Her Cheyenne Warrior. Lauri Robinson
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ago the four of them had been frolicking in the water like a family of otters in the spring. The sight of it, how their white clothes had puffed up around them, had made his braves laugh. He did not laugh.
One of his hunting parties had reported the women—four of them in two wagons—traveling alongside the river two days ago. At one time, many wagon trains traveled this route, but since the white men started fighting each other, the trains had almost disappeared. He had liked that, had welcomed the idea of fewer white people on Cheyenne land. The peace his people had known while his grandfather had been leading their band was his greatest desire. Inside, though, he knew peace would only happen when the white man and the bands learned to settle disagreements without bloodshed. He had left the last tribal council knowing that would not happen any time soon. Although many had agreed with him, some had not.
If not for the white men reported to be trailing these women, he would have let the women pass through Cheyenne land without notice, but he could not allow Tsitsistas to be blamed for what could happen to them.
Stopping at the water’s edge, Black Horse drew in a breath of warm summer air and held it. Bringing white women into his village would upset the serenity, but so would the army soldiers if something happened to the women. This was Cheyenne land, and his band would be blamed.
The tallest woman, the one with long brown hair that curled in spirals like wood peeled thin with a sharp knife, was not crying like the others, or running for the bank. She stared at him with eyes the same blue as the living water that falls from the mountains when the snow leaves. There was bravery in her eyes. A rarity. All the white women he had met acted like the other three. Other than Ayashe—Little One—but she had been living with Tsitsistas for many seasons.
Keeping his eyes locked on the woman’s, he motioned for braves to gather the others and hitch the mules to the wagons, and then nudged his horse toward the water. The woman did not move. Or blink. She stood there like a mahpe he’e, a water woman, who had emerged from the waves during a great storm, daring to defy a leader of the people. He had to focus to keep his lips from curling into a smile. Only a white woman would believe such was possible.
She held up one hand. “We come in peace.”
No white person comes in peace. Not letting anything show, especially that he understood her language, Black Horse lifted his chin and nodded toward the wagons. “Tosa’e nehestahe?”
The frown tugging her brows together said she did not understand his question of where she came from. He had not expected her to know the language of his people, but had wanted to be sure. Others like her had come before. Dressed in their black robes that covered everything but their faces, they tried to teach people about a god written on the pages of a book. Each Indian Nation had their own god and no need to believe in others, or books.
Faint victory shouts indicated his warriors had caught up with the men that had disappeared over a small knoll, and Black Horse waved a hand toward the wagons, indicating the woman should join the others.
Her cold glare glanced at the other women putting their black dresses over their wet clothes. Only white people would do that. Their ways made little sense.
Turning back to him, her eyes narrowed as she asked, “What do you want with us?”
There were many advantages to knowing the white man’s language, and more advantages in not letting that knowledge be known. He waved toward the wagon again.
Her sneer increased. “What? You grunt and wave a hand, and expect me to know what you want and to obey? Let me assure you that will not happen.”
She was not like the other holy women he had encountered. They had all been quiet and timid. She was neither.
Earlier she had skimmed across the water with the ease of an otter, and catching the sense she was about to do so again, Black Horse urged Horse into the water.
The woman looked one way and then the other, and then, just as he expected, she shot under the water.
The water was not deep enough to conceal her or her white clothes, and he tapped his heels against Horse’s sides. He caught up with her just as she lifted her head out of the water, and the look of shock on her face made him hide a smile.
“Get away from me, you filthy beast,” she shouted. “Get away!”
As one would a snake, Black Horse shot out a hand and grabbed her behind the head. Grasping the material between her shoulders, he lifted her out of the water. She was as slippery as a fish and her fingernails scratched at his arm while she continued shouting and kicking her feet. Despite her fighting, he draped her across the front shoulders of Horse. Keeping her there took both hands, but Horse needed nothing more than a touch of heels to spin around and return to the bank. He and the animal had been together since Horse had been a colt. Shortly after acquiring Horse, others had started calling him He Who Rides a Black Horse, and though many events had occurred that offered to provide him with a different name, he did not take one. He liked being known as Black Horse.
Her kicking and squirming almost caused her to slip from his hold when Horse stopped on the bank to shake the water from his hide. In that one quiet moment, Black Horse could feel her heart racing against his thigh. It startled him briefly, the contact of another person. It had been a long time.
Once Horse started walking again, she started her kicking, squirming and screaming all over and Black Horse renewed the pressure on her back. When Horse stopped near the wagon, Black Horse balled the material across her back into his hand. Just as he started to lift her, a sharp sting shot across his leg.
Before her teeth could sink deeper, he wrenched her off his lap and dropped her to the ground. “Poeso,” he hissed. She had the claws and teeth of a poeso—a wild cat. There was no blood, because the hide leggings had protected his skin. They had protected him against far worse, but he still had to rub the sting from the area.
His braves as well as the other women were watching, waiting to see what would happen next. If he had been only a warrior, the braves would have laughed at what the white woman had done, but because he was the leader of their people they stood in silence, waiting to follow his next move, whatever he chose it to be.
The woman continued to hiss and snarl like a cat, having no idea she had just offended a leader of the Cheyenne Nation, and Black Horse accepted her ignorance. He prided himself on being a highly respected leader, one who did not make decisions based on spite, but on thoughtful deliberations. He ignored her screeching while gesturing for the men to finish hitching up the mules—until one word she said caught his attention.
Black Horse jumped off Horse and wrenched the bundle of clothes out of her hands, searching until he found what she was after. Holding up the little gun, he laughed. It was smaller than his fingers.
“Laugh all you want, you beast!” she shouted. “It can still kill you. It’s called a gun.”
Why did all white people think only they knew what guns were? The fur trade wars over a century ago had brought guns to all the people, back before Tsitsistas had started following the buffalo. But guns wore out and could not be repaired, and were much less accurate when it came to hunting than bows and arrows. Their thundering noise scared more buffalo than their bullets killed.
He tucked the gun in the pouch hanging on his side and tossed the clothes at the woman, along with the pair of stiff boots that were lying on the bank. Shrill calls from his returning warriors filled the air and he grinned. Just as he had known, each brave led a horse behind him.
“They killed them that fast?” the woman asked, eyes wide.
“Hova’ahane,” he answered, knowing she had no idea he had just told her no. Tsitsistas were not conquerors. Not the northern bands. His warriors rarely killed unless threatened. It was his goal to make sure it remained that way.
“Tahee’evonehnestse,” he said, once again waving toward the wagon, telling her to get on with the others, who had obeyed his braves while this poeso battled him. There was always one. Always a he’e—a woman—who refused to listen; for a moment he wondered if saving