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Savage Illusions

Page 9

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"You ne­ed not tell me the ways of the world and what is re­qu­ired of me to ma­ke sons," Spot­ted Eag­le sa­id, his vo­ice no lon­ger light and ca­ref­ree, but an­no­yed at the im­per­ti­nen­ce of this yo­ung man at his si­de. "In ti­me, a wo­man will fill my arms and warm my blan­kets. Un­til now, no­ne has in­te­res­ted me."

"Except for my fat­her's first wi­fe," Two Rid­ges da­red to say, gi­ving his fri­end a gu­ar­ded glan­ce af­ter he sa­id it.

"Watch yo­ur words with me," Spot­ted Eag­le snap­ped back. He pa­used, then ad­ded, "I was a me­re boy then, yet I felt, I am su­re, the fe­elings of a man for yo­ur fat­her's first wi­fe. But I rig­h­t­ful­ly and res­pec­t­ful­ly kept tho­se fe­elings to myself. Still, I fe­el them and mo­urn her I be­li­eve even mo­re than yo­ur fat­her has ever mo­ur­ned her."

"My fat­her did mo­urn Swe­et Do­ve and mar­ri­ed so­on af­ter her de­ath be­ca­use he co­uld not be­ar the lo­ne­li­ness and pa­in of his first wi­fe's ab­sen­ce," Two Rid­ges sa­id in de­fen­se of his fat­her, Brown Elk. "And sho­uld he not ha­ve mar­ri­ed my mot­her then, you wo­uld not ha­ve a best fri­end to sha­dow yo­ur every mo­ve now. Wo­uld that not sad­den you?"

"It wo­uld not be so­met­hing that wo­uld ma­ke me sad, be­ca­use you wo­uld not ha­ve en­te­red my tho­ughts had you not be­en born," Spot­ted Eag­le sa­id mat­ter-of-factly.

"That is so," Two Rid­ges sa­id tho­ug­h­t­ful­ly. Then he cast a big smi­le to­ward Spot­ted Eag­le. "You are glad that Fat­her re­mar­ri­ed and had a son, are you not?"

"Yes, it ma­kes my he­art happy," Spot­ted Eag­le sa­id. Spe­aking of Brown Elk ha­ving a son ca­ta­pul­ted his mind back eig­h­te­en ye­ars, when Brown Elk had al­so had anot­her child born to hi­ma child that had be­en sto­len from its de­ad mot­her and ne­ver se­en or he­ard from aga­in.

Spotted Eag­le had won­de­red of­ten abo­ut that child, whet­her or not it was a boy or girl, for that child wo­uld be a half-brot­her or -sis­ter to Two Rid­ges.

Spotted Eag­le had won­de­red if Two Rid­ges had ever be­en told of the child. It was not a qu­es­ti­on he had ever tes­ted by as­king.

It was for Brown Elk to ma­ke such con­fes­si­ons to a son!

Having re­ac­hed the­ir hor­ses, Spot­ted Eag­le stro­ked the ma­ne of his mo­un­ta black stal­li­on, a very fast hor­se with a whi­te spot on its si­det­hen swung him­self in­to his sad­dle.

Two Rid­ges fol­lo­wed his le­ad, so­on sit­ting tall and squ­are-sho­ul­de­red on his straw­ber­ry ro­an.

"Let us be on our way!" Spot­ted Eag­le sho­uted, sin­king his moc­ca­si­ned he­els in­to the mus­c­led flanks of his hor­se. The frin­ges of his buc­k­s­kin shirt and bre­ec­hes blew and flut­te­red in the wind as he ro­de off at a fast gal­lop in­to the mo­on­lig­ht-dren­c­hed night, his fri­end clo­se be­si­de him.

When Fort Chan­ce ca­me in­to sight at the bre­ak of dawn, it was not the fort and the tall fen­ce sur­ro­un­ding it that drew the­ir at­ten­ti­on. It was the sight of a hu­ge pad­dle-whe­eler mo­ving down the Mis­so­uri Ri­ver, its tall smo­kes­tacks blac­ke­ned with smo­ke, many pe­op­le li­ning the ra­ils on the top deck, wa­iting for the bo­at to stop and de­li­ver them to the Mon­ta­na Ter­ri­tory.

Two Rid­ges drew a tight re­in and stop­ped. He for­ked an eyeb­row and ges­tu­red to­ward the ste­am­bo­at with a wi­de swing of his arm. "Is not that a stran­ge flo­ating ca­noe?" he mar­ve­led. "It is so lar­ge! It car­ri­es many pe­op­le in its bo­wels!"

