Nan Ryan (32 page)

Lonnie giggled and clapped her hands. “Good for you.”

“Yes, good for me.” The Kid laid the red beaded square on the night table. “I may never be big rich, but I’ll have a beautiful woman for my wife.” His green eyes danced, and he absently rubbed his bare belly. “And soon as I take over the wild west show, I’ll get rid of half the hangers-on and deadwood the softhearted old Colonel keeps on the payroll. I’ll make the show turn a tidy profit, and it’ll all belong to me.” He reached for Lonnie.

Still giggling, Lonnie lifted a hand to toy with the thick mat of hair covering his broad, bare chest. “You’re ambitious. I like that in a man.”

“Know what I like in a woman?”

“Tell me,” she said, smiling.

He lifted a hand, traced her full, parted lips with his little finger. “A wet, wide mouth like yours.”

The Kid pulled her close and whispered into her left ear. Told her just what he’d like her to do with that wide, wet mouth.

Lonnie laughed.

Then wasted no time in pleasing him.

Chapter 29

“I will never forget,” said Golden Star, “the speech our mighty chief made back in ’fifty-nine when the white man opened Lander Road across our hunting grounds.”

The old Indian woman took another long swig from her ice-cold bottle of Coca-Cola, her papery-thin eyelids lowering with a combination of pleasure and thoughtful-ness.

Golden Star loved the taste of sweet, fizzing Coca-Cola more than any child did. If she had a chilled bottle of frothy soda pop in her gnarled right hand, she was content. And when she was content, she liked to talk of the days gone by, to tell anyone who would listen of the things she felt should be remembered about her beloved Shoshoni people.

It was the morning after Diane had impulsively gone to Starkeeper’s lodge. Had loved, then left him. Golden Star was ignorant of their nighttime tryst, knew nothing of the young woman’s inner turmoil. She’d been fast asleep when, deep in the night, Starkeeper had angrily thrust Diane back inside her darkened lodge.

Golden Star hadn’t awakened. She hadn’t seen Diane slip into her side of the tipi, strip off her soiled white dress, and anxiously bathe away all traces of Starkeeper. She hadn’t heard the choking sobs, smothered into her pillow, that Diane couldn’t control. Was totally unaware that the pale young woman had not slept a wink all night.

“Yes, I can still recall every word of the speech Chief Washakie made that long-ago day,” said Golden Star. She took the last drink of her Coca-Cola, swished it around in her mouth, and swallowed. “Would you like to hear a part of his speech, Pale One?”

“Yes. Yes, of course,” Diane lied. She gave Golden Star a weak smile. “Tell me what he said.”

Golden Star turned up her empty soda pop bottle, hoping that maybe a couple of drops remained. None did. She made a face, set the empty bottle aside, and leaned back against her lazy board.

“It was a beautiful day, but Chief Washakie looked unhappy, greatly troubled. He stood before us all and said, ‘I am not only your chief but an old man and your leader. It therefore becomes my duty to advise you. I know how hard it is for youth to listen to the voice of age. The old blood creeps like a snail, but the young blood leaps like a torrent. Once I was young, my sons, and thought as you do now. Then my people were strong, and my voice was ever for war.… You must not fight the whites. I not only advise against it, but forbid it.’”

Golden Star was silent.

Diane stared at the aged Indian woman. “Golden Star, you amaze me. You’ve remembered your chief’s exact words all these years?”

“I don’t believe you understand, Pale One. Chief Washakie is like a god to his people. We all—”

“Is?
You mean the chief is still alive?”

“He is not much older than I,” Golden Star said. Then her black eyes suddenly twinkled, and she asked, “Would you like to meet the chief?”

“Yes,” said Diane truthfully, “I would.”

“I will have Starkeeper summoned to take you there this afternoon,” said Golden Star.

Diane’s face drained of what little color was there. “Oh, no, I—I didn’t mean today … please.” She shook her head violently. “Perhaps another time.”

“What is wrong? You have better things to do today?”

“No. No, I … it’s just … I washed my white blouse and skirt this morning. They aren’t dry, and the purple one is—”

An arthritic hand reached out, clamped over Diane’s forearm. “Help me up, Pale One. I will find you something to wear.”

