Savage Illusions

Presently she fo­und her­self in a wi­de, shal­low val­ley that was thickly tim­be­red, whe­re cot­ton­wo­ods and rocks and si­lent stre­ams jo?

?ined to­get­her to cre­ate a tran­qu­il set­ting.

In the dis­tan­ce, Jole­na co­uld see gre­at num­bers of de­er, elk, and mo­un­ta­in she­ep on the hil­lsi­des.

Then a jac­k­rab­bit bo­un­ced past her, so clo­se she co­uld ha­ve re­ac­hed out and to­uc­hed it.

Jolena pa­used, sig­hing. She wi­ped be­ads of per­s­pi­ra­ti­on from her brow as she le­aned aga­inst the trunk of a cot­ton­wo­od. She clo­sed her eyes and lis­te­ned to the whis­per of the le­aves abo­ve her. If she did not know bet­ter, she wo­uld think she was lis­te­ning to the so­und of a pe­ace­ful, slow ra­in fal­ling softly from the sky.

She en­vi­si­oned her­self back in Sa­int Lo­u­is and re­cal­led how she had lis­te­ned to the so­unds of the one gi­ant cot­ton­wo­od tree that sto­od just out­si­de her bed­ro­om win­dow. On days when she was ca­ught up in won­de­ring abo­ut her he­ri­ta­ge, and whe­re her true fat­her might be, she had lis­te­ned to the cot­ton­wo­od tree, al­lo­wing it to so­ot­he her in her mo­ments of lo­ne­li­ness for a li­fe that she had be­en de­ni­ed.

Her sto­mach rum­b­led, and the gna­wing ac­he at the pit of it drew Jole­na's eyes back open. She knew that she must tra­vel on­ward, if not to find ci­vi­li­za­ti­on of so­me sort, at le­ast to find fo­od. She had be­en ab­le to qu­ench her thirst in the cle­ar, spar­k­ling stre­ams, and an oc­ca- si­onal blac­k­ber­ry bush had of­fe­red her so­me res­pi­te from her hun­ger as she had gob­bled up han­d­s­ful of the ber­ri­es.

But now, even that me­al was far be­hind her and she knew that she must eat so­on or col­lap­se from we­ak­ness.

She co­uld fe­el it al­re­ady be­gin­nin­g­t­he trem­b­ling in her kne­es and the slight diz­zi­ness.

"I must mo­ve on­ward," she whis­pe­red, pus­hing her way thro­ugh knee-high pra­irie grass. "I must. I must."

The sun se­emed to be bran­ding her as it be­amed its he­ated rays down upon her. She wis­hed the day away, hun­ge­ring for the co­oler bre­ezes of eve­ning, yet fe­aring the un­k­nown aga­in in the de­ep, pur­p­le sha­dows of night.

Jolena stop­ped to ta­ke a qu­ave­ring bre­ath, and to use the hem of her skirt to spon­ge the per­s­pi­ra­ti­on from her fa­ce. As she drop­ped the skirt down aga­in, so­met­hing grab­bed her at­ten­ti­on. Her he­art se­emed to skip se­ve­ral be­ats when aga­in she he­ard so­met­hing waf­ting thro­ugh the air.

"Is that chil­d­ren's la­ug­h­ter?" she whis­pe­red, then stif­fe­ned when she he­ard the fa­int bar­king of dogs and ne­ig­hing of hor­ses.

Then she crin­k­led her no­se as she pic­ked up the won­der­ful aro­ma of me­at ro­as­ting over an open fi­re.

All of the­se things co­uld only me­an one thing.

She was ne­aring eit­her a set­tler's ca­bi­nor an In­di­an vil­la­ge! The tho­ught of fi­nal­ly fin­ding so­me­one­an­yo­ne­o­ut he­re in the mid­dle of now­he­re ga­ve Jole­na the in­cen­ti­ve she ne­eded to go that one mo­re mi­le, if ne­eded, to fi­nal­ly be sa­fe from the dan­gers of be­ing alo­ne, and to eat. Each step she to­ok now was a true ef­fort, as tho­ugh it just might be her last.

