Martay lifted her head as reality returned.
“Dear Lord above, what have we done?” she said, looking about in disbelief, blinking in surprise at the neighing sorrel tickling her bare foot with its velvet muzzle. “Mounted atop a horse … and I’m … Night Sun, this is terrible! I am terrible!”
Night Sun laughed and hugged her. “Terrible? Hardly,
Wicincala.
I for one don’t know when I’ve enjoyed a horseback ride more.”
38
T
here they were. In the distance, directly ahead. Rising abruptly in the middle of the Great Plains. The Black Hills of Dakota. From where Night Sun and Martay rode, still several miles west of the Hills, the towering dark-green ponderosa pines looked a deep blue. When they had been even further away, the towering hills had appeared black.
Night Sun pulled up on his big stallion; Martay followed his lead, turning her mare about, riding back to him. They sat there mounted, looking to the east, as the sun behind them slipped lower in the clear September sky. Night Sun’s black eyes, locked on the rising wonder before him, was silent.
When he spoke, he said, more to himself than to Martay, “For as long as the sun shall shine and the rivers flow.”
Martay, attuned to his somber mood, waited a respectful pause, then said softly, “Tell me about it, Night Sun. I know that the Black Hills … they belong to the central government now, don’t they?” She looked directly at him.
His eyes were still fixedly staring straight ahead. She saw him swallow. He said, “These hills have always been used by my people for hunting and spiritual purposes. In 1868 the President signed a treaty deeding to the Sioux seven million acres of land. The Black Hills are at the very center of that land.” He stopped speaking; a muscle was flexing in his jaw.
“Go on. Please.”
“This was to be ours ‘for as long as the sun shall shine and the rivers flow.’ “ His gaze swung to her at last. “The white man thought this land worthless, so he didn’t mind if we heathens had it. But then in 1874 a yellow-haired soldier rode up into The Hills to look for gold.”
“General Custer?”
Night Sun nodded. “The boy general told anyone who would listen that there was gold here. Overnight, miners began pouring into our Sacred Hills. A couple of years later General Custer came after Sitting Bull and Crazy Horse and Gall, and the battle of Greasy Grass—what you call the Little Big Horn—was fought. It was called, by the whites, a ‘bloody massacre.’” Night Sun shook his head. “The foolish general bragged and let it be known he was coming, and then was shocked when our people were waiting to protect their land, their women and children, from him.”
Martay was watching Night Sun’s dark, rigid face. “Were you here? Did you …”
“I was in Boston reading law.” He looked her straight in the eye. “Martay, if I had been here, I would have proudly ridden with Crazy Horse. I would have protected what was ours.”
“I understand,” she said.
He went on. “After Custer’s fall, anti-Indian feelings were at a fever pitch, so in seventy-seven, just nine short years after the 1868 treaty, the government cheated us out of this land and forced our people onto reservations.” He took a long, slow breath. “Last year the Army built Fort Meade right in the shadow of
Mato Paha,
our most holy place, to protect the mining digs in The Hills from the hated Sioux.”
Martay wasn’t sure what she should say. She had heard, from her father and his officers, an entirely different version of what had happened at Little Big Horn. It had been a merciless slaughter, they had said—a bloodthirsty massacre perpetrated against brave, unsuspecting United States soldiers riding peacefully across the high plains.
Who was she to believe?
Night Sun caught her troubled look. He softened his expression, smiled, reached out, and patted her knee. “I am sorry. Don’t fret,
Wicincala.
You had nothing to do with any of it, and I should not have burdened you.” He leaned close, kissed her cheek, and said, “I’ll race you to the Hills.”
Cares were forgotten as Martay immediately dug her heels into the mare’s belly and shot away, shouting over her shoulder, “Catch me if you can, Indian!”
“Here I come, pale face!” Night Sun thundered after her, raising his flattened palm to his lips to give loud Indian war whoops that made Martay shriek loudly with feigned fear.
Like carefree children, they played for the rest of the afternoon. Racing, pursuing, overtaking. Shouting, laughing, kissing. Martay squealing and screaming and threatening. Night Sun growling and roaring and subduing.
They reached the entrance to The Hills, riding into
Mato Paha
an hour before sunset. Awed by the beauty surrounding them, Martay followed Night Sun’s pointing finger to a rising table of rock.
