Savage Illusions

The Cree re­ne­ga­des we­re al­ways out the­re, al­ways wa­iting for a re­ason to kill the­ir ne­ig­h­bo­ring enemy, the Blac­k­fo­ot!

Tomorrow they wo­uld per­haps ha­ve that chan­ce, for Spot­ted Eag­le knew that his se­arch for Kirk co­uld ta­ke him in­to Cree co­untry.

He plan­ned to send sco­uts out to­night, ho­pe­ful­ly to find evi­den­ce of Kirk's whe­re­abo­ut­sor the Cre­es'wit­ho­ut me­eting dan­ger he­ad on.

"You are so sud­denly qu­i­et," Jole­na sa­id, glan­cing up at him. "Why are you, dar­ling?"

"No re­ason," Spot­ted Eag­le sa­id, for­cing him­self to so­und non­c­ha­lant. "No re­ason at all."

Something in the way he spo­ke and lo­oked ma­de Jole­na not be­li­eve him all that easily.

But she did not want to clo­ud her tho­ughts with do­ubts and won­der aga­in. For now she just wan­ted to go to Spot­ted Eag­le's te­pee and hi­de the­re from all the rest of hu­ma­nity, at le­ast for the rest of the af­ter­no­on and to­night.

She dre­aded to­mor­row, fe­aring that Kirk might be fo­un­dand that he wo­uld be de­ad.

But she wan­ted to fa­ce that when it hap­pe­ned.

Not now, when her he­art was al­re­ady so scar­red from to­day's ac­ti­vi­ti­es.

Chapter Twenty-Six

The sun had go­ne to his lod­ge be­hind the mo­un­ta­ins, di­sap­pe­aring be­hind the shar­p­po­in­ted pe­aks. In the fa­ding light, the far-st­ret­c­hing pra­irie was tur­ning dark. In the val­ley, spar­sely tim­be­red with qu­aking as­pens and cot­ton­wo­ods, a lo­ne vo­ice co­uld be he­ard in the Blac­k­fo­ot vil­la­ge, from a hil­ltop a short dis­tan­ce away.

Jolena clas­ped a blan­ket aro­und her sho­ul­ders as she sat qu­i­etly be­si­de Spot­ted Eag­le's fi­re in his te­pee, ha­un­ted by too many things to eat her eve­ning me­al. As so­up sim­me­red over the fi­re in a black pot, she was only fa­intly awa­re of the tan­ta­li­zing frag­ran­ce of buf­fa­lo me­at co­oking with lar­ge chunks of ve­ge­tab­les.

Spotted Eag­le had sent sco­uts ahe­ad to lo­ok for Kirk. They had re­tur­ned ear­li­er in the af­ter­no­on with the news that he was be­ing held cap­ti­ve in a Cree camp.

Jolena was joyo­us that her brot­her was ali­ve, yet fe­ared for his tre­at­ment at the hands of the Cree.

And now she was wor­ri­ed over Spot­ted Eag­le, who was re­ad­ying him­self to go and res­cue Kirk. He had left her early this day to ta­ke his me­di­ci­ne swe­at and to pre­pa­re him­self for a pos­sib­le con­f­ron­ta­ti­on with the re­ne­ga­de In­di­ans. He had even ap­po­in­ted a me­di­ci­ne pi­pe man to ma­ke me­di­ci­ne for him du­ring his ab­sen­ce.

Spotted Eag­le had cho­sen the war­ri­ors who wo­uld ma­ke up his war party. The­se war­ri­ors and him­self had al­re­ady got­ten to­get­her and sung the wolf song. The­ir swe­at lod­ge was then bu­ilt and, un­c­lot­hed, they en­te­red it. With them ca­me an el­derly Blac­k­fo­ot, Clo­uds Ma­ke Thun­der, a me­di­ci­ne pi­pe man, who had al­ways be­en a go­od, re­ve­red war­ri­or.

