A Whisper In The Wind (22 page)

He was five years old and going to school for the first time. “Do not be afraid,” chided his great-grandfather. “You are Cheyenne. The white man cannot hurt you.”

He was eight years old and his right ankle had been broken when he hell out of a tree. “Do not be afraid,” admonished Yellow Spotted Wolf as the doctor prepared to set the bone. “You are Cheyenne. A warrior endures pain without complaint.”

He was sixteen and his father was dead and his mother was dying. And Yellow Spotted Wolf was there, as he had always been there. “Do not be afraid,” the old man had said, his own grief heavy in his voice. “We are Cheyenne. Birth and death are but two halves of the same whole, part of the great circle of life.”

And now Yellow Spotted Wolf was standing before him again. “There is nothing to fear. Pull against the rope, and keep it taut. The pain will be bad but quickly over if you do not give in to it, if you do not try to cheat the rope by letting it go slack.”

Yellow Spotted Wolf placed his hands on Michael’s shoulders and gazed deep into his eyes. “Do not be afraid, Wolf. You are Cheyenne. Today your blood will mingle with ours and you will truly be one of us.”

Do not be afraid.
Michael drew a deep breath, expelled it slowly, and then pulled back on the rope that bound him to the Sun Dance pole, testing the pain. It went through him like molten daggers, hot and sharp and white, burning through his body, dancing behind his eyes.

He closed his eyes and he was a child again, listening to Yellow Spotted Wolf explain what the colors on the sacred sweat lodge stood for.

“White is for life, for light and morning, for spring,” his great-grandfather had said. “Red symbolizes fire, heat, summer, the substance of life, our very blood. Green stands for growing life, for youth and happiness. The blue represents serenity, cloudlessness. Black symbolizes victory over an enemy.”

“White is for life,” Michael murmured, and, opening his eyes, he tugged on the rope again. The increased pain brought tears to his eyes.

All the participants were ready now, and the drumming began. Around and around the pole they danced, sweating and bleeding under the hot summer sun.

Sitting Bull danced with them. Blood oozed from his arms and dripped to the ground to stain the dirt at his feet, and still he danced, his presence lending strength to the other participants.

Michael felt his own spirits lift as he watched Sitting Bull dance. Images imprinted themselves on his mind: the blood flowing down Sitting Bull’s arms, the deep abiding love and compassion he saw in Elayna’s eyes, the strong, implacable face of Mo’ohta-vo’nehe, the pride reflected on the face of Yellow Spotted Wolf. The air smelled of blood and sweat and dust, of roasting meat and sweet grass, of sage and tobacco. There was the soft shuffle of moccasined feet moving to and fro, the chanting of the medicine men, and over all the steady beat of the drums.

He looked at the faces of the people and he could almost hear their thoughts.
How can we lose when we have warriors like Tantanka Ivotake to lead us?
they seemed to say.

But they would lose. It was inevitable.

Michael threw his head back and gazed upward, silently pleading for health and strength to face the future.

Time passed, and he forgot about the other dancers, forgot the people watching him, forgot about Elayna as he gazed steadfastly into the sun, losing himself in the bright white light as he blew on the eagle-bone whistle that Yellow Spotted Wolf had placed between his lips.

The notes of the whistle were high and sharp and clear, like the pain that ebbed and flowed as he rocked back and forth, trying to free himself from the Sun Dance pole. His tether was like an umbilical cord connecting him to the lifeblood of the Cheyenne, the beat of the drums was like the beat of his own heart.

Time passed slowly. The pain was always there, like the blazing sun that engulfed him in its heat and bathed him in its light.

And still he danced around the pole, his moccasins raising little clouds of dust at his feet. Head thrown back, he stared into the sun, lost in its light as he embraced the pain. He was weightless, mindless, and as he stared into the sun, it changed shape, becoming a small white room that closed him in and shut out the rest of the world. And he was alone. There were tears in his eyes and an ache in his heart. His arms were empty, his heart was empty. He went to the window and gazed out into the darkness, and it too was empty, like his life. Elayna was gone. Yellow Spotted Wolf was gone. And he was alone…

He sobbed Elayna’s name, fear of losing her stronger than the pain of his lacerated flesh. Elayna, he had to find Elayna.

