Chapter Eight

Having knelt down in the dirt and grasses, there beneath his old friend’s window, Lone Arrow paused to admonish himself. Ho, what had he done? He had hurt her, he knew, and it was not something he had meant to do.

But what else could he have done? No honorable man would have taken what she offered, regardless of his desire to do so. She was not that kind of woman; he was not that kind of man.

What was it about The-girl-who-runs-with-bears that made him want to act in inappropriate ways? For, he acknowledged to himself, he had more than desired to take her in his arms. He had wanted to kiss her, had wanted to lie with her. He had physically ached with the need…

Glancing up toward her window, he knew he owed her yet another apology. He should have explained things to her; told her about his life, impressed upon her the importance of that cave, of keeping it sacred. Maybe if he had mentioned his duty in regard to those mountains, she might have understood.

Yet seeing her in all her natural beauty here tonight had given him pause. In truth, he had barely been able to think.

Beautiful. There was no other word to describe her, he thought. She was beautiful. And given any other circumstance, he would not have walked away from her.

But he’d had little choice. He could not do the thing that she asked. His honor, his very standing within his clan and his tribe, depended upon him acting in a responsible manner. He had made a mistake once in leading her into that place; he would not repeat it.

Originally, when he had come to her this night, he had intended to render her an apology, an explanation, perhaps, for his past acts. Yet the words had not formed upon his lips.

Instead he had come away from his meeting with her with doubts…about her. What was she doing here? Why had she returned?

She was lying. He must not lose sight of this.

As the wise ones have often said, it is in the eyes of a living being that one can know the truth, or not, of his words. And so it was that Lone Arrow knew that The-girl-who-runs-with-bears had spoken to him with a tongue that is forked.

But what did she hide from him? And why was she really here? To replace something of little worth, as she said?

It was unlikely. More feasible was the notion that she was here to take something else.

He wondered, what was this thing she had taken? He did not believe for a moment that this thing that had brought her back here was “nothing.” It had caused her to return, hadn’t it?

Even as Lone Arrow struggled with his thoughts, he crouched, stealing silently through the shadows of the fort with care, knowing that if he were caught in this place after dark, there would be trouble. Questions would be asked that he was not prepared to answer.

Stooping, he rolled into a nearby thicket of bushes, trying to keep as little sound as possible from the night wind. Nonetheless, the breezes whisked at his back, seeming to whisper at him, “She is beautiful.”

And though he made no argument, it was also upon his tongue to mention that she was also a nuisance. But then, he thought, she had always been both of these things to him.

Even as a youngster, she had been trouble, yet comely—although at the time he would have dared the wrath of three enemy tribes rather than admit it. Truth was, even then he had appreciated her. From her hair, which reminded him of the color of a fawn; to the earth-toned hue of her eyes, he had always looked upon her with “pleasant eyes.”

And although she was a slight little thing—she stood no higher than chin level to him—she more than compensated for her lack of stature with a determined disposition. Her face shape was distinct, too. Not round, as was common amongst his own people; not straight up and down, like so many of the whites he had known. Hers appeared to resemble the shape of a heart.

A heart? Lone Arrow shook his head. If he did not know himself better, he would have thought his ideas sounded love-struck.

But he did not think of her in that way.

Or did he? Certainly, he could not deny that he found her attractive, now, then…

At that thought, incidents from eight and a half years ago filled his consciousness. Certainly, he thought, back then he had been more than a little aware of her prettiness. He had simply been too young, and much too annoyed with her at the time to value it.

Still, all those years ago, he could have handled her with less hostility.

She had been innocent, and so very pretty…And as he recalled again her shy advances toward him, and in particular his reaction to them, he remembered that she had embarrassed him…

 

Fort C.F Smith looked like a stronghold, but to Lone Arrow it represented a sort of haven. At last he would be able to dismiss the girl, allowing him to return to his mountain and to his people.

He paused at the top of a butte, waited for her to advance to a position beside him, and caught her hand as a means of stopping her progress. He was aware of the exact moment when she came to stand beside him, and looking out from their hilltop, he pointed out the fort to her.

“Íkee, look,” he said to her, even though he knew that she did not understand his language. “We will be there before the sun finds its way into the sky this day.”

He glanced down at her, his look catching her in the act of smiling up at him. And that was when it happened.

His stomach dropped. She was so pretty, so innocent, so sweet.

In the distance, he heard the white man’s music—its refrains being sent up to them on the wind.

She leaned in toward him.

She said, “Dance with me,” but he did not understand her words.

He turned away from her, only to have her race after him, stop him and pull him around toward her.

She touched him, and shock filled his system; and not only because she had put her arms around his shoulders. She was even now carrying his arms to her, placing them around her waist.

He stood still, not knowing what to do. For although she was too young to know, far too young to understand what could happen between them, he was not. He was sixteen, a man in many ways.

