Her Cheyenne Warrior. Lauri Robinson
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believed One Who Heals—a powerful and respected medicine woman—had been the reason the southerners had left Little One behind. They turned children of all ages into slaves, even those younger than Little One had been, but One Who Heals was firmly against such behavior.
He had asked Little One to search the wagon, to look for things the white men might use as traps, or for things the other men could have been after.
“Men no want stuff,” Ayashe said, dropping a blanket. “Bad men want the uh...uh...woman. Women.”
There were times she could not remember the right words. One Who Heals had told him he must make her speak her language, so she did not forget it, and he abided by that, but insisted it was only with him that she used English. Others having such knowledge could be dangerous. The language was strange, and had been hard to learn, but he was thankful he had. It had been useful many times.
Already having come to the same conclusion about what the white men at the river had wanted, Black Horse nodded. He turned to scan the compound. Men like that would not remain without horses for long. They also carried trouble. After telling the warriors to put everything back in the wagon, he gestured toward Little One. “Come.”
Near his lodge, he stopped a young boy and told him to have She Who Smiles bring the white woman to him. Four men were no threat against his warriors, but he wanted to know why they were on Cheyenne land.
He then seated himself in the center of his lodge. In colder times, there would be a fire smoldering in front of him, but during the long sun days, cooking was done outside, keeping the lodges a cool reprieve from the heat. Ayashe sat beside him, as requested. She had grown into a woman over the past winter. Warriors would soon start requesting her as their wife, and it would be up to him to determine whom she would marry. A task he would contemplate very seriously, as he did all the decisions he made for his band. This one would be difficult. He looked upon Ayashe as a sister, and cared much for her.
The flaps of the teepee opened and the white woman poked her head in as if not certain she would enter or not. He almost grinned. The desire surprised him. He was not happy to see her again. Holding his lips tight, he gestured she should enter.
She pulled her head back out and whispered something he could not decipher, but heard She Who Smiles’s soft voice responding.
A moment later, the woman entered. A strange sensation stirring inside him made him frown. Her hair had been combed, but otherwise she looked no different than before. There was still hate in her eyes.
“Tell her to sit down,” he told Ayashe in Cheyenne. “And ask her name.”
Used to translating, Little One said, “Black Horse says you sit, and tell your name.”
“You speak English?” the woman asked, her eyes instantly bright and wide.
“You sit,” Little One said.
The woman did so, without glancing his way. “What’s your name?” she asked.
“Ayashe, Little One. What they call you?”
“Lorna, my name is Lorna Bradford. Where are my friends? Where are our wagons?”
Although not necessary, the routine was for Ayashe to translate everything said into Cheyenne, and she did so.
Black Horse pondered the woman’s name for a moment, and wished he could say it aloud, for it sounded odd in his head. He responded by saying her friends and wagons were safe, and waited for that to be translated by Little One.
“Safe? Where? Where are they?”
Little One repeated what the woman had said, and then told the white woman that he had questions he wanted her to answer.
“I won’t tell him anything until I’m told where my friends are,” the woman responded, giving him a solid glare.
Black Horse held his response until Little One repeated the command. He lifted a brow and shook his head. Once again in Cheyenne, he said, “Tell her she is in no position to demand things.”
Upon hearing his words translated, the woman crossed her arms and glared harder.
He lifted his chin just as bold and defiant, silently telling her he could sit here as long as she could. Longer. They would not break camp to follow the buffalo until a scouting party returned with news that they had found the main herd. Only stragglers had been spotted so far, but the Sun Dance had been performed. The sacred buffalo skull, stuffed with grass to assure plenty of vegetation for the buffalo and therefore plenty of buffalo for the people, sat near the sun pole in the center of the village, rejuvenating its soul to call out to the great herds. The herds would soon arrive. Sweet Medicine never failed.
His thoughts returned to the white woman. The idea of her in his lodge when darkness arrived stirred his blood. Turning to Little One, he said, “Tell her once she answers my questions, you will take her to her friends.”
Little One was still speaking when Lorna started shaking her head. “No, tell him to bring them here, to his tent, or teepee, or whatever you call it. Once I see they are unhurt, I’ll answer his questions.”
Black Horse bit the tip of his tongue. Unhurt? Who did she think they were? The Comanche? While Little One repeated what the woman had said, Black Horse kept his stare leveled on Poeso—a much more fitting name than Lorna. If he had called one of the other women into his lodge in the first place, he would already have his answers.
Never shifting his gaze, he told Little One to find a camp crier to run and tell the warrior families to bring the other women to his lodge.
Without question, Little One rose.
Poeso grabbed Little One’s arm. “Where are you going?” Fear once again clouded her blue eyes when she turned on him. “Where are you sending her?”
Although her fear did not please him, Black Horse offered no answer. Neither did Little One as she broke free and slipped out of the lodge. Poeso started to rise, but he grabbed her arm, forcing her to stay put.
“Let go of me, you brute,” she whispered.
The fear flashing in her eyes turned his stomach cold. She tried to twist from his hold; and though he considered letting her go, he knew she would run if he did. For a brief second, he considered telling her—in her language—that she was in no danger, but chose against it. Little One would return soon.
“You are nothing but a beast, a heathen,” she said between her teeth, hissing like a cat. “And I want my gun back.”
The thought of her little gun made him grin.
“You think that’s funny? You think it’s funny to abuse a woman?”
He was far from abusing her. If she calmed her temper she would know that. He rather liked her hissing and snapping. It made her eyes sparkle and her cheeks turn red. Furthermore, few women dared speak to him so. None. Not in a very long time. Hopping Rabbit used to snap at him when they were married. He had given her the name Hopping Rabbit then, after she’d become his wife, because of how she used to hop about the lodge.
Holding his breath, he waited for the pain that appeared in his chest whenever he thought of his dead wife to build, and then let it go as he blew out the air. It had been two winters and two summers since she had died. Their baby, still inside her, had died, too. That was the way. Death was part of the continuation of life. Everything came from and went back to the earth to rebirth another time, but the end of one life had never hurt him like Hopping Rabbit’s. He never blamed himself for the death of someone as he did his wife and child. Because he had killed them.
A white man at the fort, not a soldier, but one who trades many things, had said Hopping Rabbit would like the white material. It was tiny and soft and had flowers sewn on it. Little One had called it a handkerchief, and Hopping Rabbit had liked it. She held it to her nose, drawing in its smell and smiling. For two days. On the third she became ill. On the fifth, she died. One Who Heals said it was the white man’s sickness. That her medicine could not stop the white man’s