Sacred Is the Wind (9 page)

“I have a poultice for your knees,” Star said as she climbed out of bed. She walked over to a nearby clay pot and brought it over to Rebecca where she sat naked on the floor. Star, as naked as her daughter, knelt by Rebecca and placed a finger to the young woman's lips as she started to speak, hushing her. Star dipped her fingers into the jar and scooped out a dollop of amber paste and tenderly smeared it across the blistered flesh. And as she ministered to her daughter, the medicine woman began to sing a song of healing and truth and the paths all must travel to find them both.

Star sang and Rebecca listened. And learned. And began to sing.

Panther Burn woke with the fading image of Rebecca Blue Thrush to warm his heart. His dream had been hot as a dozen summers. He had lain with her upon the moist inviting riverbank and held her in his arms and tasted of her kisses, brushed aside her halfhearted restraints and protests to join with her in the timeless fulfillment of youthful passion.

He woke to log walls, a hard floor, a cold hearth. He rose on his elbows and glanced over at his uncle's sleeping form, curled upon a pallet, a huddled gray figure with his face to the wall. This had been a warrior, a Red Shield, valiant as the Dog Soldiers in battle with their crimson-stained flesh and spears and shields. Beartusk … Joshua Beartusk, Panther Burn silently repeated. These people had changed. They had forgotten the Circle in their effort to live at peace. Panther Burn turned and grabbed a dipper and helped himself to a mouthful of water from a nearby clay pitcher. He promptly spit the water on the floor. No woman had entered while they slept and filled the pitcher with living water fresh from the creek, nor cleaned away the scraps of last night's meal that Rebecca had left for them. Were the Red Shields no longer held in respect, that they would have to attend to such woman's work? Panther Burn rolled off his blanket and stood, stretching the kinks out of his body. He stepped to the doorway and stared out at the village framed in the doorsill. Maybe it had been a bad idea to come. These were his people, yet he felt a stranger among them. He should leave. No good would come of this. He should leave this very minute and go … where?

Where?

He stepped through the doorway, suddenly aware that the pinto was no longer tethered outside the cabin. Stolen! His face grew flushed. His heart began a savage cadence. He glanced to either side to see if perhaps the horse had pulled free and wandered off. Old Warrior followed him out of the house, wagged his tail, and trotted off into the village without so much as a single look toward the brave staring down at the stake in the ground. Panther Burn remembered looping the lead rope through the wooden stake. And he had made certain it could not pull free. No, someone had stolen the animal during the night or early morning. But who? Nothing in the village aroused his suspicions, only misgivings at how different his uncle's people had become, and in the way they lived. Smoke began to stream from chimneys as the people prepared their breakfasts. Children burst out-of-doors, their joy filling the newborn day with the music of life. Panther Burn studied the soft ground before the cabin, hoping to pick the pinto's hoofprints out of the churned earth. So intent was he in his examinations that he failed to notice the braves led by James Broken Knife. Five in number and all in their early twenties, they were part of the group who had ridden to Rebecca's “rescue.” Clad in blousy cotton shirts and dungarees, they balanced farm tools on their shoulders and stared resentfully at his buckskin regalia. Panther Burn recognized James Broken Knife as he stepped forward. The Southern Cheyenne tilted his hat back to reveal his chiseled features.

“Ha-hey,
my brother of the Spirit Mountain folk. If you are to live with us, then you must work with us. We have enough tools to share with you.” James Broken Knife folded his muscular arms across his chest. His grim smile matched the chill in his voice. His face was square, solid, but there was a brittle edge to the way he carried himself; peace had eroded some of the hard texture of what once had been a warrior.

“To dig in the earth?” Panther Burn laughed softly. “I will leave woman's work for the women.” James's smile wavered and his features darkened. He took a step forward. Panther Burn braced himself for the man's attack. Another shadow fell between them and both men turned as Rebecca came toward them. She walked stiffly for her knees still throbbed and she carried a loaf of fried bread and a clay pitcher of tea brewed from the dried leaves of sarvisberries. Rebecca slowed as James turned to watch her, then ignoring his icy stare, she continued forward, forcing him aside and Panther Burn too. She entered the cabin, placed the food and drink on the table, and returned to stand in the doorway behind Panther Burn. Behind her, Joshua Beartusk continued to snore.