He knew that he should move away from her, do something to stop this. Still, he could not take his gaze from her, and he moved his body as she dictated.

They danced; his steps fitting hers as if the two of them might have rehearsed these movements a hundred times.

For a moment, he wanted nothing more in this world than to kiss her. But he did not do it. Instead, remembering who he was and who she was, he made a move to turn away. He should have. But she reached up to him, there to place a sweet kiss on his cheek.

And Lone Arrow became lost in it. But not so lost that he did not recall that she was no more than a child.

And so he did nothing to return the embrace, for he knew that he must not show her what he felt. Alas, he had to get away from her.

Shrugging off her hold on him, he pointed her in the direction of the fort and gave her a small push toward it.

He was pleased to note that she took a step away from him, but she went no farther than a few paces before she turned back to him, confusion in her eyes.

“Délaah! Go!” he said, using gestures and signs that he knew she would understand.

He watched as the hurt came over her face; watched as she so obviously read other meanings into his actions.

And how he wanted to go to her, to ease that look from her eyes. But he could not do it.

Again, he signaled her to go away.

And at last she did as he demanded. But not before she had swung around and rushed to him, throwing herself into his arms.

And when her body came into contact with his, he lost a little bit of himself to her; she, a mere child.

He must not, he could not, let her know what was in his heart. Wrenching her arms from around his neck, he accidentally pulled off the silver locket she had given him. It was broken. He had broken it.

It was as though the locket mirrored what must take place between them. But perhaps it was for the best, he reasoned. After all, in his experience, the white man demanded payment for all things given. Perhaps this jewelry would buy the things she would need to survive.

Forcing himself to let the chain drop into his hand, he offered the locket back to her And then he did what he had to do. He signed to her to go away. And this time she would not misunderstand him.

Without any further communication, he turned his back on her and trod off in the opposite direction.

He knew his actions hurt her; knew she did not understand that he did what he had to do. But there was nothing else he could do if he were to be true to his honor.

In the end, he watched her all the way to the fort, only leaving the vicinity himself when someone from the stockade rushed out to escort her inside those gates.

And when that gate closed, Lone Arrow felt as though a part of his life had been shut out from him…

 

It was all so long ago.

And despite it all, he knew he owed her an apology. At a time when she had needed him, when he had been her lifeline within a sea of confusion, he had treated her as though she meant nothing to him.

If only she had known the truth.

But the truth was something he could not share with her. Now, or ever.

“She is beautiful,” came the refrain in the wind.

And Lone Arrow made a sound low in his throat. He had best rid himself of such thoughts. He must keep reminding himself that, though she might be lovely to look at, this woman had secrets. Secrets, he suspected, that she believed would make him think less of her…or she would not be withholding them from him.

Slinking soundlessly through the fort, he made his way to a spot outside the main stockade, all without incident. Once outside the fort’s walls, he found the cache where he had hidden his weapons, as well as some food and, picking up a knife, he sat down to put his weapons into order.

Still, he could not keep his musings from focusing on one thing: he had not been completely immune to her when they were children. If he had to spend more time with her, how would he restrain himself now?

Ho! There was only one thing he could do: he must ensure she left to go home on the morrow.

 

Sleep came in fits and spurts. It was impossible. But what had she expected? How could she sleep when every fiber of her being cringed in embarrassment?

What had made her think that because she was a grown woman Lone Arrow’s attitude toward her would have changed? Would she never learn?

Apparently not.

Well, what was she to do now? She supposed she could seek out Lone Arrow tomorrow and give him the cross. Surely, she realized, she could trust him with the treasure.

In truth, it was probably the best solution…or was it?

She frowned, reckoning that she could dog Lone Arrow’s steps until he would have no choice but to take her there. But would that work?

He was Indian. He probably knew more ways to avoid her than she could possibly envision. Although, could he? If she did not leave his presence ever?

But such a feat would be an impossibility. After all, a girl had certain needs that she must attend to now and again. She simply could not be with him every moment of every day.

What, then, was she to do?

She could go to the mountain by herself. Carolyn paused as the thought struck her.

She could do this, couldn’t she? After all, hadn’t Lone Arrow taught her how to survive in the wilderness? Hadn’t she done it before she had met up with him eight and a half years ago?

And she had survived. Barely, she reminded herself, but she had weathered the experience.

Turning over in bed and staring up at the ceiling, Carolyn mulled over her choices. There certainly weren’t many of them.

Truth to tell, as cockeyed as it might be, the more and more she thought about it, the more and more she liked the idea. For one, striking out on her own would make her less dependent on him and less reliant on his good will. For another, it placed her destiny into her own hands.

But there were problems. For instance, would she recognize that same mountain, even once she was within its vicinity? She might, she answered her own question. Chances were particularly good, if she could locate that circle of stones.

And then there was the question of finance. Where was she going to obtain the money to buy the necessities she would need for such a trip?

