Chapter Six

They’ve been living in heaven for a thousand years, and we took it away from ’em for forty dollars a month.

—Charlie Russell, Western artist

 

Soaring Eagle jumped over the porch railing and strode toward the open pasture to his pony. As he progressed, he could feel the heat of the white woman’s gaze on his back, but he chose to ignore it.

Silently, he grinned, congratulating himself. She’d be gone on the morrow, he reasoned. If she were at all like any of the other white folk with whom he’d had dealings, he felt fairly certain that she wouldn’t waste a moment’s breath waiting around here.

In his experience, it was the women of the white race—perhaps even more so than their men—who showed the most intolerance toward his people, turning up their noses at a white man who might consider marriage to an Indian maid. At one time in the not too distant past, it had been a common practice amongst the trappers and traders, even some of the ranchers, to marry into a tribe. The custom had been the cause of some degree of harmony, permitting understandings to arise between his own people and the newcomers.

But with the coming of the white woman to the West, all that had changed. Perhaps, he thought, she was jealous, though why she might be so was hard to understand, since the men outnumbered the women in this country by ten to one. Still, while the white man appeared to have few qualms about marrying an Indian woman, the reverse did not hold true. Maybe, he reckoned, the white woman did not believe the Indian male to be good husband material. But whatever the truth was, he knew very few of them who would risk their reputation on an Indian man…not even for a small kiss.

Lost in thought, he didn’t at first notice how far he had trekked from the agent’s home before he found his mount.

“Discovered a greener pasture, did you, boy?” he said to the pinto, rubbing the animal’s neck before bending down to remove the hobble from its front legs. The pony whinnied softly, nipping gently at its master’s shoulder. “I know,” he said. “I, too, wish for more adventures than those that our agent allows. Oh, what a duo we would have made if we were allowed to follow the war trail like our ancestors did.” Soaring Eagle glanced up toward the midnight sky. “But those days are gone, my friend, even though you would have been the best war pony a man ever had. We Indians do not go to war…not anymore.”

At least, he added to himself, not the sort of war his forefathers had known. No, since the reservation days had been forced upon them, his people were engaged in a different kind of battle—one waged with fences, with deception, with guile, with trickery. No one called it a fight, yet Soaring Eagle knew it by its proper name. War.

INDIAN LAND—CHEAP.

So the poster at the general store had read. Was it only last week that Soaring Eagle had obtained permission to go into one of the bordering towns, that he might purchase some trade goods? There, he had seen people gathered round a post. Curious at the attraction, he had looked closer.

That was when he’d seen the words. He recalled again the feeling of disgust within him as he’d read the advertisement, remembered the meaningless talk of those around him, the sting of laughter from townspeople who had no awareness that Soaring Eagle was more than what he appeared—a man who could read.

Worse, as he’d stood there, he’d felt powerless to prevent what was taking place.

Truth was, this land grabbing was something no Indian mind could readily assimilate. While already owning most of the territory, land-hungry whites were trying to take away reservation territory bit by bit, piece by piece. Justifying themselves by screaming to Washington that they needed more land in order to survive. The government had eventually capitulated.

It had come down to the Indians in the form of an act of Congress. Called the General Allotment Act of 1887, or better known as the Dawes Act, it had arrived at a time when the red man was trying to come to terms with an alien way of life—and to find his place in it. And while he struggled to understand the unfathomable and to come to terms with the present, the white man had been sitting on the edges of the reservations like hungry coyotes, waiting to wrest away land that was not theirs to take. Always, he thought, these whites wanted more.

The Dawes Act. Most of his people could little comprehend the words of it, let alone understand what was taking place. Each member of the tribe had been allotted a small parcel of land…not enough land to farm or to ranch. No, never that. Then when each member of the tribe had been given a portion, the rest of the reservation was divided up and sold on the open market—dirt cheap.

The rest was the making of history. Land-hungry ranchers had bought up the property as though it were a field of diamonds. And perhaps to them it was. It certainly did give them opportunity, while it doomed his own people.

The worst part of it was that the land hadn’t been divided up so that the Indian could make a living off it. Fearing, perhaps, that the Indians might own property side-by-side and open up their hearts as well as their lands to one another, the Dawes Act had parceled off the reservations in a checkerboard fashion—Indian property interspersed with white landholdings.

