Caress of Fire (27 page)

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Authors: Martha Hix

BOOK: Caress of Fire
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Chapter Thirty-one
While fifty might not seem a horrendous number, it appeared as if the whole Indian nation was upon them.
Trembling, Lisette manned the chuck wagon–the reins frozen in her hands–when those warriors surfaced over a hill to the north. Somehow she brought the team to a halt.
The Indians, astride ponies, were too far in the distance for her to get a close look at them, but below the clotted clouds on the horizon she saw the outline of feathered headdresses, rifles, war clubs.
Her head seeming to move on a ratchet rather than a neck, she faced her husband. A dozen or more paces separated the wagon from him and Big Red, but he was inching the stallion in her direction.
He pulled alongside her. “They may not be on the attack.”
“I don't think we should trust them.”
Gil chuckled. “It's too late to worry about that. We're surrounded.”
“It wouldn't hurt to pray, then.”
Asking God's mercy, she watched the leader ride forward. A feathered war club in his grip, a rifle in a scabbard at his side, the brave stopped in front of her husband. Naked from the waist up with the exception of metal armbands and a silver medallion on a leather chain around his neck, he appeared young enough to take scalps with a flick of his wrist.
And the tattooed dots on his torso gave him a fierce look that beat his Comanche neighbors to the south for menace.
Raising one hand, he said in almost flawless English, “I am Iron Eagle of the Osage.”
“I am Gil McLoughlin of Texas. I consider you and yours my friends.”
What a lie,
thought Lisette.
Iron Eagle cut his eyes to Lisette. Her scalp prickled; would it soon be decorating his tepee?
He turned his attention back to Gil. “You trespass on our hunting ground.”
“We mean you no harm, Iron Eagle. All I seek is to take my cows to market.”
“You have scared the buffalo. We have few to spare.”
In fact, Lisette hadn't seen a buffalo in days, and she decided Iron Eagle was out for revenge. Whatever the case, the Osage land had been infringed upon; the welcome mat certainly wasn't out.
“Why do you not take your beeves along the trail of your brothers?” Iron Eagle asked.
“We have had trouble with the white man,” Gil answered.
The Indian laughed. “You have a saying in English. I believe it is, ‘It serves you right.' ”
“I don't claim to be perfect, Iron Eagle. I'm just a fellow trying to make a living, just as you're trying to keep meat on the spit.” Gil leaned forward in the saddle. “Wait a minute. Don't I know you?”
“My memory is stronger than yours, Gil McLoughlin of Texas. I know I know you.” The Osage placed his war club crossways on the pony's back. “Twelve moons ago you culled ten beeves from your herd to feed my people.”
“I didn't powwow with you. I spoke with Crooked Finger.”
“Chief Crooked Finger has gone to the Happy Hunting Grounds.”
“I'm sorry to hear that.” Gil appeared genuine in his sympathies. “Good fellow, that Crooked Finger.”
“Yes.”
“How is his wife? I remember eating a fine meal–”
“Red Dawn is my mother.”
“No fooling?”
“I do not make jokes.” The Indian led his pony abreast of Big Red. “Gil McLoughlin of Texas, your beeves appear thirsty. Will you trade ten head, and some coffee and tobacco, for water?”
“The United States agents don't keep you in them? Even if you are a state line south of where you're supposed to be.”
Indignation fought insolence as Iron Eagle replied, “The white chiefs in Washington speak with forked tongues.”
A quarter minute stretched before Gil replied in an cheerful manner, “I'd consider your requests a good trade for water.”
“White brother, I invite you to my village.”
“I would like to give my regards to Red Dawn.”
Lisette's fright diminished. The conversation between her husband and the Indian had turned to a chat implying no attack.
Don't get overconfident.
Gil turned the sorrel and rode back to speak with his cowboys, and Iron Eagle put a moccasined heel to his pony's flank. He rode close to the chuck wagon–and seemed to be taking an overlong look at blond hair.
“Are you the woman of Gil McLoughlin of Texas?”
“Ja. Ich bin Lisette McLoughlin.”
