White Wolf (9 page)

Finally, his mind and body were free from the driving pace of the last week. He came to a halt and stared back toward the wagons. They were but mere white specks in the distance. But instead of feeling totally relaxed, Wolf found himself gripped by a curious tension, a nagging feeling that something wasn’t right. What it was, he couldn’t say. He scratched the back of his neck. His brows drew together when he recalled his brother’s words spoken two days ago.

Striking Thunder had returned in the morning for a last goodbye and a parting bit of wisdom. “I do not have the gift of sight that our sister possesses, but I know you travel this path for a reason. You will find the answers you have long sought, and, perhaps your match in a woman as well.”

A snort of disgust escaped Wolf as his brother’s cryptic words played in his mind. What good was all the knowledge he carried in his head when he had no idea how to put it to good
use? He sighed and dismissed Striking Thunder’s words with a shake of his head. Wheeling his horse around, he rode into the wind, and after a few miles, his brother’s words were forgotten.

Back among the slow-rolling wagons, Daisy “Rosalyn” Portier adjusted her bonnet as she rode away from Westport. Nervously, she glanced over her shoulder toward the town. Desperation darkened her eyes and left her stomach tied in knots. Would they make it? Could they outrun Vern? Her lips tightened. They had to.

She chuckled, a low, throaty, pleased sound. Her scheme was brilliant. Who would suspect that the newlyweds, Rosalyn and Hugh Norton, were actually Daisy Portier and Dan Tupper, brother and sister? Once they were on the trail, she and Dan along with their “driver,” Sammy, would blend in with the hundreds of other emigrants. Her grin grew smug. Vern Portier would never catch them.

Far from the traveling caravan, an Indian woman paused in her meal preparations to stare up into the
Paha Sapa,
the towering black hills her people would enter to make their summer camp. Many tribes refused to live in the hills, but her
tiyospaye,
or clan of the Miniconjou Sioux Indians, preferred the secluded sanctuary.

White Wind lifted her head to the cool breeze. She loved the spring and summer, looked forward to the move. Fingering one long white-blond braid that trailed down the front of her soft, unadorned deerskin dress, she smiled softly as happy memories filled her with joy. It was there, in those hills so very long ago, that she’d discovered love. Humming, she lifted the lid of her prized Dutch oven and stirred the simmering meat and fresh herbs. Then she took another pot and heated water for tea, the one luxury she indulged in every afternoon.

She was fortunate to have a husband and sons who provided her with little luxuries, and though she greatly appreciated conveniences like thread, fabric, bowls, utensils and a coffeepot, she was content with her life, had never regretted leaving her old life as Sarah Cartier behind. She had four wonderful grown children and a husband who loved her. What more did a woman need to make her life complete?

The loud report of a firearm intruded upon the bustle of the late afternoon. She frowned. There were some changes to their peaceful lifestyle that worried her, like the need for guns, but worse than those were the cravings for what her husband called the white man’s fool water. Alcohol turned warriors into drunkards, and she was grateful her husband had forbidden its presence in their village.

With her evening meal cooking, White Wind entered her tipi and picked up her sewing. She didn’t get far on the small pair of moccasins she was beading before she was interrupted.

“Uncheedah!”

At the sound of the soft young voice calling out “Grandmother,” White Wind glanced up and smiled at her granddaughter, who stood in the open doorway of the tipi. She held out her arms.

But a small brown blur pushed past Morning Moon, and hurled himself into his grandmother’s waiting arms. White Wind shook her head and laughed softly as she hugged her grandson to her bosom. Over the boy’s shiny black head, she glanced at Morning Moon, who still hesitated outside the door. “Come here, child,” she invited the shy young girl. Soon, after telling their grandmother about their day, the two children left, leaving White Wind alone with her daughter, Star Dreamer. She indicated that her daughter should sit. “How are you this day, daughter?”

“I am well,” Star Dreamer answered, her voice unsteady, distracted.

White Wind studied her. She recognized the faraway look in Star’s fawn-brown eyes and the lines of worry etched across her forehead. It was the same look her mother-in-law had worn when troubled by visions. “Visions?”

Star Dreamer’s eyes clouded. “Yes. Striking Thunder is on his way home.”

White Wind stood and wrapped her arms around herself. Her two sons, Striking Thunder and White Wolf, had left to go to Westport together, but her daughter saw only one returning. Her heart pounded with dread. “What of Wolf?”

“He travels across the land with many wagons.”

Gripping one side of the hide covering, White Wind went to the opening of the tipi and glanced outside. Her voice dropped. “Wolf has gone west again?”

Star Dreamer put her arm around her mother’s shoulders. “I see many wagons, people and cattle.”

Sorrow filled White Wind. She turned away, chewing her lower lip as she paced. A cold, hollow feeling invaded her soul where moments before there had been warmth and contentment. She hugged herself, knowing she should be used to Wolf’s long absences from home as he searched for his purpose in life.