Suddenly she saw them!

Her eyes grew wi­de and her he­ar­t­be­at went wild with the dis­co­very.

Through the cot­ton­wo­ods she co­uld see dark, smo­ke-blac­ke­ned te­pe­es, the­ir pe­aks re­le­asing drif­ting, lazy smo­ke up in­to the bre­eze. Every open pla­ce in the val­ley was co­ve­red with te­pe­es!

The hills clo­se by the vil­la­ge we­re dot­ted with hor­ses gra­zing in a lar­ge, wi­de cor­ral.

She shif­ted her ga­ze and wat­c­hed chil­d­ren scam­pe­ring abo­ut ba­re­fo­ot and in bri­ef bre­ec­h­c­lo­uts, cha­sing one anot­her in what se­emed mock bat­tles, with limbs for lan­ces and rif­les.

Dogs fol­lo­wed on the­ir he­els, yap­ping.

Jolena step­ped be­hind a tree, sud­denly fe­ar­ful of ap­pro­ac­hing an In­di­an vil­la­ge alo­ne. She wat­c­hed with a shal­low bre­ath as wo­men ca­me in­to vi­ew, sto­oping, tying and ha­uling the­ir gat­he­red wo­od that wo­uld fe­ed the­ir fi­res to­night.

Jolena lo­oked past the­se wo­men at the blue smo­ke of the co­oking fi­res ri­sing in­to the still air in lit­tle co­lumns from the te­pe­es, so­on di­sap­pe­aring in­to not­hin­g­ness.

Her eyes wi­de­ned, and her sto­mach grow­led aga­in at the sight of me­at co­oking on a spit over a lar­ge, out­do­or fi­re in the cen­ter of the vil­la­ge.

She knew that she had no cho­ice but to go on in­to the vil­la­ge. She eased from be­hind the tree, re­ady to ap­pro­ach the wo­men, but fo­und them go­ne, and al­so the chil­d­ren and dogs that had be­en with them.

Sighing he­avily, Jole­na mo­ved on to­ward the vil­la­ge, cas­ting all fe­ars asi­de, not al­lo­wing her­self to think they might be ene­mi­es, in­s­te­ad of the fri­endly Blac­k­fo­ot. If they we­re the Cree, Si­o­ux, Crow, or Sna­ke she did not know how she wo­uld be re­ce­ived. She did know that Spot­ted Eag­le had be­en ac­com­pan­ying the ex­pe­di­ti­on of le­pi­dop­te­rists in part be­ca­use of the dan­ger of a Cree at­tack. He had most de­fi­ni­tely se­en the Cree as his enemy and the enemy of whi­te pe­op­le.

Bringing Spot­ted Eag­le to the sur­fa­ce of her me­mory aga­in ma­de a sad lon­ging wash thro­ugh her. She wi­ped te­ars from her eyes and trud­ged on­ward, so­on re­ac­hing the outer ed­ge of the vil­la­ge.

Limping slightly, Jole­na mo­ved to­ward the clo­sest dwel­ling, a co­lor­ful te­pee ma­de from buf­fa­lo hi­des with stran­ge me­di­ci­ne ani­mals pa­in­ted on it, kno­wing that it sho­uld not mat­ter which one she ap­pro­ac­hed for as­sis­tan­ce.

As she cir­c­led aro­und the te­pee from be­hind, she stop­ped when she dis­co­ve­red an ol­der man sit­ting in front of the te­pee on a blan­ket, po­lis­hing his ar­row shafts by pas­sing them thro­ugh ho­les dril­led in a thin, flat rock. She had be­en so qu­i­et in her ap­pro­ach that he had not yet dis­co­ve­red her the­re, which ga­ve her ti­me to study him and to gu­ess whet­her or not he might be fri­endly eno­ugh to ap­pro­ach.