“The Altar of Stone,” he said, and she nodded, staring up at the impressive granite palisade, shaped exactly like an enormous pulpit altar, it’s smooth, flat top bathed a bright bloodred by the last rays of a dying sun.
While Night Sun tended the horses and unloaded their gear, Martay, promising she would not go far, set about exploring the rugged wonderland. Night Sun made her promise she would call to him every five minutes so he wouldn’t worry. She agreed.
When he had rubbed down the horses and tethered them, and gathered firewood, and set up their night’s camp, he looked about for Martay. As promised, she called to him. He followed the sound of her voice, lifting his eyes up to the Altar of Stone. He saw her and blinked in disbelief as his heart began to beat in his ears.
Unclothed and unashamed, she stood in the late afternoon sunlight atop that rugged pink palisade high in the sacred Black Hills. Her slender arms outstretched, her golden hair falling about bare shoulders, she beckoned to him.
His dazzled eyes never leaving her, Night Sun hurriedly stripped down to the skin. Then, lithe and quick like the mighty Lakota warrior he was, he climbed up to her. The muscles of his back and legs straining and pulling under sweat-slick skin, he agilely ascended the steep, forbidding rocks to claim her.
Wordlessly he encircled her narrow waist with his hands and lifted her high up over his head. Wrapping a strong, supportive arm beneath her bare bottom, he held her there, her pelvis pressed against his chest, her breasts just above his upturned dark face. Martay, gripping his bare shoulders, looked down at him and whispered, “I love you, Night Sun.”
He kissed the pale, sun-pinkened belly before him. “And I worship you,
Wicincala.”
And as the last faint rays of the sun washed their bare bodies with a heavenly pastel light, Night Sun gently placed the woman he worshiped down upon that smooth stone altar and kissed every inch of her flesh, reverently adoring her with his lips, idolizing her with tender caresses, exalting her with his masterful hands, until Martay was sighing and squirming and anxiously reaching for him.
When the sun finally slipped below the distant horizon, leaving only a lingering pale purple afterglow, Night Sun lay down upon his back and drew Martay down astride him. While the fireflies came out in the darkened canyon below and a night bird called to its mate, the beautiful naked pair made fiercely passionate love there atop the high, smooth Altar of Stone.
The hours were priceless, exquisite, golden. Alone in the Hills, away from his people, and from hers, the man and the woman came to know each other better.
Martay learned that her handsome lover was all she had thought, and more. Not only was he a strong, intelligent, loyal Lakota chieftain who revered his people and feared no man and loved as fiercely as he hated, he was also kind and sensitive and had a wonderful droll sense of humor.
Night Sun found that the woman he adored was more than he had dreamed of in a mate. She was not just extraordinarily beautiful and bright and delightfully passionate, she was also surprisingly sweet and thoughtful and charmingly witty.
Unlike the Indian maidens he had grown up with, she was not shy and withdrawn; she was a talkative, opinionated woman who was curious about everything and anything and not the least bit shy about asking if she wanted to know something. Nor was she reticent in answering any question he might have.
It was long after the sunset lovemaking on the stone altar. With night, a deep chill had settled over the Hills, and the lovers, though still quite naked, lay snuggled in their soft furs under the cold stars near their flickering campfire.
Martay, lying warmly atop Night Sun, her toes curling on his shins, her arms folded on his chest, face atop them, was looking into his jet eyes, questioning him about the women in his life.
Enchanted, he stroked her back and teased, “Need you ask? You’ve seen the way the maidens at the village look at me.”
Martay, pretending anger, reached up, grabbed a handful of raven hair, and gave it a none too gentle tug. “You are conceited!”
“Mmmm,” he said. “And what about you? I watched you back in Denver.” His laughing eyes turned serious. “How many,
Wicincala?
How many men have there been in your life? Ten? Twenty? Fifty?”
Martay could have named a half-dozen young men who had feverishly courted her in the past two years, but meant it when she said, to the dark man lying beneath her, “What difference does it make? They weren’t you.” And she gave his stern mouth a kiss.
“I am a jealous man, Martay.”
