Savage Illusions

Jolena swal­lo­wed hard as she ga­zed back at him. "I'm sorry," she mur­mu­red. "My mind wan­de­red. It won't aga­in."

"It will, un­less you free yo­ur mind of what is wor­rying you," Spot­ted Eag­le sa­id, le­aning a soft kiss to her brow. "Tell me what is in yo­ur he­art. I shall help you put it be­hind you."

"When you men­ti­oned mar­ri­age to me, my tho­ughts went to my fat­her in Sa­int Lo­u­is," she mur­mu­red, cas­ting her eyes dow­n­ward. "I know that when we spe­ak vows, it will be do­ne in the Blac­k­fo­ot tra­di­ti­on. My whi­te fat­her will be left out."

Jolena mo­ved her eyes slowly up aga­in. "That sad­dens me, Spot­ted Eag­le," she mur­mu­red. "I fe­el that I owe him lo­yalty for how he has so de­vo­tedly ra­ised me as his."

"I did not ha­ve to li­ve with you to know that you we­re a du­ti­ful da­ug­h­ter to this fat­her," Spot­ted Eag­le sa­id, his eyes fil­led with a qu­i­et un­der­s­tan­ding. "So you see, you ha­ve re­pa­id him ti­me and aga­in for his kin­d­ness. You owe him not­hing el­se."

Spotted Eag­le ran his hands along the soft flesh of her skin, then cup­ped her bre­asts. "Wo­uld he not want you to do what ma­kes you happy?" he sa­id hus­kily.

"Yes," Jole­na whis­pe­red, clo­sing her eyes to the ec­s­tasy as he on­ce aga­in be­gan mo­ving wit­hin her, fil­ling her with his manly strength, awa­ke­ning her to re­ne­wed he­ights of bliss. "And, dar­ling, so­me­how he must be ma­de to un­der­s­tand that you are what ma­kes me happy."

"He will qu­es­ti­on it and then ac­cept it," Spot­ted Eag­le sa­id. He pla­ced a fin­ger over her lips. "Shh. Let us not talk an­y­mo­re. Let us ma­ke sun­s­hi­ne fill this te­pee."

"I al­re­ady fe­el its warmth," Jole­na sa­id, her pul­se ra­cing as warm sur­ges of ple­asu­re flo­oded her body. She clo­sed her eyes. "It is such a de­li­ci­o­us pla­ce­yo­ur arms. Hold me, dar­ling, and ne­ver let me go."

Her who­le uni­ver­se se­emed to start spin­ning as she felt her­self go­ing over the ed­ge in­to ec­s­tasy…

The pur­p­le sha­dows se­emed to ha­ve a li­fe of the­ir own as so­met­hing mo­ved midst them be­ne­ath the thick um­b­rel­la of tre­es. A thro­aty co­ugh and then a gro­an bro­ke the si­len­ce of the night. The lo­ne fi­gu­re stum­b­led blind from tree to tree, the man only half co­he­rent af­ter be­ing alo­ne in the fo­rest for too many ho­urs with not­hing to eat but ber­ri­es. Wit­ho­ut a we­apon, Kirk had not be­en ab­le to ma­ke a go­od kill for a me­al. His gun had be­en thrown asi­de as he had be­en thrown from the wa­gon and knoc­ked un­con­s­ci­o­us just be­fo­re it had tum­b­led over the cliff, jo­ining tho­se be­low, whe­re de­ath had co­me to so many.

"Jolena," Kirk whis­pe­red, swat­ting mos­qu­ito­es away from his fa­ce as a swarm be­gan buzz- ing aro­und him. "Whe­re are you, Jole­na?"

When Kirk had awa­ke­ned be­hind a co­ver of bus­hes, he had se­en no one ex­cept tho­se who lay bro­ken and blo­ody at the bot­tom of the cliff. He tho­ught that he had suc­ce­eded at grab­bing Jole­na from the wa­gon. But it was hard now for him to sort thro­ugh his scram­b­led me­mory as to what was re­al and what was ima­gi­ned, per­haps du­ring hal­lu­ci­na­ti­ons as he clung so­mew­he­re bet­we­en a con­s­ci­o­us and un­con­s­ci­o­us sta­te right af­ter his fall.