Spotted Eag­le drew re­in be­si­de his fri­end, yet of­fe­red no con­ver­sa­ti­on. His in­si­des we­re tight with mo­re tho­ughts of Swe­et Do­ve. It had be­en sa­id that per­haps her child had be­en ta­ken by tho­se who ro­de the lar­ge ri­ver ves­sel tho­se many ye­ars ago.

He tri­ed not to be an­ge­red by this pos­si­bi­lity.

Long ago his fat­her had ma­de pe­ace with the whi­te pe­op­le. He had dug a ho­le in the gro­und and in it the Blac­k­fo­ot had pla­ced the­ir an­ger and co­ve­red it up, so that the­re was no mo­re war. His fat­her still be­ing chi­ef, de­alings we­re pe­ace­ful with the whi­te pe­op­le. The ri­val In­di­an tri­bes of this re­gi­on we­re now mo­re the­ir enemy than an­yo­ne el­se.

The fri­en­d­s­hip of his Blac­k­fo­ot pe­op­le to­ward the whi­tes had be­en fos­te­red by de­ca­des of com­mer­ce with be­aver hun­ters who ro­amed the­ir mo­un­ta­in ho­me­land. Spot­ted Eag­le him­self had cho­sen to walk the whi­te man's ro­ad in pe­ace, ha­ving felt that it was im­por­tant to win fa­vor with tho­se who se­emed des­ti­ned to in­he­rit the fu­tu­re.

Many Blac­k­fo­ot war­ri­ors had even go­ne as far as sa­ving many emig­rants' li­ves by gu­iding and pro­tec­ting them aga­inst the hos­ti­le In­di­ans of the ter­ri­tory, as Spot­ted Eag­le, in the ca­pa­city of a gu­ide, had ag­re­ed to pro­tect the­se pe­op­le ar­ri­ving on the ri­ver ves­sel from the Cree.

This wo­uld be easily do­ne, for Spot­ted Eag­le now spo­ke the En­g­lish lan­gu­age well, from ha­

ving be­co­me so clo­sely as­so­ci­ated with tho­se at the fort and at the many tra­ding posts in the area.

Feeling that eno­ugh ti­me had be­en spent wat­c­hing the lar­ge ri­ver ves­sel, Spot­ted Eag­le sank his he­els in­to the flanks of his hor­se and thun­de­red on­ward to­ward the fort, Two Rid­ges so­on be­si­de him.

"There are many be­a­uti­ful whi­te wo­men," Two Rid­ges sa­id, smi­ling de­vi­lishly at Spot­ted Eag­le. "Yo­ur bu­si­ness is sco­uting, not wo­men-wat­c­hing," Spot­ted Eag­le sa­id, gi­ving his fri­end anot­her an­no­yed glan­ce. Two Rid­ges' lo­ve for wo­men wo­uld one day get him in a bar­rel of tro­ub­le.

Silence fell bet­we­en them as they grew clo­ser and clo­ser to the ri­ver bo­at that was in­c­hing its way clo­ser to land for doc­king.

Jolena le­aned her full we­ight aga­inst the ra­il as she com­bed her fin­gers thro­ugh her wind-to­us­led ha­ir, ab­sor­bing ever­y­t­hing as the ste­am­bo­at mo­ved clo­ser to sho­re.

The air was cle­ar, the sun­s­hi­ne bur­ning.

A spot­ted eag­le so­aring ma­j­es­ti­cal­ly over­he­ad sent shi­vers down her spi­ne be­ca­use of its lo­ve­li­ness.

She had wit­nes­sed many mar­vels of na­tu­re on this long and ti­ring three-month jo­ur­ney from Sa­int Lo­u­is, a dis­tan­ce of two tho­usand mi­les. From Sa­int Lo­u­is they had pas­sed one con­ti­nu­o­us pra­irie, with the ex­cep­ti­on of a few of the lu­xu­ri­ant fo­rests along the banks of the ri­ver and the stre­ams fal­ling in­to it. The­re she had se­en de­er, an­te­lo­pe, bi­son, and va­ri­o­us types of birds who­se mag­ni­fi­cent co­lors had sto­len her bre­ath away.

Now and then she had gas­ped when she saw a but­terfly swe­eping over­he­ad, so­on blown by the in­ces­sant wind away from her.



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