The long- stemmed me­di­ci­ne pi­pe was fil­led. The war­ri­ors each as­ked Clo­uds Ma­ke Thun­der to pray for them, that they might ha­ve go­od luck and ac­com­p­lish what they de­si­red.

Clouds Ma­ke Thun­der pra­yed and sang and po­ured wa­ter on hot sto­nes in the cen­ter of the swe­at lod­ge, ca­using the war­ri­ors to swe­at pro­fu­sely.

Clouds Ma­ke Thun­der then of­fe­red Spot­ted Eag­le a new me­di­ci­ne bun­d­le, to gi­ve him strength and co­ura­ge for the ti­me ahe­ad and to bind him with the spi­rits who wo­uld carry his li­fe in the­ir mo­uths.

The bun­d­le was for­med from the he­ad of a co­yo­te, its jaws sewn to­get­her with si­new; from the jowls hung a few small locks of ha­ir wrap­ped in red cloth. From the back of the he­ad was sus­pen­ded a ro­und lo­op of wil­low, wrap­ped tightly in raw­hi­de, to which was ti­ed a fully stuf­fed war eag­le.

After the ce­re­mony was over, the war­ri­ors, all drip­ping with per­s­pi­ra­ti­on, ran to the ri­ver and plun­ged in, sin­ging war songs.

Jolena ga­zed up at the smo­ke ho­le in the ce­iling, shud­de­ring when she dis­co­ve­red that the sun­set's bril­li­ant oran­ge splash had fa­ded from the sky, which me­ant that Spot­ted Eag­le wo­uld so­on le­ave the vil­la­ge. He had ex­p­la­ined to her that he wo­uld be ri­ding with his war­ri­ors from the vil­la­ge just af­ter sun­set, for it was a fo­olish war­ri­or who tra­ve­led in the day when war par­ti­es might be out.

To busy her hands, Jole­na le­aned over and tos­sed so­me small twigs in­to the low fla­mes of the fi­re. Then she stra­ig­h­te­ned her back and stif­fe­ned. She glan­ced qu­ickly to­ward the clo­sed en­t­ran­ce flap of the te­pee when she he­ard the thun­de­ring of many hor­ses' ho­oves le­aving the vil­la­ge, Spot­ted Eag­le's vo­ice the lo­udest of them all as he sang a song of war.

"Return to me with spe­ed," Jole­na whis­pe­red to her­self, re­ac­hing a trem­b­ling hand to­ward the en­t­ran­ce flap. "I lo­ve you. Oh, how I lo­ve you."

Again she ga­zed in­to the fla­mes of the fi­re, the hor­ses' thun­der ha­ving at le­ast for a mo­ment drow­ned out the mo­ur­ning cri­es of her Blac­k­fo­ot fat­her as he sat on his high pla­ce, alo­ne and dis­t­ra­ught over the de­ath of his one and only son. Thro­ugh the long day, her fat­her had sat on a ne­arby hill, mo­ur­ning, his songs and wa­ils fil­led with much sad­ness.

Jolena bu­ri­ed her fa­ce in her hands, her he­art to­uc­hed by the wa­iling. She still co­uld not find it in her he­art to mo­urn with him, but she did mo­urn for him!

Jolena mo­ved her hands from her fa­ce and slowly lif­ted her eyes, her pul­se ra­cing. She le­aned her ear to­ward the en­t­ran­ce flap, now scar­cely bre­at­hing, re­ali­zing that sud­denly she no lon­ger he­ard her fat­her's mo­ur­ning cri­es. Ever­y­t­hing out­si­de was qu­i­et ex­cept for an oc­ca­si­onal bark from a dog, or cri­es from a child fig­h­ting off the ur­ge to sle­ep.

A fi­re out­si­de threw a squ­are of flic­ke­ring light on the out­si­de of the te­pee and then she saw the out­li­ne of so­me­one stan­ding over the fi­re, fe­eding wo­od in­to the fla­mes.

"Is that my fat­her?" Jole­na whis­pe­red, pus­hing her­self up from her co­uch of skins. "Is that him be­si­de the com­mu­nal fi­re?"