Savage Skies (6 page)

At that moment, two Indian maidens came into the lodge. One immediately spread what looked like bulrush mats over the earthen floor, leaving none of the ground exposed to the naked eye, while the other woman brought in firewood and started a fire in the firepit.

They left, but soon returned again. One carried blankets. The other positioned a pot of tantalizing-smelling food over the fire, hanging it from a tripod of sorts.

They left again, and before Shirleen could have time to wonder about all that was happening, the women returned.

One carried a wooden basin of water, the other wooden bowls and spoons.

The two women wore beautifully beaded doeskin dresses and matching moccasins, their coal-black hair hanging in long braids down their backs. They said nothing to Shirleen, nor did she say anything to them.

And then she was left alone again.

She turned and watched the entrance flap, expecting the women to return with other things. But this time it seemed that they were gone for good.

She was glad to be alone, for her head was throbbing again where she had been struck by the horrible club. Groaning with pain, she sank to the mats beside the warm fire.

She hung her face in her hands and sobbed, then stopped when she heard someone enter the tepee.

Afraid of who it might be, she looked slowly up and saw an intelligent-looking old man standing there with a buckskin bag.

The Indian spoke to her in good English.

“I am called by the name Morning Thunder,” he said in a deep, resonant tone. “I am my people's shaman, which in your white world is called a doctor. I have come at the command of my chief Blue Thunder to see to your wound.”

Unsure of how to feel about this old man's presence, Shirleen sat up stiffly and looked at him anxiously.

“Do not be afraid,” Morning Thunder said softly as he knelt down on the mats, gently turning Shirleen to face him. “You are with a
friendly band of Assiniboine people who do not kill whites unless forced into it.”

Shirleen swallowed hard. “I am no danger to any of you,” she said. “I will do nothing to cause you to want me dead.”

Morning Thunder smiled, reached out, and gently separated her hair to check the wound.

He “tsk-tsk'd,” as Shirleen remembered her grandmother doing so often when she was not pleased with something.

The familiar sound made Shirleen relax.

“It hurts so much,” she offered.

“I shall take the pain away,” Morning Thunder reassured her. “Close your eyes as I tend to your wound if it will make you feel better. Soon my healing powers will make you well.”

Shirleen was surprised that she had been in the presence of two powerful Indians, and both had shown her kindness.

And more than that. She was so glad to know that she was with a friendly tribe of Indians, the Assiniboine.

She was beginning to hope that the young chief, who she now knew was called Blue Thunder, was sincere in what he had said to her.

“You are called by what name?” Morning Thunder asked as he slowly and carefully washed Shirleen's wound, removing all the blood.

“Shirleen,” she responded without hesitation. She felt comfortable in his presence, and he was as gentle as her grandmother and
mother had been when she had gotten hurt as a child.

This had been a frequent occurrence, because of her size; everyone always got the better of her in the rougher sorts of games.

She had preferred jump rope or jacks, games that would not cause her harm, or dirty her pretty dresses.

“I believe you should be called Tiny Flames,” Morning Thunder said as he stopped and admired her red hair, which reminded him of the color of flame. “While you are in my presence, I shall always address you by your Indian name.”

Shirleen's eyes widened with pleasure at being given an Indian name . . . and one that was so beautiful!

She hoped that Morning Thunder's kindness wasn't part of a scheme to make her relax so she would be a more compliant prisoner. She did want to trust those who had made kind overtures toward her, especially Blue Thunder.

“I love the name,” Shirleen murmured, blushing slightly when she noticed him studying her face. “Thank you.”

“In my tongue you thank someone by saying
pila-maye
,” Morning Thunder explained, smiling at her as he set aside the cloth that he had used to wash the blood from her hair.

“
Pila-maye,
” Shirleen murmured. “I will try to remember the correct words in your tongue when I have a reason to thank someone.”

“You will have many reasons, for my people are going to be nothing but kind to you,” Morning
Thunder said, now applying a white medicinal powder to her wound. “As I am being kind to you today, I shall also be kind tomorrow.”

Shirleen stiffened when the powder he was applying to her wound caused a pain to shoot through her scalp.

“It will hurt for only a little while, and then the true healing begins,” Morning Thunder said as he drew his hand away from her head.

“You are so very kind,” Shirleen murmured. “I will always remember your kindness.”

“And I will remember your soft sweetness,” Morning Thunder said, his eyes smiling into hers as she blushed.

She was feeling less and less apprehensive about being in the Assiniboine village, especially now that she believed that these Indians truly wanted to help her.

Now if she could only find Megan!

So sweet the blush of bashfulness,
Even pity scarce can wish it less.

—Byron

Alone and now dressed comfortably in a clean doeskin gown that the shaman had given her, Shirleen sat on a soft pallet of blankets beside the fire in the tepee that had been assigned her. Physically, she was feeling better since Morning Thunder had medicated her wound.

But tears filled her eyes, for she had never felt as alone and desperate as now.

Yes, she had gone through some rough times with her husband Earl, but nothing compared to being captured by renegades and separated from her precious daughter.

She was beginning to fear that she would never know Megan's fate, even if she went to a fort after she left the Indian village and reported her loss to the colonel in charge. Out there in the West, one could disappear and never be heard of again.

That was one thing that had frightened her
when Earl had talked of moving to Wyoming, yet at the time, he was behaving normally and protectively toward her, so she had put her trust in him. She had believed he would protect her and had left Boston without so much as a look back over her shoulder.

It had been exciting to think of going to a new land, where she and Earl would build a home and have children.

She had felt proud to be creating a home of her own. Before she had met and married Earl, she'd scarcely left her parents' home, except for an occasional social function with her parents and their friends.

She had not even joined the other girls her age to go to parties, where she heard they danced the night away in beautiful gowns in the arms of handsome partners.

