The Holy Warrior (10 page)

“You did well, Bear Killer.”

Chris suddenly smiled and asked, “Am I one of The People?”

“You will be—when you steal the horse of one of our enemies.” Running Wolf smiled, then added, “Every warrior
wants to go on a raid with Bear Killer. You hung on the pole longer than any man ever did. You are good medicine.”

“When do we steal these horses?”

“As soon as you are well.”

The ordeal had taken more out of Chris than he thought. To make matters worse, one of the wounds in his chest became infected. He tried to ignore it, but Running Wolf shook his head, saying, “Bad wound.” Still Water tried every remedy she knew, but in three days the wound was festering and he was running a fever.

Grey Bull came in and shook his rattles over Chris, but the next day it looked worse. Chris was lying on a buffalo rug and was burning up with fever. He heard Running Wolf and Still Water arguing about something, but he couldn’t wake up enough to make out what the argument was about. When he woke up he felt a cool hand on his chest, and opening his eyes he looked into the face of the young girl with the gray eyes.

She had a small knife in one hand and was about to do something to his wound, but stopped when his eyes opened. “I am White Dove,” she said quietly. “I will make you well.”

He later heard that the girl had a reputation for treating sicknesses that made Grey Bull rage with jealousy. Most of the Indians would send for the old man for the sake of his feelings, but often as not it was White Dove that came by later and treated them.

“I will have to open the wound and clean it out,” she told him. Then she smiled. “It will hurt very much—but I have seen the courage of Bear Killer.”

“Do it,” he answered. As she began to work on the wound, he studied her face, which was very close to his own. The white blood was evident in her coloring—a smooth light copper—and in her fine features. Her nose and lips were much thinner than those of most squaws. She had the high cheekbones of the Sioux, but there was a roundness to her face, a fullness in her cheeks, that was unusual. There was a bronze sheen in her dark hair when the sunlight hit it, unlike
the jet black hair of Sioux women. Her hair, thought Chris, and those strange gray eyes, made her one of the most strikingly beautiful women he’d ever seen.

Even the bulky elk robe she wore could not hide her trim figure, softly rounded by womanhood. Her neck was smooth and firm, and the hands were slender with tapering fingers.

She cleaned the wound deftly, then dipped her hand into a small clay pot and rubbed something cool and strong-smelling on his chest. The heat of it made him break into a feverish sweat.

“You will sweat the fever out tonight. This will make you sleep.” She gave him a bitter-tasting drink and left the lodge.

“You will be better now.” Running Wolf had been watching from the far side of the tepee. “White Dove is the real medicine man of The People.”

“Who is she?”

A cloud passed over Running Wolf’s eyes. “She is the daughter of my father’s sister. She has been away since you came to The People. Her medicine is needed in other camps as well.” He looked at Chris soberly. “Her father was not one of The People, as you saw.”

“Who was he?”

“One of the white eyes who was captured as a child in a raid. When he grew older, he was made a slave. To our shame, the woman bore his child.”

“What happened to him?”

“He was killed when the child was born. Everyone saw it was not one of our children.”

“Her mother?”

“She died.” The words were curt, forbidding any further question. “Sleep now, and you will soon be strong enough to take horses from our enemies.”

The raid did not take place for three weeks, and Chris saw White Dove often. While he recuperated she came every day to Running Wolf’s lodge to bring the herbal drink that made him rest and to apply the salve to his wounds. Later when he
was able to walk he often encountered her as he wandered through the camp, and they would talk.

She was a bright girl who laughed easily, and she cast admiring glances at him when she saw the way he treated the children who constantly flocked around him. She was curious about him, as they all were; but it soon dawned on him that she was more vitally interested than the others because of her parentage. Though half white, she knew nothing about her father’s people, and she would sit with him beside the small river as he fished, asking question after question about his life and about the land he came from.

One morning she asked, “Did you have many wives in your country?”

“Why, no,” he replied with a smile. “I didn’t even have one.”

“Why? Is there something wrong with you?”

Her directness caught him off guard, and he laughed out loud. “Well, lots of reasons, White Dove—but mainly because I never loved a woman enough to marry her.”