She had little in the way of funds. Alas, she had made her financial calculations based on obtaining Lone Arrow’s cooperation. And since Indians traveled with nothing but the shirt upon their backs, she had estimated that the entire trip would cost her little. At the time, such an idea had been a godsend, and had helped her to confirm her travel arrangements.

But if she were to do this thing on her own, she would need supplies, and in the very least, a horse. How was she to accomplish this, she wondered, with no money, no collateral; with nothing of worth to sell or trade?

Her fingers came up to nervously twiddle with the locket around her neck. And several moments passed before another idea struck her. Wide-eyed, she held the necklace up before her face, doing nothing more than looking at it, really looking at it.

By itself, it was worthless. But the Indian maid, Pretty Moon, had wanted this trinket, had been willing to trade most anything for it.

Could or would Pretty Moon help her? Would this locket buy Carolyn an ally? Or at the very least a horse?

Clutching the pendant into her hand, Carolyn came to a decision. True, her plan might only be a dim possibility at the moment, but just wait. She was going to make it become a reality, or die trying…

 

Much farther south, at Fort Laramie on the North Platte River, two men sat in a dark corner, huddled around a bottle of whiskey.

To all outward appearances, they could have been mountain men, or perhaps scouts, clad as they were in wide-brimmed hats, buckskin coats and high-topped moccasins. But there the illusion ended, for the slow drawl in their voices left no doubt as to the Southern origin of their birthplace.

Dixon, the one with darker coloring, looked sullen, while Jordan shuddered.

“It’s imprinted in me head, ah tell ya,” said Jordan.

The bushy, dark brows of his companion, however, drew together in a frown. He said, “Now, you know ah wouldn’t wanna call you a liar or nothin’,” Dixon’s voice was low, though distinctly harsh. “But I’ll be hog-tied to a whore afore I’ll trust that noggin of yourns. Ah reckon ah didn’t wait any part of those two-bit years in a Yankee prison, waitin’ to come back here, only t’ be told there ain’t no map.”

Jordan shrugged. “You could’a made one yerself.”

“Why ya yaller-bellied coward.”

A chair squealed against the floor in accompaniment to the words; the table wobbled for a moment as though it might tip over, and Dixon burst to his feet. In the aftermath, a blaze of furniture crashed to the floor, the noise only adding to the already tense atmosphere.

Dixon made a grab for his companion, clutching at Jordan’s lapels until he had nearly pulled him clean off his feet.

He roared, “What was that ya said?”

“N-nothin’, Dixon. Nothin’ at all.”

“Now, ya listen up real good like,” Dixon hissed, though he kept his voice low. “Ah said it before, ’n’ I’ll say it again. Ah want that map, and ah want it now. Get it fer me tonight, or else.” He shook the smaller gentleman. “Do ya understand’?”

Without waiting for an answer, Dixon pushed Jordan up against the wall.

Jordan nodded and said, “Sure thing, Dixon. Sure thing. Ah’ll have it fer ya first thing…tomorrow, ah promise.”

“Ya better.” Dixon’s brows narrowed. “Ah know what yer thinkin’. But don’t ja believe for a minute that ah wouldn’t be able ta find ya, if’n ya was ta run out on me. And don’t think ah would take kindly ta’ yer double-crossin’ me. We’re partners, after all. Got that? Partners.”

Jordan swallowed. “That’s right, Dixon. Partners.” He nodded pathetically. “Ah’ll have it fer ya. First thing tomorrow.”

Dixon grunted. “We leave at first light. Ah expect ya here with supplies and with the map. Got that?”

“Y-yeh. First light.”

With another snarl, Dixon let his “partner” go, slapping the bottle of whiskey, already toppling dangerously on the table, to the floor.

“No more fer ya tonight,” said Dixon. “…And pay the trader on yer way ta’ bed…if’n yer fixin’ ta sleep tonight.”

With an ugly sneer, the big oaf swung around and stomped from the trading post, the Indians and a few others in the crowd making room for him.

Meanwhile, Jordan pulled out a dirty piece of cloth, clutching it in his hand before he ran it across his face, unaware that this action made a mess of the dirt and sweat which had accumulated there.

What was he going to do? He had no map. He’d never made one.

Nor had Dixon, he reminded himself. Dad-blame it, anyway. It wasn’t his fault. Eight and a half years ago, Dixon had been as scared as he. Yet you didn’t see Dixon making no map.

“Do this, Jordan, do that,” he mimicked under his breath. “Well, Ah’m tired of it,” he continued. “Tired, ah tell ya. Ah won’t do it. Let Dixon make up his own map. Ah’ll jest leave here ’n’ …”

Remnants of a bad memory stirred Jordan’s features, and he brought a hand up to run over his neck. It was as though the recollection itself brought pain.

Well, he thought, best to put pen to paper, and produce something for Dixon. He didn’t like it, but he’d do it. It was better than the alternative.