Chapter 23

Major Anderson's snub left Small Doe bewildered, but she was determined to find every excuse to be near him.   Running home, she grabbed all her stores of food and then quickly returned to Hair-Up-Top's lodge.  

          “A large party of warriors is gathering outside,” she told Last Woman.   “I have brought what I have to help you make a feast.”

          Her Blackfoot friend smiled, whispered something to her daughter in their musical tongue, and the girl slipped out.   To where, Small Doe could only guess, but she came back quickly carrying additional supplies.   Pointing to items they might pleasantly combine, the two women made a stew in Last Woman's cook-pot, roasted meat over a cook-fire, and were softening greens on a nearby rock by the time the men began to wander inside.

          Small Doe could not believe that Spotted Long-knife would purposefully ignore her and tried covertly to engage his eyes.   As often as she met them, however, he turned away.   Her imagination whirled with plausible explanations; but one by one they failed the test of reason.   At last, she decided to do the only thing she could: trust him.   Keeping her eyes low, as she always did in the company of warriors, she listened intently to everything he said.   She found little of it interesting—he spoke mostly about a treaty with the white-men's tribe—but when he tried to convey greetings from a man he called President, he couldn't find an equivalent word.   Her father' tribe, from whom her “white uncle” had learned her tongue, did not follow an elected leader but a Council of Elders distinguished for their wisdom.  

          As he discussed this difficulty with his aide, Small Doe knelt beside her husband with a bowl of greens.   “Batsetsi-kyashe—Real Chief—like Hair-Up-Top” she whispered.   “That is the expression the two long knives seek.”  

          Pacing Wolf glanced at her with surprise but then quickly remembered that the trader had asked if she spoke English.   Beyond fleeting embarrassment that he couldn't answer, he hadn't given the question another thought.   He leaned over to Hunts-for-Death and repeated what she told him.   “Batsetsi-kyashe.   They speak of the Real Chief that all their other white chiefs follow.”

          Overhearing him, Major Anderson nodded.   “Yes, our…would you give me the word again?”

          “Batsetsi-kyashe,” replied Hair-Up-Top, glancing at Small Doe appreciatively.

          “Our…Batsetsi-kyashe,” continued the Major, “has asked Lieutenant Wilson and me to visit all the tribes whose lands lie between the white men toward the rising sun and New Spain toward its bed.   He offers you the friendship that his father gave your fathers.”  

          A number of Good Men nodded and began murmuring to their neighbors.   Many, including Hair-Up-Top and Hunts-for-Death, had sat in council with O'Fallon and marked his paper.   While patiently waiting for them to resume the discussion, Major Anderson observed the silent warrior to whom Light Bird had spoken.  

          “You understand English well,” said the Major, leaning forward around Hunts-for-Death.   “Would you consider accompanying us as a translator and guide?”

          Pacing Wolf did not answer immediately, but paused to glance at his war-society father.   “I will consider this, but my woman told me the word.   She had a white mother.”

          Major Anderson suspected as much.   He had seen Light Bird whispering to the warrior but wanted to confirm the nature of their relationship.   If he dared to speak to her, or even smile in her direction, he might endanger his standing with the tribe's leaders.   They couldn't trust a man who was closely aligned with their enemies, and he might find himself on the wrong end of a knife if he paid undue attention to one of their wives.   Still, Pacing Wolf had given him an opportunity that he might not gain again.    

          “Which of these women is yours?” he asked.   “Will you point her out to me?”

          “There,” replied Pacing Wolf, nodding toward the door.   “Coming in—the one with eyes like a doe.”

          Major Anderson took full advantage of the invitation to study her face.   He wanted to assess the condition of both her health and spirits.   Well within her hearing, he confided, “I have recently seen a white woman who looks much like her.   Could this be her mother?”

          Joshua's eyes shot up.   He'd thought she looked familiar; but his godmother's blue-green eyes had blurred the connection.   Hunts-for-Death, who observed his reaction, eyed him distrustfully.   “She is of Those-Who-Cut-Off-Our-Heads,” he told the Major.   “You are brother to her people?”  

          “I do not know this name,” replied the Major frankly, fearing he had overreached.   “How did they come to be called this?”

          “Long ago, when Hair-Up-Top's mother still carried him, they defeated many of our Good Men in battle.   When our fathers went out to bring back their bodies, they found them without heads.”