And though Soaring Eagle had heard the Indian agent claim that the parceling was a brilliant plan—one that would teach the Indians to mimic their white “superiors” and show them how to live like civilized men—Soaring Eagle knew it for what it was: another scheme to subdue the Indian.

But what could he do? One alone against a mob?

Soaring Eagle was tired of it: tired of being an interpreter for his people, tired of reading the legal documents to them, tired of trying to explain what was not understandable, what was really treasonable, as though he were part of that which sought to overrun his people.

It was like trying to fight the wind. One could no more than reach for an opponent before he was blown off course. Or worse, trying to fight blind, unable to see from where the punch came, one was blown hither and thither, unable to gain a single foothold.

And now this woman wanted to take their pictures, claiming she wished no more than to reach an understanding between her people and his. Soaring Eagle snorted.

He didn’t believe her. He didn’t trust her. But then he didn’t trust any white person.

Still, she was an awfully pretty little thing, he supposed. She, with her startling red hair, which in some lights appeared to shimmer like burnished gold. Her eyes were green, a deep forest green, the first eyes of that color that he’d ever seen; her face intelligent; and her mouth one that made a man long to experience its taste. A slender figure completed the pleasing image.

He shook himself, realizing that the direction of his thoughts would do him little good.

Nonetheless, he couldn’t help thinking back to the first time he had seen her. Not tonight. It had been there on the top of Chief Mountain only a few days ago. Moonlight had bathed her then in an unearthly light, making him wonder if she was of flesh and blood or a mere mirage. At the time, he thought he’d never seen anyone more beautiful; had believed at first that this woman might be a part of him, a part of his life, his vision. But when he had reached out to her, hoping to unite her to him, she had turned away and run.

It was then that he’d known the truth for what it was: she was no more than a silly white person. Worse, she was a trespasser.

Well, enough. He needn’t think about it any further.

She would be gone by morning. He didn’t doubt it for a moment.

 

 

Scratch, scratch, scratch.

“Are you awake?”

Naked, Soaring Eagle rolled over, kicking off the warm buffalo robe which served as his covering.

Scratch, scratch came the sound on the tepee’s entryway. Then again the feminine inquiry, “Soaring Eagle, are you awake?”

The words were English. English? Worse, he recognized the pitch and accent of that voice, the owner being a small female with red hair.

What did she want?

“May I come in?”

“Saa! No!”

“Oh,” she said. “Then you’re not ready to go?”

“Go?” He stood up, grabbing for his clothes. “Go where?”

“Well, after last night, I thought it best that we get started as early as possible.”

“Started? Doing what?”

“Well, aren’t you going to see what I do, and vice versa?”

Soaring Eagle sighed. Why wasn’t the woman gone? Surely he wasn’t wrong about her, was he? He asked, “Is there no train today?”

A pause, as though the little redhead might be puzzled; then she repeated, “Train?”

“Aa, the iron horse, the choo-choo. Chugga-chugga-chug. You know, the train,” he finished, throwing his arms through his shirt and stumbling into his breeches. “Why aren’t you on it? Is the Great Northern not running today?”

“I beg your pardon,” she said, and he could hear the censure in her voice. “I thought we’d come to an agreement last night. A wager, I think we called it.”

“Ah,” he said, taking a few steps to the back of his lodge, where he picked up a towel, “so we did.” Retracing his steps, he came to the east side of the tepee and, bending, stepped out through the flap opening. Straightening up, he came face-to-face with what could only be termed a “vision.”

Red hair gathered into a knot at the back of her head, with flyaway tendrils escaping the arrangement, her green eyes flashed with curiosity. Upturned nose, wide cheekbones which tapered to a delicate, yet strongly set chin. She looked poised, fresh and, truth be told, as delightful as a drop of morning dew bedecking a wild rose.

He glanced down at himself, feeling dirty in comparison. A little overly grumpy, he asked, “You’re still happy with the terms that we set?”

“Terms?”

“The stakes.”

“Phew!” She raised a brow. “Didn’t I say that I was?”

In response, he gave her what he hoped was a leer, saying, “And you’re still happy enough with them to abide by them?”

“Of course I am. Did you think I’d feel otherwise?”

“The thought did occur to me.” He frowned at her. “How did you find my lodge?”