He tugged on the rope and his skin tore free, releasing him from the pole, and he sank to the ground, felt himself falling, falling, into the sun.

Chapter Thirty-Seven

He woke slowly, afraid to open his eyes for fear
he would find himself alone on Eagle Mountain, afraid to discover it had all been a dream.

He groaned as someone touched his lacerated flesh, felt a rush of sweet relief as he heard Elayna’s voice calling his name.

He opened his eyes to find her kneeling beside him, her beautiful dark eyes filled with concern as she sponged the blood from his chest.

“Are you all right?” she asked anxiously.

“Fine.” He reached for her hand and held it tight. She was here. She was real. “I was afraid I’d lost you.”

“I’m here,” she said, not understanding the fear she saw in his eyes.

“Yellow Spotted Wolf gave me some ointment for your wounds. He’s very proud of you. So is Mo’ohta-vo’nehe.”

Michael nodded, unable to take his gaze from her face as she applied the salve to his wounds.

“The dancing is still going on,” Elayna remarked, “and Sitting Bull is still going strong. He’s a remarkable man.”

Michael nodded. The ointment quickly eased the pain in his chest, but it could not erase the vision of that lonely room from his mind and he clung to Elayna’s hand, more certain than ever that their time together was coming to an end.

Yellow Spotted Wolf came to see him the following afternoon. “Where is Elayna?” he asked, glancing around the lodge.

“She went to visit Sunflower Woman.”

Yellow Spotted Wolf nodded, glad to have found Michael alone. “You did well,” he said. “I am proud to be related to you.” His dark eyes glinted with amusement. “I am proud to be your great-grandfather, though it is still hard to believe.”

“And I am proud to be your great-grandson,” Michael replied solemnly. “No one has influenced my life as you have.”

Yellow Spotted Wolf nodded. It pleased him to know he would be an influence for good in his great-grandson’s life, and yet it was all so confusing. Michael had come from the future and now dwelt in the past. If he stayed in the past and died here, would he be reborn again in his own time?

Yellow Spotted Wolf frowned. A man could go crazy in the head trying to unravel such a mystery.

“Is the dance over?” Michael asked.

“Almost. Sitting Bull danced all night and on into this afternoon. He might be dancing still, but two of the tribal elders took him out of the Sun Dance lodge, insisting that he rest. Sitting Bull did not wish to leave, but he was very weak from the loss of blood and the rigors of the dance. As soon as he sat down, he lost consciousness.”

Yellow Spotted Wolf paused, his dark eyes thoughtful. “When Sitting Bull recovered, he announced he had seen a great vision in which many horse soldiers fell at his feet.”

“Custer,” Michael murmured. “He was describing the battle with Custer.”

“You know of this battle?”

“Yes. It will take place at the Little Bighorn.”

“His vision is a true one, then?”

“Yes. Custer and all his men will be killed. But before that happens, there will be a battle with Crook.”

“Three Stars,” Yellow Spotted Wolf muttered. “When will this battle take place?”

“Very soon.”

“And will we win that battle as well?”

“If I remember correctly, the battle was not really a victory for either side.” Michael let out a long sigh. “You must remember to keep an eye on Badger when Custer comes. If you do not, he will be killed in the first wild attack on the camp.”

“I will see to him.” Yellow Spotted Wolf rose smoothly to his feet. “Rest well.”

Michael stared after his great-grandfather, wondering if it was possible to change future events. Would Yellow Spotted Wolf be able to save his brother’s life now that he had been warned, or was Badger fated to die? If he, Michael, rode into the battle and somehow managed to save the life of General George Armstrong Custer, would it change anything, or merely prolong the inevitable?