          The Major wrinkled his nose and drew down the corners of his mouth.   “I had not heard this story.”

          “They are an evil people,” Marks-His-Face spat, “whose warriors murder our daughters without cause.”  

          “How is it,” asked Hair-Up-Top, “that you did not take this white woman from them and return her to your tribe?”

          “I have come to ensure peaceful relations between our peoples, not to interfere with another man's family; and even if I bore the rights of a brother to her, I doubt she would come away.   She looked well cared for and content, apart from mourning the loss of her daughter.”

           Approving the long-knife's answer, Hair-Up-Top addressed a complaint he'd earlier ignored.   “You say the white settlers are angry that we take some of their naked buffalo.   They drag their carts through our lands and shoot our antelope and elk.   Why do they take from us but offer nothing in return?”

          Pacing Wolf listened while they discussed this and other grievances, but his eyes followed Small Doe.   She'd been ducking in and out all afternoon, so often and inconspicuously that no one else paid her mind.   After the Good Men had finally depleted the numerous bowls and trenchers she had offered, she took up any minor task that would keep her in the lodge.   He was certain he knew why:   the grieving white woman was likely her mother, and she hoped the long-knife might say something more.   He was equally certain the man would not.   The woman had been of passing interest, and Hair-Up-Top had asked about her only to uncover the stranger's thoughts.  

          When he next saw Hunts-for-Death and Hair-Up-Top consulting together privately, Pacing Wolf leaned forward.   “Where do you sleep?”

          “In the open,” Major Anderson replied.   

          Pacing Wolf shook his head.   “You will sleep in my lodge.”

          The Major accepted readily but returned his attention to the white-haired elder.   He'd summered with the Allies for two decades, and, among many things, they had taught him to respect a warrior's uncanny aptitude for reading another man's thoughts.   According to the scarlet stripes across his leggings, Light Bird's husband did this better than most.   Few tokens were won by skill with an axe, but by a keen ability to anticipate an opponent's next move.  

          That Light Bird held Pacing Wolf's interest was obvious.   He had proved a careful listener, making comments only when they contributed well; but each time the Major had glanced his way, he had found eyes that trailed her every movement.   Unfortunately, this told him little else.   Like all warriors worthy of the name, her husband carefully kept emotion from his face.   He might merely find her form appealing or be watching for her reaction to their guests.  

          When all parties had exhausted their various topics, Major Anderson bid Joshua good night at Hunts-for-Death's dwelling and followed Pacing Wolf to another nearby.   Coming across Light Bird had been a clear answer to his prayers; he hoped that her husband might prove one also.   Warriors loathe chores they regard as a woman's.   If he agrees to be my scout, thought the Major, he might take her along with us to attend to his needs.       

          Small Doe bubbled with happiness when she noticed Spotted Long-knife, as she thought of him; but as she bid him welcome, she donned her usual reserve.   She was unsure how he wished her to act.   On one hand, the private setting permitted her more freedom.   On the other, he'd purposely concealed their close relationship from Hair-Up-Top; he might need to do so from her husband also.   Hoping to hide her indecision, she busied herself by spreading out buffalo pelts for his bed and retreated to the background to await her husband's lead.   She did not wait long.  

          Picking up a sapling he had cut to form a bow, Pacing Wolf jerked his head briefly in his guest's direction.   “You have much to ask and the night grows old.”  

          Small Doe's eyes danced with joy, amply rewarding her husband's heart, but Major Anderson was more guarded.   Knowing he was there by his host's grace, he proceeded to speak in their common language.   “Your husband tells me your mother is a white woman.   Are her eyes the color of your lake?”

          “Yes,” she nodded, “but they change often.   Sometimes they are more like the sky before rain.”

          “I have seen such a woman in a village toward the rising sun.   She belongs to a warrior they call Preying Eagle.”

          Small Doe smiled.   “He is my father.   Are they well?”

          “Yes, both.”  

          Hoping he might have a chance to venture into private matters, Major Anderson glanced at Pacing Wolf to see how carefully he listened.   The warrior appeared to be absorbed by his task, but the Major decided to remain cautious; he could better serve his “niece” by winning her husband's trust than by offering him cause for alarm.   “I heard many in that place say they miss you deeply.   You must be well loved.”

          Small Doe noted Spotted Long-knife's glance and replied discreetly.   “I miss them also.”