“What are you doing, foolish girl?” James asked.

“Bringing food to a blind old man,” she replied.

“Why?”

“Because I wish to do so.” Now it was her turn to grow angry. Panther Burn noticed he had suddenly been forgotten by the leader of this group of farmers.

“Come with me. We must talk.” James Broken Knife tossed his rake back to one of his companions. He started off into the village, thinking to escort the girl back to Star's. He paused and looked around, surprised to find Rebecca was still in the shadow of the cabin. She had not moved. “Rebecca … you will walk here with me.”

“
Saaa
… I am not some Ute slave to be ordered about,” Rebecca retorted.

James Broken Knife turned and rejoined his friends. He took up his crudely fashioned hoe, then looked from Rebecca to Panther Burn, who could not conceal his amusement, and back to Rebecca.

“We will talk at nighttime,” James told her. He tugged the brim of his hat down to shade his features and walked off toward the plowed ground where the earth had been scarred to grow crops just east of the village. Panther Burn grinned at Rebecca.

“I do not think your friend likes me.”

“Many people do not like you.”

“I have only been here a night. I have met few people. Yet so many already wish me to leave.”

“They are afraid,” Rebecca said, stepping out of the doorway and closer to him. She noticed several of the women from a nearby cabin watching her. No doubt they would embellish her visit as only ardent gossips could. Well, after the strange things she had seen with her mother, Rebecca no longer cared. One of the women, dour-faced Sarah Scalpcane, would undoubtedly have Panther Burn embracing Rebecca before the story was complete. “You have hurt your legs?” Panther Burn's inquiry interrupted the girl's speculation.

“A burn, nothing more.” She remembered her mother's ominous incantation, foretelling the arrival of one who would signal the end of days. “They are afraid of what you might bring,” she continued. She did not want to speak of her mother's magic. “They fear you bring trouble with the
ve-ho-e.
And not only the white men in Castle Rock, but the ranchers and the soldiers. You must understand, we live in peace now. But we have peace only because the white man is not afraid of us. We have adopted his customs, his names, his God. And we are no longer feared. Now the Ute have crossed over the mountains. They have raided and killed and made the white man fear again. But not us. Not yet. Because we do not walk in the old ways.” Panther Burn started walking. He crossed around the cabin and stared off into the meadow. “Are you listening to me?” Rebecca asked, following.

“I am looking for my horse. It has been taken,” Panther Burn replied, studying the lay of the land. “But I hear you, Rebecca Blue Thrush. The
ve-ho-e
used to hate and fear your people. Now I think they only hate.” He spotted the pinto among a small herd of mustangs, grazing near a juniper thicket. He started off across the meadow. “Maybe you will hear a flute outside your cabin this night,” he shouted back to her. “Maybe it will not be James Broken Knife.” He did not wait for her flustered reply. After all, he had a thief to catch.

The mustangs lifted their heads as Panther Burn approached. They studied him with care before deciding that despite his strange scent he meant them no harm. The pinto continued to graze and the others followed suit. A thin young boy sat with his arms wrapped around his drawn-up legs and from his position near the thicket seemed to be watching over the herd. The youth also watched Panther Burn, so wide-eyed and awed by the Northerner, that some of the fire left Panther Burn's anger. The boy stood, retreated hesitantly toward the thicket.

“You, there, boy,” Panther Burn called out, hoping to sound older than his own twenty years. “Whose horses are these?”

“They are mine, Northerner,” a voice said from behind Panther Burn. The brave turned to see a solidly built, gray-haired, elderly Cheyenne astride a horse. He wore a plaid shirt and denims with the trouser legs rolled up over his rock-scarred boots. The man removed his flat-brimmed hat and wiped the perspiration from his leathery-looking face. “It is a poor hunter who allows a man to approach him unnoticed from behind. His lodge will always be empty and his wives forced to beg at the common fire.” The brave replaced his hat. “I am Simon White Bull, chief of the Southern Cheyenne.”

“And I am Panther Burn of the—”

“I have been told who you are. The son of Yellow Eagle. Songs of your father's wisdom and bravery are sung even around our campfires.”

