Tales of Western Romance (19 page)

With a frustrated cry, Swift Antelope whirled
around as Culhane turned to meet him. There was a great silence as
Swift Antelope’s momentum carried him forward, impaling him on
Culhane’s blade.

For a moment, the young warrior stared at the
knife embedded in his chest. And then, ever so slowly, he fell into
Culhane’s arms.

Culhane swore softly as he caught Swift
Antelope’s body. Laying the warrior gently on the ground, he
withdrew his knife, wiped the bloody blade against his pant leg.
Slowly, his gaze moved over the crowd, his knuckles white around
the handle of the knife as he waited for their reaction. Many had
accepted him as an equal, a brother. Would they feel the same now
that he had killed one of their young men?

He glanced briefly at Winter Star, felt her
love reach out to him.

“
It was a fair fight,” Elk Hunter
declared, breaking the taut silence. “Braves the Fire tried to
avoid it, and when he could not, he fought for his life. It is a
sad day when a warrior dies, but there is no one to blame for Swift
Antelope’s death except Swift Antelope.”

A murmur of agreement rippled through the
crowd as two warriors lifted Swift Antelope’s body and carried it
to his lodge. Moments later, the sound of his mother’s grief rose
in the air.

A long shudder shook Culhane’s body as he
sheathed his knife. And then Winter Star was beside him, her arm
going around his waist, her eyes shining with relief that he was
alive and not badly hurt.

“
I didn’t want to fight him,” Culhane
said as they walked to Yellow Shield’s lodge.

“
I know. It will be all
right.”

“
Damn.”

“
Do not be concerned. Swift Antelope
has always had a bad temper. No one will think the worse of you for
defending yourself.”

Winter Star was right. There were no
recriminations over Swift Antelope’s death. No one came seeking
revenge. No one spoke badly of Culhane behind his back.

* * * * *

The winter passed quickly that year, and the
tribe rejoiced to see spring come early. Trees long bare grew
overnight, flowers blossomed on the hillsides, foals trotted beside
their dams, and the birds began to sing again.

As soon as the snow was gone, the tribe
packed up and moved toward the Black Hills in search of the
buffalo.

Spring was a beautiful time of the year on
the plains. The sky was clear and blue, the grass was tall and
green and sweet. The women planted squash and melons and corn; the
men hunted the elk, the deer, and the buffalo. There were wild
plums and berries and nuts. The horses and dogs grew fat again, the
children laughed and played in the sunshine. Life was good.

But as the days passed, a shadow fell over
Culhane’s joy, a shadow which grew blacker and more ominous each
time Elk Hunter mentioned the Sun Dance that would take place in
the summer. The Sun Dance, as Culhane had learned, was an annual
rite among all the Plains Indians. All warriors worthy of the name
participated in this holy ritual at least once in their
lifetime.

Now, sitting beside Winter Star’s father,
Culhane listened with growing horror as Elk Hunter told him, in
grisly detail, how he earned the twin scars on his chest.

“
The shaman cuts here, and here,” Elk
Hunter said, touching the thick muscles in Culhane’s chest just
above each nipple. “A wooden skewer is inserted into the flesh.
Long rawhide thongs are fastened to the skewers and to the Sun
Dance Pole. You must pull against the thongs until the skewers are
torn from your flesh.”

Culhane nodded, but said nothing. He had
learned of the Sun Dance from Yellow Shield. The old man had told
him the Indians believed that, by sacrificing their blood and pain,
the Great Spirit would bless the tribe with health and vitality in
the coming year. Sometimes men had great visions while they were
caught up in the spirit of the Sun Dance.

It was Culhane’s opinion that such visions
were merely hallucinations caused by pain and loss of blood, but he
prudently kept his thoughts to himself. At the time, he had thought
it a rather barbaric custom, but he had never considered that he,
himself, might have to endure such a heathen ritual.

“
I will never allow my daughter to
marry a man who has not proven his worth at the Sun Dance Pole,”
Elk Hunter remarked.

