Savage Illusions

Jolena sig­hed de­eply with re­li­ef. Se­e­ing Kirk ac­tu­al­ly flir­ting, es­pe­ci­al­ly with a Blac­k­fo­ot ma­iden, ma­de her re­ali­ze that her brot­her was go­ing to be all right.

Jolena le­aned in­to Spot­ted Eag­le's em­b­ra­ce and wat­c­hed the clo­se­ness and ad­mi­ra­ti­on gro­wing bet­we­en her brot­her and Mo­on Flo­wer, who just re­cently had lost so much. First Two Rid­ges, and then her pa­rents' lo­ve and af­fec­ti­on. Per­haps now Mo­on Flo­wer wo­uld be ab­le to carry her child with a happy he­art.

Jolena's bre­ath ca­ught in her thro­at when she re­cal­led that Mo­on Flo­wer was preg­nant.

Oh, Lord, Jole­na des­pa­ired to her­self. How co­uld she ha­ve for­got­ten that Mo­on Flo­wer was preg­nant? Su­rely when Kirk dis­co­ve­red that this be­a­uti­ful wo­man was car­rying anot­her man's child in­si­de her, he wo­uld turn his back on her.

"Tomorrow you will be much bet­ter," Mo­on Flo­wer was sa­ying to Kirk. "So­on you will be well eno­ugh to ta­ke walks in the fo­rest with Mo­on Flo­wer. You will be ta­ught many things abo­ut na­tu­re and the way it is used by the Blac­k­fo­ot."

"While I am he­aling, I can stay he­re at the Blac­k­fo­ot vil­la­ge," Kirk sa­id softly. "But then I must think of re­tur­ning to Sa­int Lo­u­is."

He cast Jole­na a wa­ve­ring glan­ce. "My sis­ter, al­so, must see the ne­ed to re­turn to Sa­int Lo­u­is," he mur­mu­red. "We ha­ve a fat­her the­re who is an­xi­o­usly awa­iting our ar­ri­val."

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Buffalo had be­en spot­ted and it was de­ci­ded to ma­ke a run. Thro­ug­ho­ut the Blac­k­fo­ot vil­la­ge, men and wo­men we­re re­ad­ying them­sel­ves for the short jo­ur­ney to the gre­at pis-kun that the war­ri­ors had bu­ilt very high and strong at the fo­ot of a to­we­ring cliff, so that no buf­fa­lo co­uld es­ca­pe.

Jolena was lost in tho­ught as she bat­hed her brot­her's brow with a co­ol cloth. Spot­ted Eag­le was pre­pa­ring to le­ave for the hunt. He had re­fu­sed to eat and was now sor­ting thro­ugh his bun­d­les for the clot­hes that he wan­ted to we­ar du­ring the hunt.

Jolena was re­mem­be­ring how he had tal­ked to her of the buf­fa­lo hunt la­te last eve­ning, af­ter Mo­on Flo­wer had re­tur­ned to Jole­na's fat­her's te­pee for the night and Kirk had fal­len in­to a com­for­tab­le eno­ugh sle­ep.

Before a slow-bur­ning fi­re, Spot­ted Eag­le had told Jole­na that a pis-kun was one of the Blac­k­fo­ot's in­ge­ni­o­us met­hods to en­su­re the ta­king of buf­fa­lo in lar­ge num­bers at one ti­me. This was a lar­ge cor­ral, or en­c­lo­su­re, bu­ilt out from the fo­ot of a per­pen­di­cu­lar cliff and for­med of na­tu­ral banks, rocks, and brus­han­y­t­hing, in fact, to ma­ke a clo­se, high bar­ri­er.

From the top of the cliff, di­rectly over the pis-kun, two long li­nes of pi­led-up rock and brush ex­ten­ded far out on the pra­irie, ever di­ver­ging from each ot­her li­ke the arms of the let­ter V, the ope­ning over the pis-kun be­ing at the an­g­le.

Jolena had al­so be­en told that so­on Clo­uds Ma­ke Thun­der, who was to le­ad the buf­fa­lo to the cliff, wo­uld be re­ady to le­ave this mor­ning wit­ho­ut eating or drin­king and wo­uld or­der his wo­man not to le­ave the lod­ge, nor even to lo­ok out, un­til he re­tur­ned. Whi­le he was go­ne, she sho­uld ke­ep bur­ning swe­et grass and sho­uld pray to the Sun for his suc­cess and sa­fety.