That brought on a barrage of other questions about courtship and marriage—clearly, marrying for love was a new concept to the girl.

The next day, late in the afternoon, they were walking beside the stream; he was carrying a small string of fish, and the air was still and warm.

“Tell me more.” She stopped him by taking his arm and pulling him to sit beside her on a log. Her face was piquant in the red light of the sunset, and she said, “It is not this way with our people. If a man likes a woman, he goes to her father and offers horses. If the father thinks it is a fair trade, the woman is given to him.”

“But what if she doesn’t like the man?”

The question baffled her. “Not like him? She will belong to him.”

Chris stood up, and she rose with him. Looking down at her, he smiled. “Well, where I come from, there’s a lot more to it than that. Lots of visiting and kissing and—”

“Kissing? What is that?”

Impulsively he leaned over and planted a gentle kiss on her soft lips. “That is kissing, White Dove.”

She blushed and touched her lips, then shyly looked up at him. “Does that mean you want me for your woman, Bear Killer?”

“Well...” He had been strangely stirred by the kiss and had a hard time forming a reply to her question. “You’re a beautiful girl, White Dove. Any man would want you.”

Her eyes dropped to the ground as she said simply, “No one wants me. No young man has ever come with horses to my grandfather.”

With some discomfort Chris realized that it was because of her white blood, which the Sioux would see as a shame—no matter how well they had accepted him. “Some warrior will come one day,” he said quietly.

“No.” She walked quickly away, and he followed. The next few days, she was much quieter around him, and he thought of her most of the time. Once he tried to question Running Wolf, but without success; clearly, he would get no answers from this source.

The days passed, and by the time Four Dog led the war party out of the camp, the young men were bursting with excitement. Running Wolf had also come, but on a raid it was Four Dog who must be obeyed. This was made plain to Chris, who merely nodded.

It went so well that everyone was jubilant as they returned home. The Pawnees had been taken off guard; The People had killed at least five of their hated enemies and taken over twenty horses. Chris had gone mostly for the experience—until the Pawnees launched a counterattack, driving two young Sioux into a trap. In order to release them, Chris had been forced to shoot one of the Pawnee warriors with his rifle. His strange weapon with the long shot unnerved the Pawnee, who fled at once. On their way back to the camp, Four Dog came close
and said, “You did well, Bear Killer. Our young men would have been killed if you hadn’t driven the Pawnees away.”

“Didn’t do much. Rifle convinced them.”

“One of those braves is my brother’s son. He will be a great warrior. You will take two of the best horses.”

So it was that Chris found himself with two fine horses, and the reputation of a hero as well.

“Now you can buy a squaw,” Still Water whispered delightedly. “Take Little Antelope. She likes you.”

But the white warrior was not listening, for on the way back from the raid, Chris Winslow had come to a decision. He never wanted to go back home—and the way to stay with The People was to take one of their women. As to whom that would be, Chris already knew which one he wanted.

The next morning when White Dove’s grandfather went outside his lodge, his eyes opened wide to see two handsome horses—held by Bear Killer, his blue eyes bright in the morning sun.

White Dove heard her name called and came outside. She stopped dead still, staring at the horses, and at Chris. Then she nodded and said, “I will go with you and be your woman.”

The match pleased no one, for everyone looked on Chris as good medicine—but now he was tied to a woman who was a symbol of shame to The People.

As the two lay in the lodge that night, White Dove tried to explain why the Sioux felt that way, but he would not listen. “I am Bear Killer, and you are White Dove, my woman. I don’t care about your father or your mother. It’s you I love.”

Her hands caressed his face, and she whispered shyly, “I feel such—such love for you!”

He knew how difficult it was for a Sioux woman to say those words, and he held her close. “I’ll always love you, White Dove!”

CHAPTER SEVEN

THE HOMECOMING

It was almost dusk when the heavily loaded beasts plodded wearily into the corral bearing the sign WINSLOW FUR COMPANY over the gate. The three men pulled the huge bundles off the animals and wrestled them into the frame warehouse, then fed the horses and turned them into the small corral.