He said it nonchalantly, as if it had nothing
to do with Culhane, or his desire to marry Winter Star. But Culhane
understood. If he wanted to marry Winter Star, he would have to
participate in the Sun Dance ceremony.

With a nod, Culhane rose to his feet, bid
farewell to Eagle Woman and Winter Star, and left the lodge.

His thoughts were angry as he walked toward
Yellow shield’s lodge. How could Elk Hunter expect him to take part
in such a brutal ritual? There was no way a white man could be
expected to endure such a barbaric ceremony. It was unfair of the
man to ask such a thing.

Culhane swore softly. If he had to dance
around the Sun Dance pole to win the woman he loved, then he’d
dance around the Sun Dance Pole. And if Elk Hunter wanted him to
fly to the moon, then he’d do that, too, but one way or another,
Winter Star would be his.

* * * * *

Spring seemed to fly by on winged feet, and
it was summer. Already, preparations were underway for the Sun
Dance Festival. When Yellow Shield called a meeting of the warriors
and asked for the names of those who would participate in the
dance, Culhane stepped forward.

There were days of feasting and celebration
prior to the actual Sun Dance. There were games and dances along
with feats of skill and daring. Culhane watched in awe as the Sioux
and Cheyenne showed off their riding skills, racing across the
plains, vaulting from horse to horse, standing, sitting, riding
backwards. They were the most amazing horsemen he had ever
seen.

Too soon, the big day arrived. Clad in only a
clout and moccasins, Culhane stood beside the other warriors. He
wondered if the other warriors, all younger than he, were as
apprehensive as he was. They’d had years to prepare for this day,
while he’d had only a few weeks.

His mouth was dry, his palms damp with cold
sweat, by the time Yellow Shield came to stand before him.
Culhane’s gaze was drawn to the knife in the old man’s hand and he
had a sudden, keen recollection of the pain the women had inflicted
on him. How could he stand there and let Yellow Shield stick that
knife into his flesh?

He swallowed hard. Fighting the urge to run,
he pulled his gaze from the knife and searched for Winter Star. She
was easy to find. She stood beside her mother, her brow furrowed,
her eyes dark with worry.

Winter Star smiled faintly as she met
Culhane’s gaze. Would he have the courage to endure the pain and
the passion of the Sun Dance, or would be bring shame and disgrace
to the People? Cheyenne men looked forward to this time in their
lives with great anticipation, but Culhane was not Cheyenne; he had
not grown up on brave tales of warriors who had seen mighty visions
during the Sun Dance ritual. He had not gone through the hundreds
of daily trials and tests that honed a man’s courage, preparing him
for the ordeal of the Sun Dance.

Culhane held his breath as Yellow Shield
lifted the knife. His hands knotted into tight fists as the
razor-sharp blade made a long slit in the muscle over his left
nipple.

The pain was worse than anything he had
imagined. Blood dripped down his chest. The searing pain stole his
breath. He gasped when Yellow Shield pierced his flesh the second
time.

Agony, white hot agony. He hardly felt the
skewers being embedded in his chest, was hardly aware of Yellow
Shield guiding him toward the Sun Dance Pole.

In moments, the long rawhide thongs fastened
to the skewers in his chest were attached to the pole, and now he
was truly committed. There was only one way to escape the pole, and
that was to pull against his tether until his flesh tore away and
he was free.

He stared blankly at the eagle bone whistle
Yellow Shield thrust into his hand.

“
Blow on the whistle,” the medicine man
advised. “Blow hard when the pain becomes more than you think you
can bear.”

It was already more than he could bear,
Culhane mused bleakly, but he obediently put the whistle in his
mouth.

Through a red haze of pain, he glanced up at
the pole, and then at the other warriors who were suffering with
him. Surely their pain was as great as his. Surely there was no way
to prepare for anything as excruciating as this.

He saw three aged warriors move forward and
take their places around a large drum. They began to beat on the
drum, chanting in a minor key as they did so.

One by one, the warriors attached to the pole
began to shuffle forward and back, forward and back. The rawhide
grew taut as the men reached the end of their tethers and they
rocked back on their heels, putting pressure on the thongs that
stretched between the Sun Dance Pole and bleeding flesh.