Closing her eyes, she prayed he’d find it this time. Each time he left home, he returned restless and edgy. Fulfillment and happiness always seemed out of reach for her second son. She wished he could be satisfied with the cabin that had once belonged to her. He was fulfilling his—and her—dream of raising fine horseflesh. And there were many maidens in surrounding tribes only too willing to become his wife. Why couldn’t he settle down and raise a family? But it wasn’t enough. He was driven to fulfill his grandmother’s visions.

A pang of regret hit her. Wolf had been troubled for so long. Had they been wrong to send him east as a child to be educated? She sighed, knowing it did no good to harbor such thoughts. The deed was done, and she could only hope he’d find whatever it was that was missing from his life. She squared her slender shoulders. “We must offer prayers for his safe return.” She couldn’t bring herself to ask if Wolf
would
return.

“I know, my mother. I see many things, but none of them make sense,” Star Dreamer whispered, her gaze wide and confused.

White Wind understood and drew her daughter into her arms. Wolf wasn’t the only troubled child she had. So long ago, her mother-in-law had forecast two children—twins—each born with a special gift to help their people. Wolf had yet to discover how to use his gift of knowledge, and his twin sister, Star, had never fully accepted the gift of sight passed down from her grandmother.

She could only hope these two special children of her heart would find peace. Cupping her daughter’s face between her hands, she pressed a kiss to her forehead. “The visions will clear, my daughter. Do not fight them. Time will reveal what will be. Let us hope your brother finds what he is searching for this time and will return safe, free of his haunting thoughts.”

A deep, booming voice spoke from the door. “Our son will find his way. The spirits lead him, my wife. We must be patient.”

White Wind glanced up when Golden Eagle entered. Her heart fluttered with pleasure, as it did each and every evening when he returned to her. Her loving gaze slid over his gray-streaked hair and a face browned and wrinkled by years in the sun. His body was still lean and firm, and after twenty-eight years of marriage, her love and desire for her golden warrior continued to grow each day.

“You must be hungry, my husband. Our meal is nearly ready.” Golden Eagle smiled at her, his eyes hooded to conceal the desire she knew burned there.

“I’m hungry, but not for food,” he said, his voice low and thick.

Star Dreamer left with a smile. Golden Eagle closed the flap behind her. But even as Golden Eagle led her to their sleeping mats, White Wind knew she would worry over Wolf until he returned home next summer.

By late afternoon on the third day of travel, the emigrants reached Blue Mound. Wolf shifted in his saddle and turned his gaze toward the western horizon. The distant blaze of orange and yellow fell toward the earth, flowing into the endless fringe of green stretching out before him. Beneath him, Black Shadow snorted and pawed the ground restlessly, shaking his huge head as the herd of cattle approached. Wolf caught a glimpse of the animals’ white eyes, and tightened
his knees, ready when the stallion stood on his powerful hind legs to paw the air with his front hooves. His scream of rage blotted out the nervous bawling of the herd.

Wolf leaned forward and battled for control of the high-strung mount. He forced the horse back down on all fours. The black beast continued to prance as Wolf murmured soft reassurances into the animal’s ear. “Easy, boy, easy,” he crooned, patting the stallion’s sleek neck until Black Shadow calmed.

Twisting in his seat, he surveyed their surroundings, then glanced at the sun’s position behind a light layer of clouds. Though there were several hours of good travel light left, he decided to stop for the night. Over the last couple of days, he’d relentlessly pushed both men and beasts hard, concerned that the cattle might break away and run for familiar land. But now that there was enough distance between them and Westport, he no longer worried over the herd bolting. He also knew many of the emigrants wanted to explore Blue Mound.

Pursing his lips, he let out a loud, ear-piercing whistle. It was the signal to stop. He murmured soft words in Lakota to the nervous horse.

James joined him. “We’re stopping already, boss?”

“Yep. I’ve pushed the animals hard. They need to rest.” He pointed to an area between Blue Mound and the Kansas River. “Graze the cattle there and I’ll circle the wagons here, close to the river.”

“Will do, boss.”

Wolf left James and rode toward the waiting wagons, which were spread out three abreast across the prairie. He’d encouraged them to fan out until single file became necessary. Single file, there wasn’t going to be any way to avoid the choking dust that later would become a part of their daily diet.

“Circle to your left, Elliot.” Wolf continued to call instructions until each wagon tongue lined up with the rear wagon wheels in front of them, the teams of oxen standing inside the semicircle of white-topped canvas wagons. He left one opening, which would be closed off after all the animals were inside for the night.

Dismounting, Wolf tied his stallion to the back of the supply wagon, then watched Jessie unhitch the oxen, check them over and wash their backs. He watched, looking for fault, but found none. Once again he was forced to admit that Jessie had a way with the lumbering beasts.

