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Savage Illusions

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"She will be gi­ven many mo­re op­por­tu­ni­ti­es than she wo­uld ha­ve had among In­di­ans," Char­lot­te mur­mu­red, ta­king the child from her bre­ast. She re­ac­hed be­hind her and grab­bed a soft blan­ket to wrap the baby in.

Then she po­si­ti­oned a child in the cro­ok of each of her arms, a con­ten­ted smi­le on her lo­vely fa­ce.

"One thing we must pre­pa­re our­sel­ves for," Bryce war­ned. "When she gets old eno­ugh to min­g­le with the ot­her chil­d­ren in Sa­int Lo­u­is, she will be po­in­ted out as dif­fe­rent, even as per­haps pe­cu­li­ar in her co­lo­ring. She might be tor­men­ted by the whi­te chil­d­ren, even cal­led a sa­va­ge."

Charlotte pa­led at the tho­ught. "We will ma­ke up the dif­fe­ren­ce in our at­ti­tu­de to­ward her," she sa­id de­ter­mi­nedly. "We will te­ach her to ig­no­re tho­se who wo­uld be­lit­tle them­sel­ves by be­ing pre­j­udi­ci­al in the­ir jud­g­ments and vi­ew­po­ints."

Bryce smi­led at Char­lot­te and nod­ded his ap­pro­val of that which she had so strongly dec­la­red in de­fen­se of this child that was the­irs by only mo­ments.

Chapter Two

A se­mi­cir­c­le of co­ne-sha­ped te­pe­es dot­ted the gre­en of the pla­in. A stre­am, tree-frin­ged, fresh from the dis­tant mo­un­ta­ins, flo­wed by the camp pit­c­hed upon a tab­le­land whe­re he the enemy, red or whi­te, co­uld pass by un­se­en.

Men hun­ted. The Blac­k­fo­ot wo­men we­re busy drying me­at and tan­ning ro­bes and cow hi­des.

The smell of ro­as­ting me­at and the so­und of chil­d­ren at play fil­led the af­ter­no­on air.

Spotted Eag­le, who had only re­cently ear­ned his new na­me by ha­ving fas­ted far from his pe­op­le for fo­ur days and nights, pa­ced be­fo­re his pa­rents' te­pee. He fo­und the ga­mes of the chil­d­ren much too chil­d­li­ke this day. He had ot­her things on his mind which we­re mo­re im­por­tant to him. He knew that to­day Swe­et Do­ve sho­uld ha­ve re­tur­ned to her pe­op­le, pro­udly car­rying her new­born child wit­hin her arms. When Brown Elk, her hus­band, had be­gun to worry over her ab­sen­cet­he re­qu­ired days a Blac­k­fo­ot ma­iden sho­uld be go­ne to gi­ve birth to her child ha­ving pas­sed­he had left with many war­ri­ors to se­arch for her.

"She is de­ad," Spot­ted Eag­le whis­pe­red to him­self, his long flo­wing ha­ir aro­und his sho­ul­ders as he ma­de anot­her tro­ub­led turn to pa­ce aga­in. "I know she is de­ad."

He lif­ted his eyes to the sky. "I am only a boy of ten win­ters, but I will mo­urn such a de­ath as tho­ugh she we­re my own wo­man," he pra­yed. "Ne­ver ha­ve I lo­oked upon such a fa­ce of be­a­uty. Ne­ver has any wo­man be­si­des my mot­her be­en so ca­ring, so un­der­s­tan­ding. Oh, he­ar me now, Sun, the sup­re­me chi­ef of the Blac­k­fo­ot. Let Swe­et Do­ve en­ter the camp so­on with her child held clo­se to her bo­som. Oh, po­wer­ful one, ple­ase he­ar my pra­yers."

The so­und of ho­oves en­te­ring the far si­de of the vil­la­ge, ma­king a so­und li­ke dis­tant thun­der aga­inst the ba­re, pac­ked earth, ca­used Spot­ted Eag­le's he­ar­t­be­at to qu­ic­ken. He wan­ted to run and me­et the war­ri­ors, to see if they had fo­und Swe­et Do­ve ali­ve and well.