Michael shook his head ruefully. A man could go crazy trying to figure out a thing like that.

The battle with Crook came two days later. Michael was not a part of it, but he heard about the fight in great detail from some of Crazy Horse’s young men.

It was about eight o’clock in the morning when Crook’s soldiers halted their march in a valley watered by Rosebud Creek, so named because of the thick growth of wild roses along its banks. It was there that Crazy Horse and his warriors found them. There were several brief skirmishes. The Sioux were not fighting for honors or glory now. Those days were gone. War against the white man was not a game to see who could count the most coup or steal the most horses. The Indians were fighting for their lives now, for their freedom. When they charged, they were not thinking of glory or of striking the enemy, but of taking lives.

Crazy Horse had thought the battle won, when a party of reinforcements arrived on the scene. Crook’s men began to cheer when they saw that help was on the way, and Crazy Horse retreated. The battle was not a victory, and when Crazy Horse returned to the camp and told Sitting Bull what had happened, the Hunkpapa medicine man declared that the fight with “Three Stars” was not the battle he had seen in his vision. That fight was yet to come.

It was time for the Indians to move again, time to find fresh graze for the vast pony herd. And so the Sioux and the Cheyenne struck their lodges and headed for the valley of the Little Bighorn.

The war camp on the Greasy Grass was a sight Michael knew he would never forget. The Cheyenne made their camp downriver near the Brule and the Oglala Sioux. At the south end of the valley were clustered the lodges of the Minneconjou, the Hunkpapa, the Sans Arc, the Blackfoot Sioux, the Santee, and the Two Kettles.

Michael guessed the camp to be four or five miles long with perhaps two thousand lodges. Assuming there were two warriors to each lodge, he estimated there were close to four thousand men of fighting age, more than half of them seasoned fighting men. He doubted that there had ever been an Indian encampment of this size before, and he knew with a cold and bitter certainty that he would never see its like again.

There were thousands of horses grazing along the river flats, and he saw the herd boys moving among them, driving them down to the river to drink, then herding them back to the heavy grassland benches west of the camp.

By nightfall the Cheyenne had erected their lodges and the cook-fires were burning brightly. The warriors strolled through the camp, smoking and talking, renewing old acquaintances, speculating on the battle to come. “Yellow Hair” Custer was coming, “Red Nose” Gibbon was in the field, as was “Star” Terry. The Army was spoiling for a fight, and they were going to get it.

The women also moved through, the camp, greeting old friends and relatives, admiring new babies. The young maidens dressed in their best clothes and stood together in small groups, flirting with the young men, while the children ran together in carefree abandon.

Michael tried to hold the memory of each day close, hoarding memories like a miser hoarding gold. He sensed that his time with the Cheyenne was growing short, that death in battle, or a return to his own time, would soon take him from the people he had grown to love, from the woman who meant more to him than his own life.

He spent as much time as possible with Yellow Spotted Wolf, treasuring their time together, increasingly grateful for the man who was his great-grandfather.

He studied the countryside, imprinting the image of the Bighorn Mountains in his mind, trying to memorize the deep blue of the sky, the scent of the earth, the feel of a weapon in his hand, the sound of the drum.

Nights, he held Elayna close. At such times he told himself his feelings of time growing short were born out of his fear of the coming battle. He could not, would not, believe that he had found her only to lose her forever.

He shunned the dances and feasts to stay in his lodge, alone with his woman. They made love with desperate passion, both fearing that each time might be the last.

And later, when he held her in the protective circle of his embrace, he listened to the sounds of the night. How quiet these nights were, with only the whisper of the wind and the call of a nightbird to break the stillness. There were no loud sirens wailing through crowded streets, no horns, no screeching tires to mar the serenity of a quiet summer night. Only the soft crackle of the dying fire, and the gentle breathing of the woman pressed against his side.

