When she tri­ed to mo­ve him away from the tra­vo­is, Spot­ted Eag­le de­fi­ed his de­ar mot­her for the first ti­me in his li­fe, re­fu­sing to bud­ge.

He had not ta­ken a long eno­ugh, fi­nal lo­ok at Swe­et Do­ve be­fo­re she was pre­pa­red for bu­ri­al.

No one, not even his mot­her, co­uld deny him that! And still, the­re was the won­der of the child. "Mot­her, ple­ase tell me," he ple­aded, his eyes dark and wi­de as he ga­zed up at her. "Whe­re is the child?"

His chi­ef­ta­in fat­her ca­me to Spot­ted Eag­le's si­de and la­id a he­avy hand on his sho­ul­der. " No-ko-i, my son, the child was go­ne," Chi­ef Gray Be­ar sa­id sadly. "So­me­one to­ok the child be­fo­re Brown Elk and our war­ri­ors fo­und Swe­et Do­ve. They ha­ve se­ar­c­hed far and wi­de. The child is now­he­re. They se­ar­c­hed even as far as the ri­ver. The­re we­re many wa­gon, ho­of, and fo­ot­p­rints the­re, but no pe­op­le. Tho­se pe­op­le we­re su­rely many mi­les away by then, down the ri­ver. Tho­se who bo­ar­ded the lar­ge whi­te ri­ver raft might ha­ve se­en the chil­d­might ha­ve even ta­ken the child from her mot­her."

The tho­ught of whi­te pe­op­le ha­ving a child bor­ne of a Blac­k­fo­ot wo­man, es­pe­ci­al­ly Swe­et Do­ve, ca­used an in­ten­se pa­in to cir­c­le Spot­ted Eag­le's he­art.

He co­uld not en­vi­si­on a whi­te wo­man ca­ring for the child that was me­ant to fe­ed from Swe­et Do­ve's bre­ast!

And no one wo­uld ever know now whet­her the child was a boy or girl.

Wanting to flee to the hills to say his pri­va­te pra­yers for Swe­et Do­ve, Spot­ted Eag­le spo­ke no mo­re, only ga­zed sadly down at the wo­man who­se hand had be­en soft in his and who­se vo­ice had spo­ken to his he­art as tho­ugh he we­re her bra­ve, and she his wo­man.

She had ne­ver known the depth of his fe­elings. Only now she might, when his pra­yers lif­ted high in­to the he­avens, whe­re she wo­uld be star­ting her long jo­ur­ney to the land of the he­re­af­ter. He wo­uld spe­ak to her, as well as to the fi­res of the sun.

She wo­uld he­ar!

He knew that she wo­uld he­ar!

And she wo­uld pro­tect the­ir sec­ret well un­til one day he jo­ined her in de­ath in the Sand Hills, the ghost pla­ce of the Blac­k­fo­ot.

His eyes he­avy, his mus­c­les tight, he ga­zed with a lon­ging now de­ni­ed him at this wo­man who­se de­ath had to­uc­hed him so de­eply. Even in de­ath she ra­di­ated a na­tu­ral be­a­uty, with her ha­ir blac­ker than char­co­al, her eyes brow­ner than the bark of the tal­lest fir tree.

Spotted Eag­le's he­art bled when, for the last ti­me ever, he was ab­le to lo­ok at her ex­qu­isi­te fa­ci­al fe­atu­res, so per­fect that su­rely the­re co­uld be no one that co­uld com­pa­re to her.

Not ab­le to con­ta­in his fe­elings much lon­ger, Spot­ted Eag­le tur­ned and pus­hed his way thro­ugh the wa­iling pe­op­le and ran from the vil­la­ge. His he­art po­un­ded, and te­ars flo­oded his eyes as he so­ught to find that hig­hest pe­ak, ho­ping to one day find the child bor­ne of the wo­man of his chil­d­ho­od dre­ams.

Blinded by te­ars, he ran on­ward un­til fi­nal­ly he was high abo­ve the fo­rest, his vil­la­ge in the dis­tan­ce hid­den to him by the thick co­ve­ring of tre­es that re­ac­hed up to this bluff on which he now sat on ben­ded knee.

Spotted Eag­le be­ca­me con­s­ci­o­us of a drum- min­g­t­he do­ub­le be­at of In­di­an tom-toms, so far away that it was li­ke the throb of the pul­se in his ear. The drums we­re vib­ra­ting and spe­aking to the spi­rits.

The wa­iling of his Blac­k­fo­ot pe­op­le re­ac­hed Spot­ted Eag­le's he­art with a re­ne­wed des­pa­ir.

He lif­ted his eyes to the he­avens and be­gan ple­ading with the fi­res of the sun to gi­ve him strength to ac­cept this hor­rib­le thing that had hap­pe­ned to his pe­op­le, the de­ath of so­me­one so che­ris­hed, so­me­one that ever­yo­ne wo­uld so­rely miss.

"Pity me now, oh Sun!" he cri­ed. "Help me, Oh Gre­at Abo­ve, Me­di­ci­ne Po­wer!"

There was a stran­ge si­len­ce, and then Spot­ted Eag­le's eyes wi­de­ned and his he­ar­t­be­at mo­men­ta­rily wa­ve­red in its be­ats when he he­ard so­met­hing that se­emed un­re­al, yet won­der­ful!

" A- wah-hehtake co­ura­ge, my son!"

Those words, the strength of the vo­ice, star­t­led Spot­ted Eag­le. He lo­oked qu­ickly aro­und and saw no one, then lo­oked slowly up at the sky aga­in, smi­ling. He knew that Old Man, the chi­ef god of the Blac­k­fo­ot, the­ir cre­ator Na­pi, had he­ard his he­art's sad­ness, his pra­yer, and had spo­ken to him. The Sun and Old Man knew his fe­elings, even tho­ugh per­haps it had be­en wrong to lo­ve a wo­man twi­ce his age.

He smi­led as te­ars rus­hed from his eyes, kno­wing now that, yes, they un­der­s­to­od.

They wo­uld lift the bur­den of sad­ness from his he­art, for he must lo­ok to the fu­tu­re. They, as well as he, knew that he wo­uld one day be chi­ef of his pe­op­le. To le­arn the ways of a po­wer­ful chi­ef, one must pre­pa­re one­self for it.

And a part of that pre­pa­ra­ti­on was le­ar­ning how to ac­cept de­ath…

As the tom-tom dro­ned song upon song, Spot­ted Eag­le lif­ted his tho­ughts to the he­aven aga­in. "Oh, he­ar now, Sun! Wo-ka-hit, lis­ten to my ple­as. Help lift my bur­dens. Send them away from me, li­ke an eag­le in flight. Hai-yah, my he­art cri­es out to you to let me ac­c

ept my loss. Send my words in­to the he­art of Swe­et Do­ve as she walks the ro­ad of the he­re­af­ter. To­uch her he­art with a song that will stay with her un­til I, too, be­co­me one of the stars in the sky, twin­k­ling down upon tho­se I ha­ve be­en for­ced to le­ave be­hind."

He pra­yed un­til night fell li­ke a black clo­ak aro­und him. He pe­ered in­to the depths of the stars, wat­c­hing the auro­ra as the de­ath dan­ce of the spi­rits be­gan. He se­ar­c­hed slowly for that spe­ci­al star, that which twin­k­led the brig­h­test, and when he fo­und it, he knew that Swe­et Do­ve was the­re, lo­oking down upon him with a smi­le, un­der­s­tan­ding a child's he­art and a child's des­pa­ir.

There was no wind.

Tags: Cassie Edwards Romance
Source: readsnovelonline.net