“Be jealous,” said she. “If you are not certain you were the first and only man to make love to me, then I don’t care to be wasting my time on such a thickheaded dunce anyway.” She again kissed his mouth.
Night Sun laughed and squeezed her tightly. Lowering his voice to a deep, threatening boom, he said, “White woman foolish, make fun of dangerous savage.”
“Mmmm,” she responded, yawning lazily, and sliding off him. “Savage not dangerous enough to suit white woman.” She draped an accusing hand across the soft flesh of his groin and shook her head.
“Why you …” He grabbed her, rolled her over, growling and biting her neck while she laughed. Then the growls and laughter died and the kisses that followed turned into white-hot passion that quickly heated the cold, starlit night.
They slept late the next morning, broke camp at noon, and rode south through the Hills while crested blue-jays chattered in the pines and beavers worked industriously in the cold, clear streams. Through canyons and gulches they traveled at a lazy, leisurely pace, while over their heads, the heat of a broiling Dakota sun was filtered by the lush, green branches of towering ponderosa pines.
It was a breathtaking fairyland, and Martay felt as though she could stay forever, just winding her way through its wonders atop her sorrel with Night Sun at her side on his black.
At midafternoon they stopped to rest. They swam in a stream so cold, their teeth chattered and Martay’s pale flesh turned blue. Then they lay in the dappled sunlight and let the late-autumn heat warm their bare wet bodies.
When Martay saw Thunderbird mountain, she begged to climb it. Doubtful about allowing a soft, city-bred young lady to attempt such a perilous feat, Night Sun shook his dark head.
“No,
Wicincala.
It’s not as easy as it appears.”
“Can you climb it?”
He laughed and said, “I’m an Indian.”
She looked up at him. “That’s your answer too often, ‘I’m an Indian.’ You think Indians are the only surefooted people in the world?”
Still grinning, he replied, “We are pretty hard to beat, my love.”
Wrapping her arms around his trim waist, Martay hugged him and said, “If I promise not to complain, will you let me climb it with you?”
He sighed and kissed her nose. “When you look at me like that, I’d agree to just about anything.”
Warning her he would change his mind if she refused the rope he was tying around her waist, Martay stood dutifully still and allowed him to rope them loosely together. Minutes after they had begun climbing, she was glad he had insisted. Her right foot lost its hold and she slipped, only to be immediately yanked back up by the rope.
“You all right?” he asked, his eyes troubled.
“Just fine,” she said, dusting her hands on the seat of her buckskin breeches. “What are we waiting for?”
His face relaxed and he turned and began climbing the sharp, jutting rocks with swift, deft skill, pulling Martay up over crevices and drops she could not traverse. More than once he bent down and she would step up on his back or he would make steps for her of his hands and feet and she would ascend them.
It was great fun for her. And for him as well. He laughed when he caught her crawling on her hands and knees, and for a time he stood watching, arms folded over his chest, before he took pity on her, bent down, grabbed her wrists, and hauled her up to him. Lifting her into his arms, he climbed the rest of the way carrying her.
And when they stood victorious at the summit, Martay put her arms around his neck, kissed him and, out of breath, said apologetically, “Would you be terribly disappointed in me if I told you I’m too tired to go back down.”
Night Sun framed her face with his hands, and while the winds howled around them on that high precipice he kissed her with such devastating tenderness, Martay felt for a moment she might cry.
“You could only disappoint me if you stopped loving me,” he said, his thumbs skimming over her bottom lip.
Martay trembled. “Darling, I’ll always love you, always.”
He smiled down at her. “In that case, I will carry you back down the mountain.” He picked her up. “Trust me?”
“With all my heart.”
39
T
he following afternoon they reached Wind Cave. Wide-eyed and curious, Martay clung to Night Sun’s hand as together they explored the quiet, vast underground cavern. Colorful limestone formations rose imposingly from the floor or hung perilously suspended from the ceiling. Suffused sunshine, invading the depths through narrow overhead crevices, lighted their way and gave the cool stone palace an ethereal appearance. Martay had never seen anything like its stark, silent grandeur.
“When I was a boy,” said Night Sun, his resonant voice echoing through the wide rock corridors, “I thought the people of our tribe who had gone on to the land of afterdeath could hear me when I came into Wind Cave to speak with them.”