Jessie crossed the space in front of him. “Rook, I’m taking the teams out to graze.”

Wolf narrowed his eyes. “Don’t be long. There’s work to be done,” he reminded him, making sure that the boy didn’t shirk his duties.

Jessie’s head snapped up. Resentment-filled green eyes flashed with temper. “I have never shirked my duties and don’t intend to start now.” Without another word, Jessie drove the weary oxen outside the corralled wagons.

Wolf ignored the frown of displeasure Rook sent his way. His old friend didn’t know the boy’s penchant for getting into trouble and would be too easy on him. Wolf planned to keep the boy so busy, he’d be too tired to get into mischief.

After the oxen joined the others to graze, Jessie trudged back to the wagons, her boots sinking into the rain-softened earth. She was tired; every muscle and bone ached from the long hours of travel. Aside from keeping an eye on the herd of cows, she’d spent her time on the trail gathering wood.

She smiled to herself when she remembered her shock the first time Rook had ordered her to “keep the bitch filled,” and her discovery that “the bitch” was a hide stretched under the wagon, creating a hammock for storing firewood. Jessie knew the importance of keeping it filled.
The time would come when trees gave way to dried grass, small twigs and, finally, the hot-burning buffalo chips. Rook had pointed out several nails hammered into the sides of the wagons, which would be used to hang canvas sacks filled with the dried buffalo dung.

By the time Jessie rejoined Rook, he’d already dug a slit-trench in the ground, laid out the wood and unloaded a large box that held several days’ worth of food so they didn’t have to open the sacks of flour and beans each day. She grabbed a couple of fry pans and slabs of pork to fry but Rook’s voice stopped her.

“Leave it, lass,” he said, glancing over his shoulder to make sure they were alone. “Take some time off,” he ordered gruffly. “We’ll start supper a bit later. I’m jest gettin’ things ready, so go on an’ enjoy the afternoon. When I’m done here, I’ll have me a nice, relaxin’ smoke ’n’ a nap, and if you’s here, you’ll jest yak my ears off.”

Jessie laughed. “Hey, you shouldn’t be such a wise old man.” During their long days of traveling, she’d eagerly encouraged Rook’s trail stories.

Rook grunted. “Off with you. Go climb the mound. Maybe it’ll git rid of some of yer cheekiness.”

Jessie needed no further urging. Since leaving Westport, Wolf had kept them on the trail until the gray cloak of dusk fell. By the time chores were taken care of, the meal was prepared and eaten, and clean-up was done, it was too late to do anything but go to bed. She glanced around, looking for the bossy wagon master, and spotted him brushing his black stallion.

Awareness rippled through her skin as his hands moved down the horse in gentle strokes. From where she stood, she heard his voice: low, soothing and tender. Tender? Wolf? Ha! Not him. Frustrating and formidable. That was how she thought of him. She wrenched her gaze away and headed for her wagon, unsure what it was about him that drew her but determined to ignore it.

She climbed into the back of her wagon and located her journal. Warm afternoon sunlight streamed in through the canvas opening as she took full advantage of daylight to complete her daily entry. Today she added the names of two California-bound families who had passed them, then logged emerging daily patterns within their own party as everyone adjusted to life on the trail. Her stubby pencil flew across the page as she put into words her impressions of the day and added another one of Rook’s outrageous stories for flavor.

Smothering a yawn, she stretched her arms over her head. “Lord, but I could use a nap,” she muttered. She and Rook, along with the other women, rose at four each morning to begin preparations for the first meal of the day. When the aroma of fresh-roasted coffee and fried bacon filled the crisp morning air, the men stirred, and by the time the meal was ready, the oxen had been rounded up and hitched and the wagons readied. By seven, they were ready to hit the trail.

Jessie leaned on the tailgate and rested her chin on her cupped fingers as she stared out into the wide-open space. Spotting gray clouds scudding across the horizon, she grimaced. They’d suffered their first rainstorm on the open prairie earlier that afternoon. She was thankful it hadn’t been a hard, driving rain, but it had slowed them nonetheless.

Hooking one leg over the back of the wagon, Jessie dropped to the wet ground and winced when the damp bindings flattening her breasts bit into her chafed skin. She’d already exchanged her wet shirt and jeans for dry clothing, but she didn’t dare change the bindings around her breasts. That was too risky to attempt in the daylight.

Jessie stuck her thumbs in the waistband of her pants and surveyed the area surrounding their camp. She spotted Anna and Eirica along with their children heading toward Blue Mound in
the not-so-far distance. A small, secret grin played at the corners of her lips. The two women had pegged her from the beginning and thought her masquerade a hoot. If she ran, she could catch up with them. Or she could take a walk along the Kansas River and maybe even indulge in a refreshing dip.