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Savage Illusions

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Jolena was re­min­ded of her hun­ger when se­ve­ral lo­vely Blac­k­fo­ot ma­idens ca­me in­to the te­pee car­rying an as­sor­t­ment of fo­od on wo­od plat­ters and in lar­ge ket­tles. She did not ha­ve to be as­ked twi­ce to par­ta­ke of the fo­od and was so­on stuf­fing her mo­uth with pem­mi­can ma­de of ber­ri­es and dri­ed back fat of buf­fa­lo, rab­bit stew with de­li­ci­o­us chunks of car­rots and cab­ba­ge flo­ating aro­und in the rich li­qu­id, and many ot­her things that she did not ta­ke the ti­me to ask the in­g­re­di­ents.

She did not even no­ti­ce that her fat­her was not eating, in­s­te­ad amu­sedly wat­c­hing her. She se­emed to ha­ve lost all of her de­li­ca­te tab­le man­ners as she con­ti­nu­ed stuf­fing her mo­uth with fo­od un­til she sud­denly re­ali­zed that she co­uld not eat anot­her bi­te.

Jolena did not ha­ve the ti­me to fe­el em­bar­ras­sed over her ill man­ners. So­met­hing el­se­anot­her ge­ne­ro­us of­fe­ring from mo­re wo­men­ma­de her bre­ath catch in her thro­at.

"Those are for you," Brown Elk sa­id, ri­sing. He wal­ked to­ward the en­t­ran­ce flap. "I will le­ave as you dress yo­ur­self as a Blac­k­fo­ot wo­man sho­uld be dres­sed."

"Thank you for ever­y­t­hing," Jole­na sa­id, smi­ling up at her fat­her as he ga­ve her a glan­ce over his sho­ul­der, then step­ped out­si­de, le­aving her alo­ne with the wo­men.

"I shall bat­he and dress you, and Mo­on Flo­w

er will bra­id yo­ur ha­ir," a wo­man na­med Crying Wind sa­id as she bro­ught a lar­ge ba­sin of ste­aming wa­ter in­to the te­pee.

Feeling pam­pe­red and enj­oying it, Jole­na shed her clot­hes and al­lo­wed the wo­men to do as they ple­ased with her. First her ha­ir was was­hed in wa­ter per­fu­med with what smel­led li­ke pi­ne ne­ed­les. Then, as she was be­ing was­hed with a soft cloth, she ga­zed down at the clot­hes that she wo­uld so­on be we­aring. She si­lently ad­mi­red the smock ma­de from tan­ned buf­fa­lo skins, the milk te­eth of an elk fas­te­ned in a row aro­und the neck of the dress. The­re was al­so a pa­ir of leg­gings that wo­uld re­ach to her kne­es, al­so ma­de of tan­ned skins.

The black moc­ca­sins that sat be­si­de the dress and leg­gings we­re ma­de from tan­ned buf­fa­lo skin with par­f­lec­he so­les which gre­atly in­c­re­ased the­ir du­ra­bi­lity. They we­re or­na­men­ted over the to­es with a three-pron­ged fi­gu­re wor­ked in por­cu­pi­ne qu­il­ls and be­ads, the three prongs rep­re­sen­ting the three di­vi­si­ons, or tri­bes, of the Blac­k­fo­ot na­ti­on.

After Jole­na was dres­sed and her ha­ir was bra­ided, she ga­zed down at her­self, aga­in fin­ding it stran­ge how she felt as tho­ugh she had li­ved this all be­fo­re!

One by one, the Blac­k­fo­ot wo­men fi­led out of the te­pee. Brown Elk so­on en­te­red. When he ga­zed over at Jole­na, te­ars flo­oded his eyes, for he felt sud­denly that he was on­ce aga­in the yo­ung man who had ta­ken Swe­et Do­ve as his bri­de.

''Father?" Jole­na whis­pe­red, fe­eling no aw­k­war­d­ness in cal­ling him that. It se­emed so very na­tu­ral and most de­fi­ni­tely right! "Do you ap­pro­ve? Do I now lo­ok Blac­k­fo­ot?"

"You cal­led me Fat­her," Brown Elk sa­id, his vo­ice fil­led with emo­ti­on. "It has be­en many ye­ars of wa­iting to he­ar such words from my da­ug­h­ter."

Then he nod­ded as his ga­ze swept over her. "Do­es this fat­her ap­pro­ve of how you lo­ok?" he sa­id, his vo­ice bre­aking. "He ap­pro­ves. And do you lo­ok Blac­k­fo­ot? Very!"

A sob lod­ged in Jole­na's thro­at as she went to her Blac­k­fo­ot fat­her and flung her­self in­to his arms. "Oh, Fat­her, I lo­ve you so na­tu­ral­ly, as tho­ugh we ha­ve ne­ver be­en apart," she cri­ed.

Brown Elk held her ne­ar and de­ar to his he­art. "We are to­get­her now, but one day you will le­ave my dwel­ling aga­in," he sa­id re­mor­se­ful­ly.

Jolena eased back from him and ga­zed in­to his eyes. "Ne­ver shall I," she sa­id, her vo­ice de­ter­mi­ned.

"You are a be­a­uti­ful wo­man who will bring many men to my do­or to co­urt you," Brown Elk sa­id, smi­ling gently down at her. "You will ma­ke a cho­ice and then sha­re a te­pee with yo­ur hus­band, not yo­ur fat­her."

Jolena's he­art se­emed to drop to her fe­et at the men­ti­on of her mar­rying so­me­one. All her dre­ams and plans for mar­ri­age had di­ed the day Spot­ted Eag­le had be­en ta­ken from her! She did not even li­ke to think abo­ut it, much less talk abo­ut it!

Deep down in­si­de her­self, whe­re her de­si­res we­re for­med, she knew that no man wo­uld ever ta­ke Spot­ted Eag­le's pla­ce in her li­fe.

She eased in­to her fat­her's arms aga­in. She clo­sed her eyes, si­lently pra­ying to her Lord that Two Rid­ges had be­en lying and that Spot­ted Eag­le was still ali­ve.

Soon. So­on she wo­uld know…

Chapter Twenty-Two

The sun was lo­we­ring be­hind the mo­un­ta­ins in the dis­tan­ce. Pur­p­le sha­dows fil­led the empty spa­ces of the fo­rest as Spot­ted Eag­le ro­de re­len­t­les­sly on­ward. He had not re­tur­ned to the vil­la­ge right away. He had ne­eded ti­me alo­ne, to com­mu­ne with the Sun and Old Man, for only they knew his fe­elings abo­ut lo­sing the only wo­man he wo­uld ever lo­ve.

Spotted Eag­le was now on his way ho­me, to find so­la­ce in the qu­i­et co­co­on of his dwel­ling.

Life had struck him so many hard blows! All of his re­la­ti­ves, ex­cept his be­lo­ved chi­ef­ta­in fat­her, had go­ne to the Sand Hills, the sha­dow land and pla­ce of ghosts, the Blac­k­fo­ot's fu­tu­re world.

And now al­so his wo­man. His pe­ri­od of mo­ur­ning for Jole­na wo­uld be long and pa­in­ful!

He was not even su­re if he co­uld ever not mo­urn the de­ath of his be­lo­ved Jole­na!

He did know for cer­ta­in that he wo­uld ne­ver al­low any ot­her wo­man to warm his blan­kets at night.

He even ac­cep­ted the fact that he wo­uld not ha­ve a son to fol­low in his fo­ot­s­teps in­to chi­ef­ta­in­s­hip. This ho­nor wo­uld ha­ve to be pas­sed on to so­me­one el­se's son.



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