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Savage Illusions

Page 8

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Bryce slowly shif­ted his eyes to Kirk. He had ta­ken his son asi­de mo­re than on­ce and had beg­ged him to ke­ep Jole­na from the truth of who her true tri­be of pe­op­le we­re, at all cost.

But he un­der­s­to­od too well that Kirk was the less wil­lful of his two chil­d­ren.

If Jole­na set her mind on so­met­hing, not­hing on God's earth wo­uld chan­ge it. Not even her de­vo­ted brot­her.

He threw his fork down and slap­ped at his legs an­g­rily. "Damn the­se legs," he sa­id, his vo­ice bre­aking with emo­ti­on. It was his pla­ce to watch af­ter his da­ug­h­ter and he was no lon­ger ab­le. "Damn them all to hell and back."

Tears ca­me to Jole­na's eyes as she wit­nes­sed her fat­her's frus­t­ra­ti­on. She felt ut­terly hel­p­less and for a bri­ef in­s­tant tho­ught she sho­uld chan­ge her plans.

Then the dre­am of the han­d­so­me Blac­k­fo­ot war­ri­or ca­me to her aga­in in her mind's eye and she knew that not­hin­g­not even a gri­eving, sad fat­her­co­uld sway her de­ci­si­on from se­eking out her des­tiny.

Chapter Four

Three Months La­ter

The Mon­ta­na Ter­ri­tory

Montana. A wil­der­ness of ste­ep, wo­oded slo­pes and flo­wery mo­un­ta­in me­adows, whe­re stre­ams tum­b­led over the wa­ter­fal­ls and blue la­kes lay in pe­ace­ful val­leys.

The le­aves of the cot­ton­wo­ods rus­t­led and whis­pe­red in the wind, se­emingly an­s­we­ring the soft so­unds of the bro­ok as its crystal-cle­ar wa­ter rip­pled and splas­hed over the rocks.

The glow of the mo­on re­ac­hed down from the vel­vety black sky of night, ca­res­sing the grassy mo­und upon which lay a fresh spray of wild flo­wers, the da­isi­es with the­ir gold and brown fa­ces the most pro­mi­nent of them all.

Spotted Eag­le res­ted on his ha­un­c­hes be­si­de the gra­ve, so­met­hing li­ke a si­lent bid­ding that he did not un­der­s­tand ha­ving drawn him to Swe­et Do­ve's bu­ri­al spot. He had be­en the­re this ti­me sin­ce the sun had be­gun its des­cent be­hind the dis­tant mo­un­ta­ins, pra­ying and of­fe­ring his gift of flo­wers to a wo­man who was long go­ne from him, yet who still re­ma­ined wit­hin his tho­ughts and he­art as vi­vidly as when he had lo­oked upon her lo­vely fa­ce as a yo­uth ena­mo­red with an ol­der wo­man.

When she di­ed, a part of him had go­ne to the gra­ve with her.

And be­ca­use of his in­fa­tu­ati­on, even still at his age of twen­ty-eight, he had not yet fo­und a wo­man who com­pa­red with Swe­et Do­ve, and so his blan­kets we­re only war­med at night by his lo­ne­li­ness.

"Spotted Eag­le, ok-yi, co­me. Wo-ka-hit, lis­ten, my fri­end. If we are to ma­ke Fort Chan­ce by mor­ning, we must le­ave now," Two Rid­ges sa­id, chan­cing dis­tur­bing his fri­end's pri­va­te mo­ment.

Two Rid­ges did not un­der­s­tand his fri­end's fe­elings for Swe­et Do­ve, for he him­self enj­oyed the com­pany of wo­men his own age, ha­ving at six­te­en ta­ken many be­a­uti­ful ma­idens to his blan­kets with him, enj­oying the sen­su­al mo­ments sha­red with them. Al­t­ho­ugh he knew that Spot­ted Eag­le was not prac­ti­cing ce­li­bacy, he still had not cho­sen a par­ti­cu­lar wo­man to swe­eten his dwel­ling.

Two Rid­ges plan­ned to ma­ke a cho­ice so­on, so that he wo­uld lo­ok ol­der and mo­re vi­ri­le in the eyes of his mo­re ma­tu­re, spe­ci­al fri­end. Now it so­me­ti­mes se­emed to him that he was only an an­no­yan­ce to Spot­ted Eag­le.

Two Rid­ges felt his fri­end's an­no­yan­ce even now, as Spot­ted Eag­le tur­ned angry eyes up at him for ha­ving dis­tur­bed his si­lent vi­gil at the gra­ve si­te.

