Kaylee paced the floor of her lodge, rehearsing what she would tell Blue Hawk. I'm sorry , she would say. We made a mistake. Please take me home .
It had been a mistake, she thought. She would never belong here. The Lakota believed in many gods; she believed in only one. They believed the rocks and grass and trees were alive. Blue Hawk believed his people could speak to animals. The men took scalps. Would she ever be able to forget the horror of watching the Lakota warriors make their way among the dead soldiers, mutilating the bodies of their enemies, counting coup, taking scalps?
As the minutes passed, she began to wonder what was keeping Blue Hawk. Had he been . . . no! She refused to consider the possibility, yet it remained in the back of her mind.
She was about to go in search of him when he entered the lodge. His hair was windblown, his skin damp with perspiration, splattered with blood, and smeared with the gritty residue of black powder. He smelled strongly of gunsmoke, horse sweat, and the coppery odor of blood.
She hurried toward him and embraced him, relieved that none of the blood seemed to be his, sickened because it meant he had killed others.
"Kay-lee?"
His voice floated over her, through her, tender, gen tle. She looked up into his eyes and felt all her doubts and fears melt away. He was here. He loved her. She loved him. Nothing else mattered, nothing but—
She drew away from him, aware of a stickiness along her inner arm. She looked at the blood, then back at him. A long, shallow furrow cut across his ribs, oozing fresh blood where she had touched it.
"You're hurt!"
He glanced down at his side. "It is not serious." He had forgotten all about it in his need to see her, be with her.
Pushing him down on one of the blankets, she wet a strip of cloth and washed the wound, studying it intently. As he had said, it wasn't serious. But it might have been. It had narrowly missed the still-healing gunshot wound she had tended so carefully. She wrapped a strip of cloth around his middle, then gently washed away all evidence of the battle.
Murmuring his name, she sank into his embrace. Peace flowed through her, a sense of contentment, an assurance that she was where she was meant to be.
His hand stroked her hair, and then he leaned back a little so he could see her face. "You were going to leave me." It was not a question.
"How did you know?"
"I felt it while we were apart. I saw it in your eyes when I came in."
She shook her head. "I was having doubts, that's all."
"And now?"
She rested her cheek against his chest. "I'm where I want to be."
Later, after he had put on a clean breechclout, he told her about the battle. The soldiers had fought bravely, he said, his voice filled with respect.
"When their rifles jammed, they fought with their pistols, and when those were empty, they used their rifles like clubs."
In the end, more than two hundred soldiers had been killed, including Yellow Hair Custer, and Mitch Bouyer, son of a trader the Indians were familiar with. Blue Hawk had heard of only twenty Lakota and Cheyenne dead. Though the fighting was over for the day, there were soldiers dug in on a bluff above the Hunkpapa camp.
"Crazy Horse has placed a night guard around them," Blue Hawk said. "Death lodges have been prepared for our dead."
"So what will happen tomorrow? Will there be more fighting?"
"Crazy Horse and the other chiefs will decide."
His words filled her with uneasiness. She had hoped that when he returned, the fighting would be over and he would be safe. But there could be another battle tomorrow.
"Blue Hawk." She looked up at him, her heart and soul filled with anxiety at the thought of what the morrow might bring.
"Kay-lee, do not worry. Mato promised me a long life."
She held that thought close to her as he drew her into his arms. He kissed her tenderly, as if he was aware of how fragile her emotions were. His need to taste her, to lose himself in her sweetness, aroused him into movement. His hands stroked her back, his fingertips savored the warmth of her breast, coaxing her with gentle urging, asking, not demanding. The rush of heat overwhelmed her, driving her desire into the abyss of want, the sweet ache of need. Unfolding layer by layer, she opened to him. He drew her into his kiss, until there was nothing in all the world but his mouth on hers, his hands sliding over her, under her, arousing her until she quivered with desperate need.
"Now," she whispered and hugged him tighter, moaning with pleasure as his body covered hers.
There was no yesterday, no tomorrow. There was only now, the warmth of his arms, the rhythm of his body moving deep inside, lifting her until she was soaring, flying higher and higher, through rainbows and soul-shattering lightning. Then she was tumbling down, down, through a storm of ecstasy that left her breathless, her body floating, drifting, in a pool of sweet and utter contentment.
The next morning she woke with a sense of dread. Fighting the urge to beg Blue Hawk not to go, she watched him dress for battle, watched him paint his face with jagged streaks of red and yellow, watched him tie an eagle feather into his hair.
He was magnificent to look at, so handsome that her breath caught in her throat.
She forced herself to smile as he came to kiss her, whispered, "Be careful," as he turned and left the lodge.
Blue Hawk rode behind Crazy Horse and Gall as they galloped toward the bluff where the soldiers were dug in. Chiefs and leaders from the other bands and tribes were there. Blue Hawk listened as the head men discussed what to do. Some spoke in favor of making a charge and settling the fight right away. Others spoke against it, saying many warriors would be lost, arguing that their ammunition was used up. Others suggested that they wait. Soon the white men would have to come out for water.