“Voila! And now, I got me a beeg thirst,” Frenchie said. He shot a look at Knox and added, “You bettair go tell your family. We talk wis your papa tomorrow.”

“All right,” Knox nodded glumly. He left them arguing over which saloon to go to, and chose a frisky young buckskin from the corral. By the time he rode up to his home, the spring peepers were chirping loudly from the stream nearby and yellow lamplight streamed into the darkness from the windows of the house. As he got off the horse, he heard his mother cry, “It’s Knox!” The announcement was followed by the sound of pounding steps on the porch where the family usually sat after supper.

The next instant he was almost knocked off his feet by his seventeen-year-old sister Judith as she flung her arms around him. Then his brothers George and Alex joined in by giving him enormous bear hugs. They were a demonstrative family. Knox felt his eyes get misty as the others moved aside and his mother stood before him, holding up her arms for his embrace.

At thirty-nine, Julie Winslow was still youthful in face and
form. Her hair was as thick and curly as it had ever been, and only the streak of silver that began over her right eyebrow hinted at the passing of time. As she put her arms around his neck, Knox whispered, “I’m back, Mother!”

She stepped back and he could see her eyes glimmering with tears, but she only said, “You look like a wild man, Knox Winslow!” Then she looked back and, following her gaze, he saw the tall form of his father striding purposefully toward them.

Nathan Winslow, at forty, was in the prime of life. His reddish hair was thinning over his triangular face, but the light blue eyes had a youthful gleam in the lamplight, and the hand that gripped Knox’s shoulder was strong. The only sadness Knox had ever seen in his father’s eyes was when the man looked at his oldest son.

Nathan had taken over the fur trade of the Winslow business, and had done well at it. If anyone had asked for the best adjusted and steadiest man in Oakdale, the answer would likely have been, “Nathan Winslow.” He had a beautiful wife, a prosperous business, a good family—with the exception of his eldest—and was a leader in the thriving Methodist church.

I’d forgotten how handsome he is,
Knox thought as his father caught him in a tremendous bear hug that lifted the young man off the ground. “Hey, don’t break my ribs!” he complained, but his heart was warmed at his reception; and as they moved toward the house, everyone was talking and laughing at once. Knox would have been totally happy, but he knew that the news of Chris would hurt them terribly. He had managed to send a letter or two with the Indians the company hired to bring the furs out, but all he had told his parents in those letters was that Chris had gone alone into Sioux territory and that they planned to rendezvous in the spring. He had not missed the glance that both his parents had taken toward the yard, hoping to see Chris there.

He sat down and his mother and Judith began putting food on the heavy oak table, as he’d known they would. He had
refused to eat earlier with the trappers, knowing his family would want to feed him, and now he fell on the food hungrily: roast ham and baked sweet potatoes, and then baked turkey with a dressing made of walnuts and cornmeal. “I know I’m home now! This is a good sight better than the grub I’ve eaten the last year.”

Nathan’s eyes were bright with happiness as he measured Knox’s form. “You’ve toughened up, Knox. Guess it’s been pretty rough.”

Knox nodded. “If it hadn’t been for Frenchie and Con, I s’pect I wouldn’t have made it.” He stared around the table, shifted his shoulders uncomfortably, then said, “Chris is all right. He was at the rendezvous just below the Platte with the biggest, prettiest pile of beaver plews you ever saw.”

“Praise God!” Nathan let his breath out with a gust of emotion, and his eyes closed as he leaned back, hiding his shaking hands quickly under the table, where they were safely out of sight.

“Tell us everything, Knox,” George urged. Knox’s younger brother was in that time of life when he was almost a man, but not quite. At eighteen, he was six feet tall, and had the same reddish hair and blue eyes as his father and Chris. He was different from any of his brothers, and the closest thing to a scholar that the family had produced. Although he was competent in the woods and was a good rider, he loved books better than anything else. “Why didn’t he come with you?”

Knox hesitated, pulling at his curly beard nervously. He said finally, “I might as well tell you the way it is—” For days he had tried to think of a gentler way to break the news, and realized that the only way was to come right out and say it. “He’s gone Indian, Father. Married a squaw. I don’t think he’ll ever be a white man again.”