Culhane drew a deep breath, and then moved
forward with the others. His legs felt weighted and heavy, his feet
clumsy, as he shuffled back and forth in time to the beat of the
drum.

He blew on the whistle as he rocked back on
his heels, and the notes came out in a high-pitched whine, echoing
the scream that was trapped in his throat. In time, he forgot about
Winter Star, forgot that he considered this to be a heathen ritual,
forgot that he had been raised as a Baptist by devout, God-fearing
parents who would have been horrified to see their only child
worshiping a heathen god.

His chest was on fire, the drum beat was the
beat of his own heart. He blew on his whistle, his face turned
toward the unblinking eye of the sun.

God of the Cheyenne, accept my pain. Help
these good people to prosper in the coming year. Bring them peace
from their enemies. Bless the woman I love. Help me to understand
her ways, that we might live in harmony...

The sun climbed high in the sky. Sweat poured
from his body, his legs grew weak, his vision blurred. And still he
moved forward and back, his face turned to the sun, until, at long
last, his flesh surrendered to the relentless pressure and he fell
to the ground.

Suspended between awareness and oblivion,
between the pain of the flesh and the peace of the soul, Culhane
viewed his body lying on the ground. He saw himself change, until
he was no longer solely a white man, but a man of two people, two
hearts, two nations, and he knew he would never be the same
again.

He was only vaguely aware of Winter Star
kneeling beside him, her eyes wet with tears. Yellow Shield was
there, too, his weathered face filled with pride in his adopted son
as he treated Culhane’s wounds.

* * * * *

Culhane felt as good as new in a few days.
Closer, somehow, to Winter Star and her people, as if by enduring
the Sun Dance he had truly become a warrior at last.

A week later he came upon Winter Star near
the river. She’d been washing her hair, and it hung like a damp,
black cloud over her shoulders. For a long moment, he stood there,
just watching her, wanting her more than anything. His body came
alive, reminding him that he had not had a woman in a long time,
reminding him that this woman would soon be his wife. In his heart,
she was already his.

His blood quickened when she saw him standing
there. The yearning she read in his eyes stirred her own desire to
life, and she felt it unfolding within her, like a sunflower
opening to the sun. Without thought, without reservation, she
walked into his arms and lifted her face for his kiss.

He hesitated only a moment, then his arms
went around her, holding her close, molding her body to his as he
kissed her, gently at first, and then with greater urgency. There
was no need for words. He wanted her, needed her as the air he
breathed, and she was there, warm and willing. All thought of right
and wrong fled his mind as his tongue dipped into her mouth and
tasted the honey within.

There was no shyness between them, no
hesitation, no thought of what consequences might follow. She
unfastened the ties of her tunic and removed the protective rope,
then stood before him, naked and unashamed, her skin flushing with
desire as his eyes caressed her.

She watched as he removed his clout and
leggings, and marveled at the beauty of the man, fascinated by the
slight stretch of pale skin that his clout had covered. His legs
were long, covered with fine dark hair. His chest tempted her
fingertips, his mouth cried out for her kisses.

They came together in beauty, his
hard-muscled body a perfect mate to the slim softness of her own.
She heard him whisper her name as he carried her to the ground,
felt his body shudder with passion as his flesh melded with her
own.

She was alive, she thought dreamily, truly
alive for the first time in her life. She was the air, the earth,
the mother of all living, and he was the sun, giver of life. She
cried his name as her body filled with light, and knew she would
never be the same again.

* * * * *

Culhane took his offering to Elk Hunter the
following morning, fifteen horses, all young, all stolen from the
Crow. Elk Hunter had no reason to refuse Culhane’s offer, since
Culhane had fulfilled every requirement, and so he accepted the
horses with dignity. Eagle Woman declared the wedding would take
place the following month.

With a glad heart, Winter Star began the
final preparations for her marriage.

A week before the wedding, two dozen Crow
warriors attacked the village, running off most of the Cheyenne
horse herd, killing three of the herd boys, and capturing Beaver
Woman.