Diane managed a smile and again shook her head. “Golden Star, one of your dresses would barely cover my … it wouldn’t …” Her words trailed away.

“Help me up,” the Indian woman repeated. “I have kept a dress that belonged to Starkeeper’s mother, Daughter-of-the-Stars. She was about your height and slender, just like you.”

Diane eased Golden Star up but protested. “I couldn’t wear something that means so much to you.”

Golden Star paid no attention. She ambled over to a wooden chest beside her fur pallet, motioned Diane over to lift the heavy lid. From the cedar-lined chest Golden Star drew a carefully wrapped garment. She peeled away the protective tissue paper and held up a soft doeskin dress of pale yellow. The yoke was decorated with beads of blue; the skirt was trimmed with fringe.

Golden Star lovingly fingered the blue beads. “The color of beads chosen to decorate a garment has sp-spspe-ci—”

“Specific?”

“Yes! That is the word I hunt. Specific. The color of beads has specific meaning.”

Admiring the pretty, perfectly preserved dress, Diane nodded.

“Sky blue—like these on my daughter’s dress—can represent a body of water in which the sky is reflected. They can also mean the sky itself. Or the distant mountains as they turn to blue at night.” She smiled and added, “Or all of these things.”

“The dress is beautiful,” said Diane. “Far too beautiful for me to—”

Golden Star forcefully shoved the dress at her. “You
will
wear it! If you are to visit our chief, you must go dressed properly.” She scowled, her black eyes flashing. “Our people are just like yours, Pale One. We wear our finest clothing to call on a respected leader!”

Trapped, Diane said, “Golden Star, I really hate for you to ask Starkeeper to—”

Golden Star waved a dismissive hand in the air. “It is no bother. Starkeeper will be glad to take you there.”

He wasn’t, but his grandmother never knew.

When, at precisely two o’clock, Starkeeper ducked in out of the bright sunlight into Golden Star’s lodge, Diane’s breath caught in her throat. He was all Indian in soft fringed leggings and matching shirt. His hair was dressed in neat braids with the front forelock fashioned into the shiny pompadour favored by the Shoshoni. A lone eagle feather was the beautifully braided hair’s only decoration.

After he greeted his aged grandmother, Starkeeper’s dark gaze turned on Diane. She saw his firm jaw clench, saw the fury flash in his eyes. She could read his thoughts. He deeply resented seeing her in his mother’s dress. She wasn’t worthy of wearing it. Her cheeks burned as vivid images of last night’s intimacy rose to torture and shame her.

Starkeeper nodded almost imperceptibly to Diane. She felt his pointed coldness like a chill wind blowing through her.

“Grandson, remove the eagle feather from your hair,” requested Golden Star. “I want to show it to the Pale One.” The old woman never noticed his slight grimace as he took the feather from his hair. Golden Star held the eagle feather out to Diane, “You see these lines of red beads going around the quill? They depict the number of battles in which the warrior who owns the feather took part.”

Diane could only nod and smile, afraid to try to speak, afraid new tears would come.

“This feather belonged to Starkeeper’s father, the brave Chief Red Fox.” Golden Star handed it back to her tall grandson.

Replacing it in his silver-streaked black hair, Starkeeper said impatiently, “It’s time we go. Better wear a hat, Grandmother. The afternoon sun is fierce.”

The old woman smiled like one who knows a delicious secret and laid an arthritic hand on his chest. “I need no hat, Starkeeper. I am not going.”

“Not going?” Starkeeper and Diane said the words in unison.

That child’s merry laugh bubbled from old Golden Star’s lips. “I can visit the chief anytime. I feel like a nap. You two go on without me.”

They had no choice.

So it was a sullen, uncommunicative Starkeeper who reluctantly escorted an equally withdrawn Diane to Chief Washakie’s cabin down beside the Little Wind River. On the twenty-minute walk neither spoke a word.

When Chief Washakie stepped into the front door of his cabin, Diane and Starkeeper smiled warmly. Raised to respect their elders, both put aside, for the length of the visit, the hostility that existed between them.