But it was as tho­ugh his black moc­ca­sins we­re fas­te­ned to the gro­und, for he co­uld not mo­ve, fe­aring the worst.

And he was only a boy with an in­fa­tu­ati­on for an ol­der wo­man!

Many wo­uld call him fo­olish if he sho­wed his fe­elings for Swe­et Do­ve. He had gu­ar­ded them well, even whi­le run­ning, pla­ying, and hun­ting with the ot­her yo­ung bra­ves of his vil­la­ge.

Dressed in only a bre­ec­h­c­lo­ut and his pri­zed black moc­ca­sins, with a be­aded he­ad­band hol­ding his wa­ist-length, ra­ven-black ha­ir in pla­ce, Spot­ted Eag­le sto­od with his hands do­ub­led in­to tight fists at his si­des. His he­art throb­bed so hard that it felt

as tho­ugh so­me­one we­re in­si­de him, be­ating drums.

With wor­ri­ed, dark eyes, he wat­c­hed the so­lemn pro­ces­si­on of hor­se­men. Then ever­y­t­hing wit­hin him cri­ed out with des­pa­ir when he saw the tra­vo­is be­ing drag­ged be­hind the last hor­se, on which lay a body co­ve­red with a be­ar pelt.

Spotted Eag­le's ga­ze shif­ted jer­kily up­ward, and he co­uld hardly con­ta­in the cri­es wit­hin his he­art when he saw that the war­ri­or who­se hor­se was drag­ging the tra­vo­is was Brown Elk. He then knew that the one be­ne­ath that co­ve­ring of fur was the be­lo­ved Swe­et Do­ve.

As Brown Elk stop­ped his hor­se and dis­mo­un­ted, the pe­op­le of the vil­la­ge crow­ded aro­und him and the tra­vo­is, wa­iting for him to un­co­ver his wi­fe's body. When she was fi­nal­ly in full vi­ew, and ever­yo­ne saw that it was in truth the ado­rab­le Swe­et Do­ve, who­se sha­ring gen­t­le­ness had to­uc­hed ever­yo­ne in the vil­la­ge du­ring her li­fe­ti­me of only eig­h­te­en win­ters, wa­ils burst forth in­to the air.

Fighting back te­ars and trying to mus­ter the co­ura­ge to push his way thro­ugh the pe­op­le to get his own lo­ok at Swe­et Do­ve, Spot­ted Eag­le swal­lo­wed hard and wal­ked stiffly to­ward the as­sem­b­la­ge of wa­iling Blac­k­fo­ot, fi­nal­ly ma­na­ging to squ­e­eze thro­ugh them.

He so­on fo­und him­self stan­ding over Swe­et Do­ve's body. The sight al­most ca­used his kne­es to buc­k­le be­ne­ath him.

She was so qu­i­et.

She was so de­ad!

And the sight of the blo­od on the skirt of her dress ma­de him stif­le a sob be­ne­ath his bre­ath, kno­wing that chil­d­birth had ca­used the bright red sta­in.

A sud­den tho­ught ca­me to him. He lo­oked des­pe­ra­tely up and down the full length of the tra­vo­is, pa­nic se­izing him when he did not see the child an­y­w­he­re.

''The child?" he blur­ted, lo­oking up in­to the wo­eful eyes of Brown Elk. "I… see no child."

Seeing Spot­ted Eag­le as a me­re boy, who sho­uld not be sho­wing such an in­te­rest in an ol­der wo­man, es­pe­ci­al­ly Brown Elk's very own wo­man, Brown Elk lo­oked away from Spot­ted Eag­le, flatly ig­no­ring him.

Spotted Eag­le's mot­her ca­me to her son's si­de. " No-ko-i, my son, this is not a pla­ce for yo­ung bra­ves," she sa­id, ta­king his hand.



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