He cocked his head. “Has your tongue been wounded?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Hmm. You speak clearly now.”
Funny things for him to say.
“What are you called?” he asked.
Why hadn't he picked up on her name? Oh, dear, she'd probably spoken German. In hopes familiarity would breed friendliness, she said, “Please call me Lisette.”
She was glad when Gil returned. Within a few seconds he was tying Big Red to the rear of the chuck wagon. He told her to scoot over, he would drive.
“Gil, you hate Indians,” she said as the wheels began to turn. “Are you up to some sort of trick?”
He shook his head. “The Osage aren't bad Indians, not like the Comanches. I'm not wild about giving up ten head of cattle, but it'll be worth it, if Iron Eagle comes through . . . which I think he will.”
The Osage chief did make good on his promise. The cows smelled water even before Lisette caught sight of a gurgling stream; they rushed it, thankfully bypassing a browned cornfield.
Cornfield? She hadn't known Indians farmed.
Most of the cowboys and a goodly number of the braves stayed with the herd when Gil and Lisette followed Iron Eagle down a rutted lane. Lisette, accustomed to seeing Comanches, was surprised to note that the Osage Indians were a tall lot, their height rivaling her husband's and Matthias's.
A buxom woman wearing a cotton dress sewn in the native fashion walked toward them. From a distance she appeared to be in her middle years. Up close, and with the exception of her straight black hair, she didn't appear as Indian as her Osage brethren.
“Red Dawn!”
“Gil McLoughlin?” Showing education, she spoke in unaccented English. “Is that you, Gil?”
“It is. And this is my wife, Lisette.” He turned on the seat and winked. “C'mon, honey. Everything's going to be fine.”
It did begin well.
Gil and Red Dawn renewed their acquaintance, she offered friendly greetings to Lisette, and teased him about the expected “papoose.”
“If you will bring your tobacco,” said Iron Eagle, “I will provide the pipes.”
Gil nodded.
After kissing Lisette's cheek and patting her arm, he walked, the Osage chief at his side, over to the chuck box. Matthias met them there.
“Come to my lodge,” Red Dawn offered and took Lisette's hand. “I will give you buffalo to eat.”
Any offer of food that she didn't have to prepare enticed Lisette.
They passed over a rounded, wooded hill, and when they did, Lisette caught sight of Red Dawn's village. It surprised her. Why, it was almost the same as any township in the civilized world!
She approached Red Dawn's home, and it wasn't a tepee; it was oven-shaped and covered with earth.
The interior was not only roomy; it was decidedly and lusciously
cool.
And there were no scalps on the wall, thank goodness.
The lodge smelled of herbs and woodsmoke, had buffalo skins decorated with Indian designs stretched across its walls, and had a pair of platform beds. Several bolts of cotton stood upright near an accumulation of pottery dishes.
And . . . why, those were
books
stacked against a wall.
Lisette honed in on a feathered headdress that hung from one wall. It was a glorious thing, had some of the finest needlework she'd ever seen, and she said so.
“I made it for my Crooked Finger,” Red Dawn explained. “He wore it on ceremonial occasions.”
“You made it? How fascinating. I, too, am interested in millinery. Would you teach me how to work beads into leather?”
“Of course. But wouldn't you like to rest for a while?”
“That does sound appealing.”
Yet Lisette continued to peruse the lodge and the hostess. Red Dawn seemed quite civilized. What had she expected? Despite her friendship with the deceased Cactus Blossom, Lisette had held a myriad of notions where Indians were concerned. Before now, if someone had asked her to describe her fate in Indian hands, she would have shuddered, recalling Olga.
And the awful description her husband had given of Indian habits–heavens! All the while he'd known Red Dawn and her family. Now that she thought back on the day he had proposed marriage, Lisette realized he had been exaggerating for his own benefit.
So be it.
Red Dawn and her son, plus the people she had seen as they journeyed into this village, had been kind and cordial. Their customs were different, of course, but it had taken some time for the
Mädchen
Lisette to grow accustomed to the Texan way of life. Strange did not mean bad.