Diane was surprised to meet a still-vigorous, proud old man with a cascade of silvery hair falling to his shoulders. He seemed delighted by their visit, shook Diane’s hand warmly when she was introduced, and hugged Starkeeper tightly, telling Starkeeper how good it was to see him again.

Inside, the walls of the chief’s spotlessly clean cabin were covered with pictures of himself painted on oilskins. He beamed with pride when Diane asked him to tell her what each one meant. His thick shoulders straightened as the old Shoshoni chieftain pointed out pictures showing scenes of his hunts, his many buffalo chases, his triumphs as a young warrior.

Concluding, he grinned sheepishly and said, “I must sound like a foolish old man to you, Pale One.” Before she could answer, he turned to Starkeeper. “Been long time since pretty young woman come see me.” He laughed then, and they laughed with him. Starkeeper’s easy smile remained in place when Washakie asked, “You come for my blessing to marry? You have it!” The silver head went up and down. “I like Pale One already.”

“I like her, too,” said Starkeeper, his voice calm, revealing no trace of sarcasm, “but we’re just friends, nothing more.”

“Too bad,” said Washakie. “Thought maybe you two—”

“Show the pale one your special saddle,” Starkeeper smoothly interjected.

“I not show you yet?” he asked Diane.

“No, not yet. I’d certainly like to see it.”

“Come.” The old chief took hold of her upper arm with amazingly strong fingers and propelled her into the room where he slept each night. There on a sawhorse, directly beside his bed, was a handsome well-oiled saddle embellished with silver trimming. The chief’s hand dropped away from Diane’s arm. He moved forward and touched the saddle.

Patting it almost reverently, the chief said, “Your Great White Father President Ulysses Grant sent to me this saddle long ago.”

From the doorway Starkeeper elaborated. “The President honored the chief for his services to the U.S. Army. For unfailingly being a friend of the white man.”

Nodding his silver head, Chief Washakie added, “The Great White Father changed name of Camp Brown to Fort Washakie.” He looked at Diane and stabbed a blunt finger into his broad chest. “Name it after me.”

“Such an honor and so well deserved,” said Diane. “You must have been very proud.”

Leaning a muscular shoulder against the doorframe, Starkeeper said, “Tell her about the formal ceremony, Chief. The day the saddle was presented to you.”

Black eyes flashing with joyous recollection, Chief Washakie said excitedly, “Big, big ceremony. Hundreds of people present, white and red. Military men march, and a band played music and—and … speeches, many speeches.”

Diane smiled warmly at the chief. “I’ll bet you gave the best speech of all.”

Chief Washakie shyly grinned and said nothing.

“He did.” Starkeeper pushed away from the door, came to stand beside the shorter man, draped a long arm around his shoulder. “Remember what you said that day, Chief?”

Chief Washakie’s black eyes disappeared into laugh lines. “No. Too long ago.”

Addressing Diane, Starkeeper said, “He’s being modest. He remembers everything.”

“Enough about that day,” the chief said abruptly. “Come, we go sit now. Talk of you and what you do since I last see you.”

After they had been there an hour, the chief began to tire; his eyelids began to droop with drowsiness. Diane and Starkeeper noticed it at the same time. It was she who said it was time they leave. The old man protested politely, then made both promise to return. He was dozing in his chair by the time they stepped outside.

They’d gone only a few steps from his cabin when Diane asked, “What did the chief say the day he was presented with the saddle? Please tell me.”

“Grandmother recalls that he stood through the ceremony with his arms folded, silent and deeply touched. When it came time for him to speak, he was at a loss for words. He stood there before the waiting crowd, all eyes turned on him. Then finally he said only this, ‘Do a kindness to a white man, he feels it in his head and his tongue speaks. Do a kindness to an Indian, he feels it in his heart. The heart has no tongue.’”

“That’s sweet. Beautiful,” Diane said softly, “so very touching.”

“Yes, well, you know us Indians,” Starkeeper coldly replied, his handsome face growing hard, “like children, foolishly trusting and overly sentimental.”