While the head men were still deciding, scouts rode up. A great army was coming upriver, they said. This army had wagon guns and many more soldiers than they had fought the day before.
"Short Bull and his men stayed back there, to slow them," Gall said. "We must hurry and leave, or we must fight."
In the end it was decided that there had been enough fighting. It was time to move on.
The Lakota were somber as they left the valley of the Little Big Horn. There was no singing on this day, no showing off by the young men, as Crazy Horse's people rode upriver toward the Bighorn Mountains, moving fast.
Kaylee tried to look away, but she couldn't seem to take her eyes off the battleground. The Indians had taken their own dead away, but the bodies of the soldiers had been stripped and left where they fell. It was a chilling sight. Some of the bodies had been horribly mutilated, one had been beheaded. The bloated bodies of dead horses littered the field. Cavalry saddles could be seen here and there; bits and pieces of Army uniforms made dark blue splashes against the ground. The lodges of the dead had been left behind. Dogs prowled among the deserted lodges, yapping and snarling.
"What's that?" Kaylee asked. She glanced over her shoulder as the smell of smoke stung her nostrils.
"The warriors are firing the grass."
"Why?"
"So there will be no graze for the horses of the White Eyes."
"Oh."
Blue Hawk was heavyhearted as they left the Greasy Grass behind. Though the battle had been a victory, there had been Indian losses and the people were in mourning. Among the Lakota and Cheyenne dead were many that he knew: Black Cloud, Owns-Red-Horse, Lame White Man, Red Face, Long Road, White Eagle, Black White Man, Two Bears, Standing Elk, Long Robe, Elk Bear, High Horse, Chased-by-Owls. So many names that would not be heard again.
He had heard that the Cheyenne warrior Lame White Man had been shot by a Lakota who had mistaken him for a Crow scout. An Arapaho named Left Hand was said to have found a wounded Indian and killed him, only to discover later than the Indian had been Lakota. In the heat of battle, when dust and gunsmoke obscured vision and a warrior's blood ran hot in his veins, mistakes such as these were sometimes made. Though tragic, they were understandable, if not forgivable.
Blue Hawk rode back often to check on Kaylee, who rode beside Sisoka. As though aware of his feelings, Kaylee said little, and for that Blue Hawk was grateful.
They rode all that day. That night, they rested, though they did not set up their lodges. At daylight they were on the move again.
The second night after the battle, the Cheyenne staged a victory dance. Some of the Lakota bands joined in. Sitting Bull's Hunkpapas did not. It was a time for mourning, he said, not a time for celebration. Though Blue Hawk did not say so, he agreed with Sitting Bull.
Blue Hawk was not surprised when none of the women took part in the dance. Many of them could barely walk because of the gashes they had inflicted on their legs as a sign of mourning.
They traveled steadily for the next two days before making camp on the banks of Rosebud Creek. It was here that the Lakota and Cheyenne held a scalp dance.
It was, Kaylee thought, both barbaric and beautiful. The warriors, their faces painted black as a symbol of victory, danced in a circle in the center of the camp. Their mothers and sisters joined them, holding poles from which the trophy scalps dangled. The costumes of the men were wide and varied, most often imitating a bird or an animal. They danced with body crouched, chest up, knees bent, head held high, occasionally glancing from side to side. The women, dressed in their finest, sidestepped to the beat of the drum in a half circle facing the center.
Songs were sung honoring the bravery of the dancers, for scalps taken, for coup counted.
Kaylee watched Blue Hawk. Clad in breechclout and moccasins, a necklace of bear claws at his throat, his face painted black, he was both familiar and alien to her. His steps were quick and sure, his body lithe as he dipped and swayed. Firelight cast red-gold highlights in his hair.
She saw Matoskah dancing nearby, saw Sisoka dancing with the women, four scalps dangling from the slender pole in her hand.
Knowing her feelings as well as he knew his own, Blue Hawk had not asked her to take part in the dance. Though she loved him with all her heart and soul, she could not take part in a dance that celebrated the killing of white men, even when those white men had attacked the camps along the Little Big Horn without provocation.
When the dance was over, Blue Hawk took her hand and led her away from the others, and there, under the cover of night, he made love to her. Their coupling was wild and sweet, an affirmation of life and hope in the aftermath of battle and death.
During the next few days, they traveled eastward, toward the Tongue River, and then farther east to the Powder. It was here, on the Powder, that the Indians held a parade.
Kaylee watched with mixed curiosity and amusement as the warriors passed by, two by two, pretending to be American soldiers. They wore the uniforms of the Seventh Cavalry, except for boots and trousers, which they apparently didn't care for. One warrior carried a guidon. Another blew discordant notes on a badly dented bugle. Another carried a pair of binoculars. Some rode the gray horses that had been captured after the battle.
After the parade, the Indians separated. Sitting Bull and his people headed north toward Canada, while the Cheyenne rode toward the Yellowstone. Crazy Horse's Oglalas headed toward their favorite hunting grounds in the Black Hills. Blue Hawk and his people followed Crazy Horse.
The battle was over. The victory foretold in Sitting Bull's vision had been fulfilled. It was time to move on.