Preparations for war increased daily. The warriors were constantly on the go, hunting for meat, traveling to nearby trading posts to trade furs and robes for rifles and ammunition.

Michael was frequently included in trips to the trading posts. His English was far superior to that of the other men. The traders eyed him suspiciously, mystified by his Indian appearance and his ready command of English.

Michael did not trust these men. He knew they cheated the Indians and often sold them inferior goods, but that didn’t matter now. It was not flour or beads the Indians wanted, but guns and ammunition, and the traders readily accepted the fine robes and skins in exchange for weapons.

On one such trip Michael bought a pound of coffee, a tin of peaches, a side of bacon, and a dozen potatoes, his mouth watering as he thought of bacon and fried potatoes for breakfast, and lots of hot coffee to wash it down with.

He was about to leave the trading post when he saw the necklace. It was long and slender, fashioned of turquoise and silver. He thought immediately of Elayna, wanting to see it nestled against her throat, wanting to give her something that would last longer than memories…

He tried to shake the feeling that his time with her was short, and yet, in his heart, he
knew,
he just knew.

The narrow-eyed proprietor seemed to know how badly Michael wanted the necklace, and he refused to haggle over the price, or accept hides in exchange for the bauble.

“Ten silver dollars,” the trader said firmly. “Not a dollar less.”

But Michael didn’t have ten dollars, silver or otherwise, and so he turned away, his mouth set in an angry line, sorely tempted to strangle the man and take what he wanted.

They were riding toward home when Yellow Spotted Wolf reined his horse close to Michael and pressed the silver necklace into his hand.

“For your woman,” Yellow Spotted Wolf said, grinning broadly.

Michael stared at Yellow Spotted Wolf. “How’d you get this?”

Yellow Spotted Wolf shrugged elaborately. “I took it when the
vehoe
turned his back.”

“You stole it!”

“It is not stealing when you take from the enemy,” Yellow Spotted Wolf replied solemnly, and their combined laughter rang loud and clear over the plains.

He gave Elayna the necklace that night when they were alone. He kissed the back of her neck, his tongue sliding across her skin, before he fastened the clasp.

“Oh, Michael,” Elayna said, her voice thick with emotion. “It’s beautiful.”

“You are,” he murmured. His hands slid over her shoulders, unfastening the ties of her tunic, letting his fingertips caress her bare skin.

Elayna shivered with delight as his hands slid down her arms, moved to span her waist as he drew her close to him, his lips seeking hers. His shirt was like rough velvet against her breasts. His kiss lengthened and deepened, igniting tiny fires deep within her. His mouth moved to her neck and she threw her head back, giving him access to her throat and breasts as her hands unfastened the thong at his waist. His clout fell to the floor beside her dress, and she tugged at his shirt, wanting nothing between them.

His hands were impatient as he shrugged off his shirt and removed his leggings, then reached for her again. Her skin was softer than doeskin, more beautiful than the gleaming circle of silver around her neck. He lowered her gently to their bed, whispering to her that he loved her more than his own life, that he would always love her.

They kissed and caressed all night long, their passion building to a crescendo, then slowly waning only to be nourished again, and then again.

Michael knew that many warriors did not lie with their women before a battle, believing that sexual intercourse drained a man’s strength and dulled his senses, but Michael needed to feel the warmth of her womanhood enfolding him. He drew strength from her touch, from the knowledge that she loved him above all else.

Just before dawn she placed his hand over her belly. She did not have to say the words for him to know what she was thinking. She was hoping for a child, his child. And in spite of all the hardships and uncertainty that lay before them, it was what he wanted too. A child born of their love, a link that would bridge the gulf of time.

He drew her on top of him, the tips of her breasts brushing his chest, tantalizing him beyond words. He breathed deeply, inhaling the scent of her, the heady, musky scent of passion, of woman.

His mouth sought hers as his flesh melded with hers, and then he laughed softly.

“If you don’t get pregnant tonight,” he muttered with a roguish grin, “it won’t be for lack of trying.”