He re­mem­be­red very vi­vidly how he had run des­pe­ra­tely down the ste­ep hil­lsi­de, blin­ded with te­ars, fe­aring re­cog­ni­zing Jole­na among tho­se who had di­ed from the fall. When he fo­und not­hing that even va­gu­ely re­sem­b­led his sis­ter, he had se­ar­c­hed high and low for her, fin­ding no signs of her ex­cept for her strewn jo­ur­nals and des­t­ro­yed but­terfly col­lec­ti­on.

After gi­ving up on her, he had se­ar­c­hed for his pis­tol. When he did not find it, he felt na­ked tra­ve­ling thro­ugh the Mon­ta­na wil­der­ness. He had lost co­unt now of how many days and nights he had be­en wan­de­ring aim­les­sly abo­ut.

But he did know for cer­ta­in that he had not co­me upon any ci­vi­li­za­ti­on. He had even pra­yed to find the Blac­k­fo­ot vil­la­ge. The­re he wo­uld ha­ve fo­und fo­od and lod­ging and per­haps tho­se who sympat­hi­zed with his plight and wo­uld go and se­arch for his sis­ter.

As Kirk stum­b­led out of the fo­rest and in­to a mo­on-dren­c­hed me­adow, he sig­hed and mo­ved re­len­t­les­sly on­ward. Bri­ef dizzy spells ca­used him to we­ave, then he wo­uld snap out of it and be lu­cid aga­in for a whi­le.

Then he stop­ped with a start when he saw mo­ve­ment ahe­ad of him, only a short dis­tan­ce away. He blin­ked his eyes and wi­ped them with the back of his hands, won­de­ring if it we­re pos­sib­le to see a mi­ra­ge at night.

"Is it re­al?" he whis­pe­red, his kne­es wob­bling as he tri­ed to stand ste­ady eno­ugh to ga­ze aga­in in­to the dis­tan­ce.

"It is," he whis­pe­red, the dis­co­very ca­using his he­art to be­gin po­un­ding. The­re we­re se­ve­ral ri­ders ap­pro­ac­hing.

He squ­in­ted his eyes, trying to see if they we­re In­di­ans or sol­di­ers. His in­si­des se­emed to curl up in­to a tight knot when he re­cog­ni­zed the ri­ders as In­di­ans, but he had no way of kno­wing which tri­be! The Blac­k­fo­ot we­re known to be fri­endly in the­se parts.

There we­re al­so known to be se­ve­ral Cree re­ne­ga­des who ter­ro­ri­zed ever­yo­ne that had two legs, no mat­ter the co­lor of the­ir skin.

Kirk ga­zed up at the star-spec­k­led he­avens. "Lord, oh, ple­ase, Lord, let it be the Blac­k­fo­ot," he whis­pe­red.

Then, kno­wing that he had no cho­ice, he sto­od his gro­und and wa­ited. When the In­di­ans spot­ted him, they ca­me ri­ding har­der, the­ir shri­eks pi­er­cing the air. This was eno­ugh for Kirk to know that they we­re not fri­endly In­di­ans. He tur­ned and tri­ed to run from them, but his legs we­re too we­ak to carry him any far­t­her. They ga­ve way, and he crum­p­led to the gro­und.

As he lay hel­p­less on his sto­mach, Kirk co­ve­red his ears with his hands to ke­ep from he­aring the po­un­ding of the hor­ses' ho­oves as they ca­me clo­ser and clo­ser. He clo­sed his eyes and held his bre­ath as the hor­ses ma­de a wi­de cir­c­le aro­und him, then stop­ped.

Kirk's he­art po­un­ded wildly as he wa­ited for ar­rows to pi­er­ce his back.

When this did not hap­pen, he slowly ope­ned his eyes and tur­ned over on­to his back, then scre­amed when he fo­und one of the ga­udily pa­in­ted In­di­ans le­aning over him, a kni­fe in his hand.

When the In­di­an pla­ced the kni­fe at his thro­at, so clo­se that the tip pi­er­ced his flesh and ca­used blo­od to curl from the wo­und, Kirk al­most fa­in­ted from fright.

The In­di­an be­gan spe­aking in a lan­gu­age un­fa­mi­li­ar to Kirk, and when Kirk tal­ked back to him, he co­uld tell that the­se In­di­ans we­re un­li­ke Spot­ted Eag­le, who knew the art of spe­aking En­g­lish qu­ite well.

''You… are… Cree?" Kirk ma­na­ged to say, sa­ying the word Cree slowly.