodges. A great fire was built in the center of
the camp and a festive air prevailed as the final preparations were
made.

* * * * *

Winter Star dressed with care that night. She
had told Culhane she would not be there to watch him die, but she
could not stay away. She had to be near him for as long as
possible. She wished now she had gone to him this morning and told
him she loved him, that she would never forget him. But there was
no time now.

She smoothed her tunic over her hips. It was
a lovely garment, soft to the touch. Long fringe dangled from the
sleeves. She brushed her hair until it was smooth and shiny. Then,
with a last heartfelt look in her mother’s direction, she went out
to join the other unmarried women.

The air filled with the aroma of roasting
meat. All day, the women cooked venison and buffalo and wild
turkey. There were baskets of wild plums and berries and a variety
of vegetables. Children and dogs ran through the camp; the young
warriors strutted around in their finery, showing off for the
maidens, while the old men talked of battles long past, of the good
days before the white man invaded the land.

Winter Star tried to laugh and smile with the
other maidens, but her heart felt heavy in her breast. She could
see Culhane in the distance. He stood beside the post, his head
high, as he watched the activity around him. Occasionally, a
handful of young boys would approach him, whooping and dancing in a
fair imitation of the Cheyenne scalp dance.

At last, everyone had eaten his fill and the
dancing began. There were dances of thanksgiving to honor
Heammawihio
for a bountiful year, dances to celebrate the
coming of summer, friendship dances, and dances where the warriors
mimed how they had counted coup in battle.

Culhane’s nerves grew taut as a bowstring
while the minutes passed. Sweat beaded across his brow and he
clenched his bound hands into tight fists.
Damn, why don’t they
get it over with?

Gradually, the dancing changed in tempo, the
drumming becoming strangely ominous, and he knew his time was
running out.

He had never been a praying man, but now he
raised his eyes toward heaven, noting the vast inky blackness of
the sky, the twinkling path of the Milky Way, the silver sliver of
the moon.
There was no point in praying for mercy or rescue
,
he thought bleakly. No point in hoping for a miracle now, and so he
prayed for the strength to endure, to show them a white man could
die as bravely as a Cheyenne.

A sudden stillness settled over the Indians
as a tall, gray-haired warrior began to speak.

“
When the white man first came, we
welcomed him. We gave him food and shelter and friendship. We
taught him how to survive in our land. And how did the
vehoe
repay our kindness? With treachery!”

A murmur of assent rippled through the crowd,
and then the drums began to beat again, sounding heavy and sad.
Like a death knell, as every woman who had ever lost a loved one to
the white man’s treachery walked purposefully toward Culhane.

Instinctively, he backed away, until he came
up against the post. For stretched seconds, he faced the women,
feeling their hatred radiating toward him like heat from a stove.
Then, according to tradition, the oldest woman in the tribe
approached Culhane. Her gnarled fingers were curled around the
handle of a long-bladed skinning knife, and her rheumy old eyes
gleamed with satisfaction as she raked the point of the blade
across Culhane’s chest, drawing first blood.

Culhane sucked in his breath as the knife
sliced into his flesh. A second woman cut his left forearm, just
below the elbow, a third gashed his right thigh. Some cursed him,
some spat in his face, but they all glared at him through eyes dark
with hatred and contempt as they eagerly shed his blood.

He began to shiver spasmodically as his
nerves began to wear thin. He had never experienced such hatred and
it was more frightening than the pain or the specter of death. The
women he had known had been kind, tender-hearted, givers of life
and comfort. Even most of the whores he had known had been
soft-hearted if you took the time and trouble to look deep enough.
But there was no softness in these women, not now. They smiled with
delight as they carved his flesh. Some laughed. Even the youngest
ones seemed to take great pleasure in causing him pain. It was a
frightening thing, to be the target of such unforgiving hatred, to
know he was being punished for crimes he had not committed. And
yet, he was not totally innocent. He had killed Indians in
battle...

Winter Star flinched as another knife cut
into Culhane’s flesh. How long could he endure such torture before
his courage broke? She looked at the faces of her friends and felt
a deep sadness. She knew they had all lost loved ones in battle.
She, herself, had lost a brother and a cousin in the endless war
with the white man. But killing Culhane would not bring back the
Cheyenne dead, and she could not understand how the women found
comfort in causing pain. It grieved her because she did not
understand, because she was different.

Culhane’s body was sheened with sweat and
blood. Thus far, the cuts had all been shallow and of no
consequence, and though they were painful as hell, he had suffered
worse in battle. There was a sudden change in the mood of the crowd
and he knew the women were through playing with him.

He drew in a deep breath as a tall woman
advanced toward him, a finely honed hunting knife in her hand. She
wore a long doeskin tunic. A single eagle feather adorned her long
black hair and he knew he was looking at a woman who was also a
warrior, a woman who had killed at least one man in battle.

From the corner of his eye, Culhane saw
Winter Star standing near the edge of the crowd, her expression
filled with pity and compassion. He focused his attention on her
lovely face as the warrior woman drove her blade into his right
thigh.

A shout went up as the warrior woman withdrew
her knife and raised it high above her head, a cry of victory on
her lips.

The blood running down Culhane’s thigh felt
hot against skin gone suddenly cold, and he shivered convulsively.
He was afraid, and he didn’t like it. He stared at the blood
running down his leg and felt his stomach churn. He felt the vomit
rise in his throat and he choked it back, more afraid of disgracing
himself than he was of dying.

But he could not choke back the primal,
gut-wrenching fear as two other women stepped forward, one slashing
his left arm, the other his right. He felt the strength leaving his
legs as blood poured from his wounds. Teeth clenched, jaw rigid
with anger and defiance, he glared at his attackers, choking back
the sob welling in his throat.

And now the crowd was with him. They cheered
his bravery as a young girl darted forward and cut his cheek,
applauded as a middle-aged woman drove her knee into his groin. The
warriors nodded their approval. Perhaps, at last, they had found a
white man who knew how to die well.

Winter Star sent another long pleading glance
at her mother, felt her heart pound with hope as Eagle Woman
exchanged a few words with Elk Hunter. Then, head high, she took a
place in front of Culhane and held up her hand.

“
I admire this
vehoe’s
courage,”
she said for all to hear. “From this night forward, he shall be my
slave.”

Removing the knife from her belt, she walked
toward the prisoner.

Culhane steeled himself for her attack,
wondering how much more he could stand before his waning courage
dissolved completely and he began to plead for mercy. His whole
body throbbed with pain. His mouth was as dry as the desert in
mid-summer.

His muscles grew taut as the woman raised her
knife, but instead of striking his flesh, she cut the rope that
bound him to the post.

Catching up the end of his tether, Eagle
Woman gave a tug on the rope. Confused, Culhane followed the woman
to her lodge. Each step sent splinters of pain jolting through
him.

With a curt gesture, the woman indicated he
should sit down near the entrance to the lodge and he did so
gratefully, wondering why she had cut him free, wishing he had paid
more attention to what she said to the crowd.

Minutes later, Winter Star appeared, followed
by the same tall warrior who had originally captured him.

The warrior paused before Culhane.
“Vehoe,”
Elk Hunter said in stilted English. “Your life has
been spared. From now on, you will do whatever my wife desires of
you. If you try to escape, you will meet the fate that should have
been yours this night.”

Without waiting for a reply, the warrior
entered the lodge.