          “How did you come to live in a village so far from your own?”

          “A warrior from a northern band wanted permission to court me.   When my father refused, he plotted to take me by force.   His name is Wild Dog.”

          “Wild Dog…yes, I have heard of this warrior.   Your people said he is a renegade and have cast him out.”

          “He is guilty of the deeds that Marks-His-Face described to you in Hair-Up-Top's dwelling.   Out of respect for the dead, I can say no more.   When the path you travel leads you back to my people, please tell them my husband saved me from a great evil and that his vengeance-quest was just.”

          “I will,” the Major nodded.   “I am sure this will give them comfort.”

          “I have found much happiness in this lodge,” she added, slipping into English.   “My husband is not only cunning and courageous, but caring toward the weak and poor.”

          While Small Doe was describing him, Pacing Wolf stood up to switch the sapling he was shaping for another that he'd leaned against the lodge cover.   When he resumed his place, however, he sat with his back to them.  

           Major Anderson was not certain how to interpret the change, though he was sure it was deliberate.   It might signal permission for them to ignore him and speak freely or merely indicate the man found the conversation dull, particularly if he knew little English.   While contemplating the warrior's tightly muscled back, he wondered just how much English the man did understand:   Light Bird, not her husband, had supplied the word for President.   Still, both itinerant peddlers and the U.S. government had long-standing contact with this tribe.   A trapper named Beckworth even claimed he'd lived among them for several years.   Pacing Wolf could've acquired the language's rudiments from any of them.

          “He appears to be a fine warrior,” replied the Major, adopting English also.

          “He is highly respected among this people and gentle and generous with me.”   Blushing deeply, she rose, took the mirror from the peg, and showed him the back of it.   “He saw that I wanted this and purchased it from a trader last month.   The color reminds me of Mother's eyes.   But this,” she smiled, bending down to withdraw her Bible from Pacing Wolf's large leather bag, “is my dearest treasure.”  

          Major Anderson's eyebrows darted up.   “Well now…I have seen one of these before!”

          “He often asks me to read it to him.”  

          “When my work next takes me to your parents' village, I will tell them this and all that you have said.   Any warrior worth his breath provides for his woman, but yours shows attentiveness and perception.”

          “And my brothers—are they all well?”

          “My stay was brief, as it must be here, but I saw no signs of sickness in their village.”

          “And Grandmother?   She hurt her ankle just before my husband rescued me.”

          Major Anderson glanced at Pacing Wolf nervously, fearing what her eager tone and questions might betray, but the muscles in his host's back worked in steady rhythm with his chores.   He tamped down the air between them with his open palm, nonetheless, hoping to signal for her to do likewise with her enthusiasm.  

          “Hmm,” he paused.   “I recall a silver-haired woman who favored one foot.   Other than the injury, she looked well.”

          “And her husband,” ask Small Doe, finding it difficult to restrain herself, “the old elder they call Running Deer?”

          “I would like to give you an account, Ma'am, of every person in the village, but I cannot.   They all appeared well.”

          Understanding the delicacy of his position, Small Doe stepped onto a less hazardous trail.   “This place where your President lives, is it far from us?”

          The Major nodded.   “Yes, it took weeks to arrive.”

          “Your wife and children—they do not travel with you?”

          “They are with my wife's father and mother.   I have a son a bit younger than you and a daughter a few years older.”

          Small Doe knew this, of course, but continued the game.   “Is she married?

          “Not yet, but a young man her mother and I esteem highly has asked for her, and we believe the Almighty has approved the match.”

          Small Doe smiled happily but read unease in Spotted Long-knife's eyes.   She couldn't fathom why—she knew he and Valuable Woman loved Straight Arrows almost as much as they loved their own children.   Unable to think of a safe way to ask, she contented herself with thoughts of their happiness.   If her life had not turned out quite as she'd dreamed, at least it had for her brother and her friend.  

          As Pacing Wolf laid leather to the second bow, the embers began fading until he could no longer work.   Propping the partially formed weapon against the lodge lining with his others, he sat down on their bed and tossed back the covers.  

          “Come,” he commanded Small Doe and then pointed the Major to the pallet she had laid for him earlier.   “We sleep.”