Those who wo­uld jo­in the hunt to­day wo­uld be aler­ted when he was re­ady to le­ave and wo­uld fol­low him to the pis-kun and con­ce­al them­sel­ves be­hind the rocks and bus­hes which for­med the V.

Clouds Ma­ke Thun­der wo­uld then put on a he­ad­dress ma­de of the he­ad of a buf­fa­lo, and a ro­be, and start out to ap­pro­ach the ani­mals, car­rying his "me­di­ci­ne", a lar­ge rat­tle or­na­men­ted with be­aver claws and bright fe­at­hers. When he got ne­ar the herd, he wo­uld mo­ve abo­ut un­til he at­trac­ted the at­ten­ti­on of so­me of the buf­fa­lo, and when they be­gan to lo­ok at him, he wo­uld ri­de slowly away, to­ward the en­t­ran­ce of the chu­te of rocks and bus­hes.

The buf­fa­lo wo­uld fol­low, and as they did, the me­di­ci­ne man wo­uld gra­du­al­ly in­c­re­ase his pa­ce.

Finally, when the buf­fa­lo we­re well wit­hin the chu­te, the pe­op­le wo­uld be­gin to ri­se up from be­hind the rock pi­les which the herd had pas­sed and sho­ut and wa­ve the­ir ro­bes. This wo­uld frig­h­ten the last buf­fa­lo, which wo­uld push for­ward on the ot­hers, and be­fo­re long the who­le herd wo­uld be run­ning at he­ad­long spe­ed to­ward the pre­ci­pi­ce, the rock pi­les di­rec­ting them to the po­int over the en­c­lo­su­re.

When they re­ac­hed it, most of the ani­mals wo­uld be pus­hed over by tho­se be­hind them, and usu­al­ly even the last of the band wo­uld plun­ge blindly down in­to the pis-kun.

Many wo­uld be kil­led out­right by the fall.

Others wo­uld ha­ve bro­ken legs or bro­ken backs, whi­le so­me wo­uld be uni­nj­ured.

The bar­ri­ca­de, ho­we­ver, wo­uld pre­vent them from es­ca­ping, and all wo­uld so­on be kil­led by Blac­k­fo­ot ar­rows.

The wo­men wo­uld then ap­pro­ach and pre­pa­re the buf­fa­lo to ta­ke back with them to the vil­la­ge.

Jolena drop­ped the cloth back in­to the ba­sin of wa­ter and ro­se to her fe­et. She went to Spot­ted Eag­le, who was smi­ling as he held a par­ti­cu­lar pa­ir of leg­gings out be­fo­re him, ga­zing pro­udly at them.

"Let me go with you, Spot­ted Eag­le," Jole­na as­ked, mo­ving to his si­de and kis­sing his che­ek. "Ple­ase? I so badly want to ob­ser­ve how ever­y­t­hing is do­ne in­s­te­ad of just be­ing told. I co­uld help. Ple­ase al­low it."

"There is ti­me to te­ach you," Spot­ted Eag­le sa­id, still ga­zing pro­udly at his leg­gings. "I ha­ve ma­de much me­at in my ti­me. So shall you, my wo­man, on­ce you ha­ve be­co­me my wi­fe. You will al­ways re­mem­ber that the buf­fa­lo is a smart ani­mal and that he is me­ant for the pe­op­le. He is the­ir fo­od and shel­ter."

When Kirk co­ug­hed, Jole­na jum­ped with alarm and her tho­ughts we­re sud­denly only of him. She hur­ri­ed back to him, and when she fo­und that he was fi­nal­ly awa­ke, she smo­ot­hed her hand over his brow and smi­led down at him.

"How are you this mor­ning?" she mur­mu­red. "Are you hungry? Mo­on Flo­wer has bro­ught a fresh pot of so­up, es­pe­ci­al­ly for you."

Kirk le­aned on one el­bow, ga­zing aro­und him. "Whe­re is she?" he as­ked, his vo­ice so­un­ding stron­ger.

"It's early mor­ning," Jole­na sa­id, re­ac­hing for a bowl and spo­on and pla­cing the­se on the mat be­si­de Kirk. "Mo­on Flo­wer will be he­re so­on."