Although many young men had wanted to come courting, enthralled by her sweetness and beauty, she had not had the desire to receive any of them inside her heart.

She had been content spending time alone in her bedroom, reading books and dreaming of things that surely would never be.

She had at times even dreamed of coming face-to-face with a handsome Indian after reading novels about life out West.

It seemed strange that she was actually living that dream, only now it was filled with too much grief to be anything like her girlish fantasies.

She had thought when she'd met Earl that he might be her only chance of seeing what the
West was truly like. When he had come to her home to visit her father with talk of business affairs, she had heard him mention that he had a dream of one day moving out West. At those words, she had been instantly intrigued by him.

She had willingly accepted his first invitation to go to dinner . . . and there it had begun.

Just the thought of being free and moving to a new land with a new husband had been so exciting, Shirleen had sometimes felt sick to her stomach. In those days, excitement had caused her body to react in such a way.

Now?

She had not had anything to get excited about for some time, except for when she had started planning her escape with her daughter.

Of course, fear had been mixed in with that excitement, for she had never been on her own under any circumstances.

She had never been the master of her own destiny.

Not even now, unless what the young chief said was true, and that she could leave when she felt strong enough to do so.

As it was now, when she tried to stand, she got dizzy.

But otherwise, she felt much better. She had been cared for so gently by the shaman, and had been given such a nice, soft gown to wear, since her own clothes had been ruined by all the blood.

The aroma of the food cooking over the fire
made her belly suddenly growl. Trusting that the food in the pot over the fire was edible, even if the ingredients might be strange to her, she grabbed the empty wooden bowl and reached for the ladle that rested in the food.

Though she did not recognize any of the vegetables, or know what kind of meat floated amid them, she ladled a bowl full. Then she sat back down and grabbed up a spoon that had also been brought to her, and ate ravenously.

She didn't stop until a surprising visitor appeared at the entrance to her tepee. She was stunned to see that it was a white woman who wore a beautifully beaded doeskin dress and matching moccasins, her long, blond hair worn in a lone braid down her back.

“I have come to talk with you. May I enter?” the woman asked, questioning Shirleen with her eyes.

“Yes, I guess so,” Shirleen mumbled, her eyes widening as the woman came and sat down beside her.

Shirleen was astonished to see another white woman in the Assiniboine village. This woman seemed content to be dressed as an Indian squaw, and was evidently allowed to come and go as she pleased.

A sudden disturbing thought came to Shirleen. She had heard about powerful Indian chiefs taking white women as wives; could this woman be Chief Blue Thunder's wife?

But she just could not imagine those two together.
The woman was older and not all that pretty. She was big–boned and fleshy.

“I am Speckled Fawn,” the other woman said, smiling at Shirleen. “I see that you are surprised to see another white woman in this village. I'm sure you are wondering why I am here.”

No longer hungry for food, but instead for information, Shirleen set her half-empty bowl aside. “Yes, I do want to know who you are,” she said guardedly as she gazed into the bluest eyes she had ever seen. They were even bluer than her husband's and her daughter's. “Why are you here? Clearly you are no captive, for you are free to come and go as you please.”

Shirleen leaned toward the woman. “Why have you come to see me? Were you made to come and talk with me?” she blurted out. “Is it a part of the young chief's ploy to make me feel more at ease among his people?”

“Chief Blue Thunder is not a scheming man,” Speckled Fawn said softly. “He is perhaps the kindest man I have ever known.”

“Are you . . . his . . . wife?” Shirleen blurted out. As soon as the words left her mouth, she wished she hadn't asked the woman such a question. The last thing she wanted to do was betray her keen interest in the handsome chief.

“I am married to an Indian of this village, but not to Blue Thunder,” Speckled Fawn said.

“Blue Thunder has no wife,” Speckled Fawn went on. “He did, but . . .”

Not wanting to think of the woman who'd been so kind to her, and who was now dead because of the renegades, Speckled Fawn quickly changed the subject.

“I have come here to assure you that you are among friends,” Speckled Fawn said. “These people are of the Assiniboine tribe. You are very fortunate to have been rescued by them, as was I.”

“You . . . too . . . ?” Shirleen asked, her eyes widening.

“Yes. I have been here for some time now and enjoy my life as never before,” Speckled Fawn said, smiling at Shirleen. “I have come to do what I can to make your time here more pleasant. The first thing I will do is take you to the pile of clothes that were brought to the village after Blue Thunder and his warriors took them from the Comanche renegades. Surely among those clothes are some that you will want. Unfortunately, the things you had on when you were injured are not fit to be worn again. The bloodstains on them are permanent.”

Speckled Fawn paused and smiled at Shirleen. “I understand why you might be afraid to trust anyone in this village,” she said. “I was afraid, too, when I first arrived here. I had heard horrible tales of how white women were mistreated by Indians. Well, it did not take long for me to learn that the Indians at this village would be far kinder to me than anyone in the white community. My family was slaughtered on their way to Wyoming, and I
was forced to do anything that I could to survive . . . things I am not proud of having done.”

She paused, sucked in a nervous breath, then continued. “I had been a dance hall queen, and sometimes even worse than that, but circumstances occurred to change that part of my life,” Speckled Fawn said solemnly. “I won't go into what those circumstances were, but just that I wandered alone and was near death when I was found by the Assiniboine Indians and brought to this village. I have now been here for five summers, which in the white way of describing things is five years. I was married shortly after my arrival to a man of this village, and I have never been happier.”

As Shirleen listened to what the woman told her, she saw just how happy she did seem to be. Yet Shirleen was not ready to open up and discuss her own life with this woman who was a total stranger to her.

Who was to say if what the woman told her was truth? Perhaps she was just toying with Shirleen, or even jealous that another white woman was now in the village.