“My guide, Gilda.” She nodded toward another woman. This one, he noticed, was dressed in buckskin breeches and shirt, looking more like a young boy than a girl. He didn’t know her, hadn’t seen her in these parts. But if the design on her shirt was an indication of her tribe, she was Blackfeet—probably from the reserve in Canada.

Soaring Eagle pulled a face at the girl, saying, “Thanks,” as sarcastically as possible.

“Pleasure,” came the feminine response.

Perfect. Just what he needed: two females.

Without another word to either of them, he turned and strode away, his path angling toward the lake, beside which were camped about fifty other graceful Blackfeet lodges. He took long, purposeful steps, daring to hope that he might leave the two of them far behind him. But in this he failed. Though the Indian guide stayed behind, the white woman simply ran to keep up, her constant chatter doing a great deal to puzzle him.

“I thought we might start here in camp. Gilda is willing for me to take pictures of her—she’s not afraid of the mystique about photography. I could set some of them next to a few lodges, or perhaps with some of the children, or maybe have some of the old men in the background. Of course I realize that they would have to agree. And then—”

He stopped without warning. She tripped and fell. He sighed, reaching down to help her up, trying his best not to notice how soft her skin felt at his touch. Grumbling beneath his breath, he set her back on her feet as gruffly as possible and trod away, hoping she might take the hint. But his attempts were unsuccessful. She continued to follow him, even skipping to keep up, acting as though nothing in the least were wrong.

“Then I thought,” she prattled, “that we might go out to the mountains, or maybe to some lake where there are no people and then—”

“Enough! What are you talking about?” He spun around, hoping to catch her off guard.

But she merely halted, gazing up at him, the green in her eyes sparkling as she smiled. “Why,” she said, “taking pictures, of course. I thought we’d start with my project and then you could show me what you’re talking about—”

“We?” He scowled at her. “Let me be very specific. There is no agreement that I made with you that makes us a we.”

She merely grinned. “Oh?” She raised one eyebrow. “I beg to differ. How could you possibly learn about what I do without spending any time with me? And, of course, the reverse is true too. So to this end I thought that we might—”

Grunting, he threw up his hands and, turning away from her, made his steps fast and long…very long. He said, “I’m taking a bath.”

“Oh, that’s fine. I’ll just wait here, then.”

“Good enough,” he said, not bothering to explain. He threw down the towel and stripped off his shirt, noticing that she was fiddling with her equipment and therefore didn’t see what he was doing. Well, what did he care? If she didn’t, he surely didn’t.

The pants came next. Then, sprinting, he ran toward the lake.

“Oh, Soaring Eagle. I was thinking that— Oh!”

The embarrassed silence said it all. It was like music to his ears.

“You could have told me you were taking off your clothes. I would have left you alone.”

“I did,” he shouted at her.

“No, you didn’t. You said you were taking a bath. I didn’t know that meant stripping down to take a swim.”

“Can you think of a better way to bathe?”

“Well, yes, as a matter of fact. I thought there might be some place here where you could bathe. Like some bathhouse or something.”

“A bathhouse?” He couldn’t keep the scorn out of his voice. “I thought you said you were used to traveling among the savages of the world.”

“I am.”

“And do you often find that native peoples build bath houses?”

“Of course not. But I had heard of sweat lodges, or… I just wasn’t thinking, that’s all. I’m so excited to get started on this at last that I—”

He stood up, not that he revealed anything in particular to her, but it did occur to him that perhaps the view of his chest might send her running back to camp. At least he hoped it might.

“Really!” she said, looking as though the idea of flight were foreign to her. “You might tell me when you’re going to do that so I can look away.”

He shook his head and said, “You stay here, you take your chances.”

“Oh? Don’t you want to talk about our plans for today?”

“No.” Brief, curt, to the point.

“Oh. Then I suppose I might meet you back at camp after you’ve had a chance to freshen up.”

He rolled his eyes toward the heavens. “After I’ve had a chance to ‘freshen up’, I intend to herd my horses and ride out to the range. I’m afraid I don’t have time to learn about picturemaking today.”

She had jumped down from the rock where she had been sitting, and paused briefly to send him a smile. “Oh, that’s perfect, then,” she said. “I’d like to get to know the range and what goes on there. I’ll see you back at camp.”

“No, you won’t,” he said at once, but it was useless. She had already begun trotting away.

Sending her a look of utter, complete frustration, Soaring Eagle fell back into the water, the action creating waves that splashed toward the shore.