“What you have said of the hunter is true,” said Panther Burn, not wanting to speak of his father. “Next time I will listen for you behind me. Yet such talk of hunting seems strange to hear. I am surprised there are any hunters left in the village. It would seem the men tend the white man's buffalo or hunt with hoe and rake.” Panther Burn pointed to the newly plowed ground where the men led by James Broken Knife were busily weeding and planting seeds. “And I can find no common fire.”

“We do not go hungry. We can stay here and build strong homes and the old do not perish in the winter,” said Simon. He glanced at his horses, taking a mental count. In the process he noticed the pinto. “That is not my stallion.”

“It belongs to me.” Panther Burn whistled softly and the animal raised its head, neighed, then left its grazing to trot over to its master. Panther Burn rubbed and patted its neck. “It was taken from where I had tethered it last night.”

“Is that you, Zachariah Scalpcane?” Simon White Bull asked.

The boy came forward. “Yes,” he replied.

“Zachariah has no father, and no horses to keep. My sons are dead and I have no one to bring them into the meadow,” Simon White Bull explained. “Zach, did you take the pinto?”

The boy looked from Simon to Panther Burn. “Ye … yes. I did not mean any harm. You were sleeping. And your horse had come far. I thought it would be all right to bring him along with the rest. I never let them stray and I know where the grass is sweet.” The boy held himself proudly erect, his voice reaching for a tone of authority.

“How old are you?” Panther Burn asked of the youth.

“Eight summers,” the boy explained.

“His father was a brave man. As my sons were brave.” Simon White Bull shifted his weight, grimacing as if an old wound on his hip were bothering him. “They were killed up at Buffalo Creek. The white men had their many-times-firing rifles and although we outnumbered them they killed many of our warriors and we could not even approach their circled wagons.”

Panther Burn looked away from the boy toward the man who had declared himself leader of these people. “Was it then you decided to turn your men into women, to scratch the earth with their wooden tools, was it then you turned the Morning Star people into white-eyes fit for tending the tame buffalo?”

“It was then I grew sick of war and began to teach myself how to live in peace with the white men,” Simon answered.

“We too live in peace, beneath Spirit Mountain,” Panther Burn said. “Because the white man respects us and does not interfere too much in our lives. We live in peace as Cheyenne.”

Simon narrowed his gaze. He did not appreciate being chastised. It showed in the suddenly stern set of his features. “You are a rude and troublesome young man who speaks of custom yet forgets to present himself to chiefs of this village on his arrival, who slights us with his unproved bravery. We are trying a different path here, Panther Burn. Do not try to stand in our way.” Simon White Bull walked his mount in a tight circle around the Northerner, then keeping the animal tightly reined, walked the horse away from the herd. The warning in his voice had been impossible to ignore. Panther Burn watched the chief depart, recalling in that instant that Simon White Bull was a Dog Soldier. Or at least he once had been.

“I did not steal the horse.” Zachariah suddenly spoke, distracting the Northerner from his gloomy thoughts. Panther Burn turned and looked at the eight-year-old. “I watched you ride into our village. You did not see me. But I knew you were a warrior.” He pointed to the eagle feathers. “One day I will wear such a symbol of my courage. And I will not be
enano-vo-estane,
a planting person.”

“You would wear an eagle feather?” Panther Burn said, warming to the lad's high spirits and independence. Here was a kindred spirit, however young. “Then first you must prove yourself worthy,” the Northerner explained.

“How?” Zachariah asked, his whole being alert, his face shining with enthusiasm. Copper face and brown eyes and cropped black hair, his young body thin but resilient-looking—Panther Burn took all this in and decided the boy just might do, if he had backbone. Time would tell. It always did.

“It is for a father to show his son the way of the eagle,” Panther Burn replied, without thinking. Then he remembered that Simon White Bull had said that the boy's father was dead. Zachariah lowered his head and stared at the trampled earth. Panther Burn leaped up onto the pinto and stretched out his scarred left hand to pat the boy on the head. The Northerner looked around and saw Simon watching them. Good. “One day soon, the chief of the Southern Cheyenne will have to tend to his own horses.” Panther Burn looked down at Zachariah. “On that day, we find your eagle feather. In this, I will be your father.”