          Both complied willingly, grateful he'd arranged a private visit; but as Small Doe balanced the tops of three thick sticks over the embers, she started feeling awkward.   Her mind wandered to the moment as a tiny potbelly that her father had placed her in Spotted Long-knife's freckled hands.   She was too young to see at the time, let alone remember the event, but it signified a guardianship of sorts—a pledge of care should her father die in battle—and was among the important events that her intimate family regularly recounted.   How would he feel when she climbed beneath the robes of a strange warrior?

          If the Major was embarrassed, he did not show it.   He slipped into his pallet across the lodge, turned away from them, and was soon snoring.   Small Doe did likewise, wriggling back against her husband's warm chest, but she was too elated for her brother and Corn-Tassels to sleep.

          Pacing Wolf encircled her with an arm and pulled her more tightly against his chest.   He'd been lying awake while she coaxed the embers, treading back carefully through her conversation with the long-knife.   Many of their English words had been unfamiliar; but between those he knew and their tones of voice, he pieced most of their meaning together.   Something false kept nipping at the back of his mind, though he wasn't sure if it lay in what they'd said or in the participants themselves.   He'd felt it from the moment she spotted the stranger ducking in behind him.   He knew she'd be pleased, but he hadn't expected to see joy dancing irrepressibly in her eyes.   The long-knife, in contrast, was like a tightly reigned horse that picked his way along a dangerous edge.   Determined to know why, Pacing Wolf considered accepting his guest's proposal until Small Doe began to distract his attention.   She smoothed her palm up over his arm, warmly caressing every hill and valley.  

          Deeply moved, he nestled his face against her hair and meandered unhurriedly among the words she had used to describe him—admiring words that had swelled his heart until he had to turn his back to them.   If he accompanied the long-knives, he would take her with him, she would be of great use along the way; but when he imagined what might take place in the villages of his enemies, he discarded the idea.   What guarantee did he have that they would welcome the long-knives or consider their treaty?   They would more likely kill them, and him, and what would become of Small Doe then?   No, he could not take her, but neither would he leave her here:   Marks-His-Face' assurances about his daughters had been too weak.  

          As he nuzzled the soft flesh below her ear, she turned in his arms, slipped a hand around his waist, and began running it tenderly up the muscles that flanked his spine.   “Thank you for asking the long-knife to sleep here,” she whispered.   “He has promised to tell my parents that I am happy I am your woman.   I hope he will return their way soon.”

          Pacing Wolf buried his cheek in her hair.   He had worked out something like this from their conversation, but to hear her say so in his own clear tongue overwhelmed his emotions.   Over the past three moons, he'd noticed her increasing interest— eyes that trailed him often and smiles that held both sweetness and welcome—and he'd not forgotten the gratitude or pride she'd expressed to her book-god; but her freely offered affection exceeded anything he'd expected.   Women, young and old, admired his skill, and all knew he could provide well.   He had hoped these capabilities might secure her allegiance as they had Among-the-Pines' mother's; but he'd not thought himself capable of arousing much that went deeper.   Not once, during the nearly four summers he'd provided for his dead woman, had she offered him such warmth.   He couldn't account for Small Doe's, particularly after all the suffering he'd caused her, so he credited her tenderness to the unusual quality of her heart.  

Most women store bitterness in a loosely covered earthen pot and ladle it out freely.   She flings hers away like a bird whose wing she has mended and wants to set free.

Get rid of all bitterness, rage and anger, brawling, and slander, along with every form of malice.

Ephesians 4:31

Author Bio

Sydney Tooman Betts currently resides in Florida with her protagonist-inspiring husband and two teen-aged children.   When not engaged in writing, she spends most of her time home schooling, mentoring, leading the women's Bible study at her local church, or painting.

While single, Ms. Betts (B.S. Bible/Missiology, M.Ed) was involved in a variety of cross-cultural adventures in North and Central America.   After marrying, she and her husband lived in Europe and the Middle East where he served in various mission-support capacities.   Her teaching experiences span preschool to guest lecturing at the graduate level and she has been privileged to serve as Sunday School Superintendent, Children's Church Director, or Women's Ministries facilitator in several evangelical denominations.  

Before her first novel, A River too Deep, she had ghostwritten several stories included in an adult literacy program.  

Contact Sydney at: www.LightBirdsSong.com

To Purchase “A River Too Deep” and “Light Bird's Song”: www.e316.com , www.Amazon.com , www.authorhouse.com