Yet Two Rid­ges did not al­low this an­ger to re­ach in­si­de him and ma­ke him lo­wer his eyes in sha­me, for he knew that he was right to re­mind Spot­ted Eag­le that ti­me was qu­ickly pas­sin­g­ti­me that sho­uld be spent in the­ir sad­dles in­s­te­ad of be­si­de the gra­ve of a wo­man who­se he­art and so­ul had be­lon­ged to anot­her man.

Spotted Eag­le ga­zed up at Two Rid­ges. He had long ago wel­co­med this yo­uth as a fri­end, at first amu­sed by the yo­ung lad's way of sha­do­wing him from the ti­me he co­uld walk. The bond of fri­en­d­s­hip had stren­g­t­he­ned thro­ugh the ye­ars and had ma­tu­red in­to so­met­hing spe­ci­al. Spot­ted Eag­le co­uld not help but ad­mi­re Two Rid­ges' abi­lity to sho­ot, ri­de, and hunt.

He smi­

led to him­self, even ad­mi­ring his yo­ung fri­end's pro­wess with wo­men. Spot­ted Eag­le at ti­mes tho­ught that he might le­arn from his fri­end's be­ha­vi­or with wo­men, yet still co­uld not al­low him­self to be that free with his he­art and fe­elings.

He was one day to be a po­wer­ful chi­ef.

He must pre­sent him­self as a man of gre­at pri­de and res­t­ra­int!

Spotted Eag­le to­ok a last, lin­ge­ring lo­ok at the gra­ve, le­aned a hand upon the grass still war­med by the sun, then tur­ned his eyes up at Two Rid­ges. ''You are right," he sa­id, ri­sing to his full he­ight, which was not much over his fri­end's he­ight, Two Rid­ges stan­ding at le­ast six fe­et wit­ho­ut moc­ca­sins. "We must le­ave for Fort Chan­ce. It is an in­te­res­ting ti­me for us, wo­uld you not ag­ree? Who of our pe­op­le ha­ve ever se­en­how do you say the wor­d­lep-i-dop-ter-ist? I ha­ve to won­der if the­se whi­te pe­op­le will be as stran­ge lo­oking as the tit­le they be­ar?"

Spotted Eag­le chuc­k­led as he swung an arm aro­und Two Rid­ges' sho­ul­der and then wal­ked to­get­her to­ward the­ir gra­zing hor­ses.

"My he­art is happy that you cho­se this In­di­an to jo­in you in be­ing a gu­ide this ti­me, to help pro­tect the whi­te pe­op­le from the Cree re­ne­ga­des whi­le they se­arch for the ra­re but­terfly that you, my fri­end, spot­ted in this area," Two Rid­ges sa­id, cas­ting Spot­ted Eag­le a qu­ick glan­ce. He ad­mi­red, yet en­vi­ed mo­re, this man who wo­uld be chi­ef af­ter the pas­sing of his chi­ef­ta­in fat­her. "I will le­arn much from you du­ring this trip. Al­re­ady you ha­ve ta­ught me much that ma­kes me lo­ok go­od to the wo­men."

"There will co­me a ti­me when you will find li­fe as go­od wit­ho­ut wo­men as with them," Spot­ted Eag­le sa­id, of­fe­ring a soft, amu­sed la­ugh to his fri­end. "When you find that spe­ci­al wo­man and jo­in hands with her, then per­haps you can find ot­her pur­po­ses in li­fe. She will tend to yo­ur nightly ne­eds, and du­ring the day­ti­me ho­urs you will not be as busy shif­ting yo­ur eyes from wo­man to wo­man, hun­ge­ring for each of them. You will be­co­me a man who­se wi­fe is en­vi­ed for the fe­ats you will per­form as a pro­ud war­ri­or of our pe­op­le."

"Yes, so­on I will cho­ose that per­fect wo­man to warm my bed at night and swe­eten my te­pee with her smi­le," Two Rid­ges sa­id, nod­ding. "I ha­ve be­en thin­king that Mo­on Flo­wer might be the right one." He shif­ted his ga­ze on­ce aga­in his fri­end's way. "You, al­so, must find that cer­ta­in wo­man. Is it not im­por­tant that you so­on bring a son in­to yo­ur li­fe, to te­ach him all that you ha­ve ta­ught this boy who is fast gro­wing in­to ways of a man? To ha­ve a son, you must first ha­ve a nit-o-ke-ma­na wi­fe."



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