Pardon me, Olga. but I like
these
Indians.
“What do you think of my lodge?” asked Red Dawn.
“It is quite interesting. I've never been in an Indian home before.”
Red Dawn chuckled. “Neither had my father, until he met my mother. And neither had my daughter-in-law, until she came west and met Iron Eagle.”
“Oh?”
“I am a halfbreed. My father–pompous son of Virginia–was a student of the classics. He yearned to write about the heathen.” She chuckled. “He learned to like our ways. But he insisted his young ones learn to read and write his language.”
“I agree with him. One's heritage shouldn't be lost.”
Lisette decided young Hermann must learn her native language along with the customs and traditions of his father's homeland, though when it came to wearing skirts–kilts, as Gil called them–she would draw the line.
Red Dawn said, “My son's wife is white. She is from Maryland. Ah. Here is Laurann now.”
At that moment a lovely redheaded woman stepped into the lodge. On her back was a cradleboard, and in it, a sleeping, black-haired child. Red Dawn introduced Iron Eagle's wife, then scurried about. Laurann took the cradleboard from her back and rocked the sleeping child in her arms.
Staring at the baby, Lisette felt a rush of emotion. The little one was beautiful, all black wispy hair and plump cheeks. “A boy? Or a girl?”
“A girl.” Laurann smiled with motherly pride. “We call her Amy Sleeps Sweetly.”
“When she wakes, may I hold her?”
“I'd be offended if you didn't want to.”
Lisette's curiosity ran wild. What had happened to bring a gentle white woman to the Indian Territory?
“No, I was not captured,” Laurann said, as if reading Lisette's mind. She hung the cradleboard on the wall. “I met my husband when my father went to Kansas as an agent for the United States government.”
“I'll admit I was curious.”
“Sit down, both of you.” Red Dawn swept her hand in the direction of the beds. “Better yet, lie down. Young mothers and expectant ones need to relax at times.”
Lisette followed the redhead's lead to recline. A featherbed it wasn't. But it was the most comfortable mattress that had touched her back since she'd left Ruth Craven's rent house.
The apron strings were uncomfortable, so she loosened them, but did not take the masking garment off, since her stomach showed through the shirt's buttonholes.
Red Dawn must have sensed her predicament, for she said, “We must make you a dress while you are guest in our village.”
“Oh, I–I couldn't accept.”
“You will insult me if you do not.”
“Red Dawn, I'm sure we won't be here long enough for dressmaking, but I do appreciate your thoughtfulness.”
“We will see. Maybe you will find yourself surprised.” A tray in her hand, Red Dawn offered a plate and a goblet from it. “Have some pemmican. And some elderberry wine to wash it down with.”
The jerked buffalo proved to be tough chewing, its taste much stronger than beef, but it had a good flavor. The elderberry wine–she ought not to drink it. But she was thirsty, so maybe just one sip . . . The goblet was empty in no time.
A young boy, probably six or seven years of age, charged into the lodge. Gripping a miniature tomahawk, he glared at Lisette. Despite his stance, he was a handsome boy with blue-black hair brushing his shoulders.
“My son, David,” Laurann announced proudly. “David Fierce Hawk.”
“Hello, David.”
He grunted, and Lisette looked him over. He was sturdy and tall, his skin several degrees lighter than the Osage seen so far, with the exception of Red Dawn. And he was not happy. Running to Laurann, he pointed at Lisette. In his language and displaying a gap where a baby tooth had been, he shouted to the redhead.
“You are impolite,” Laurann chided.
Again he spoke in a tongue foreign to Lisette, and received a swat to his rump. Disgust and humiliation shooting from his light brown eyes, he asked in English, “What are white people doing in our village?”
“David.” Laurann blushed. “Don't speak in such a way. Mrs. McLoughlin and her entourage are our guests.”
“We do not need the buffalo slayers!”
“David!”
Red Dawn waved a hand. “Pardon my grandson. He listens too closely to our Pawnee neighbors.”
While Lisette had given up her qualms about the Osage Indians, she understood the boy's misgivings. Anything new was daunting.

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