looked down at the set determination in the eyes of his slim, beautiful young wife. Where had the frightened little tenderfoot gone? God, he would have no repeat of Lola's defiance.
He grasped her right arm with an iron grip and carefully propelled her toward the house. Carrie flinched from the pain of his grip, but refused to demean herself by making a scene. Woodenly they walked back to the big house to argue·in private.
CHAPTER FIVE
The sun cast an arc of pink and red light across the eastern sky, followed by deep, hot yellows and golds bathing the lodges of Iron Heart's people in warm summer light. Like all Cheyenne villages, this one was constructed with the tepees in a horseshoe shape. The open end of the horseshoe faced the rising sun, as did the door of each lodge.
It was nearing the summer solstice, and more and more bands were meeting on this warm plain for great feasting and solemn ceremonies, but the hunt was not as good as it had been in years past. The great masses of shaggy buffalo were thin, and thinning even more. So were the People. Smallpox and cholera decimated them while the bullets of the veho destroyed the sacred buffalo. Still, it was once more summer, and those who were left rejoiced.
Iron Heart, now in his seventy-sixth year, was still a robust man, having survived the, ravages of the white man's diseases, a Crow arrow, and several bullets from both Indians and veho. Age had not stooped his shoulders nor dimmed his vision. He stood six foot four inches, and his black eyes were as piercing as they had been when he first counted coup as a boy of fifteen. Standing in the door of his lodge, he stretched while he watched the birth of a new day. It never ceased to awe him, as the mighty hands of the Powers sundered the blackness and thrust in the light each morning.
He heard a procession of giggling young maidens, some from his village and some from adjacent bands, venturing in search of summer berries. Iron Heart continued to watch the eastern sky expectantly. It was not only the sunrise that held his attention, but something more. He had a dream last night, and his dreams were seldom wrong. Hunting Hawk was coming back to his people. He felt it in his bones. It was time.
By midafternoon the old man's vigil was rewarded when a lone rider appeared on the horizon. Even before he could distinguish the tall rider he recognized the huge bay stallion of his grandson.
Hawk looked at the village, spread across the rich grassy prairie in a neat geometric design, clean and orderly, in union with nature. In his mind he contrasted it with the ugly sprawl of Miles City. Kneeing Redskin gently, Hawk rode briskly into the embrace of the lodges and their people. Many had come out to greet the half-blooded grandson of Iron Heart. Most were friendly, but a few of the young bucks in the warrior societies were hostile. Hawk was bareheaded and dressed in a simple buckskin shirt, pants, and soft moccasins. He wore only his knife, no sidearms, as a symbol of respect for the village he entered as a brother. The big bay carried no saddle. In Cheyenne society, only the women and old men rode with saddles.
Hawk slid effortlessly off the stallion and stood face-to-face with Iron Heart in front of the elder's lodge. They clasped arms gravely. “It is good to be home, Grandfather.”
“It is good to have you here, Hunting Hawk.” There was a look of peace in the old man's eyes as he ushered his daughter's only son into the lodge. This would be a private reunion. Time enough for feasting tonight. There were things that must be said.
“The village looks prosperous. I counted ponies like waves on the sea as I rode in, even buffalo and elk hides drying in the sun.” Hawk looked at the clean, functional interior of the tepee with its hard-packed earthen floor, soft
He grasped her right arm with an iron grip and carefully propelled her toward the house. Carrie flinched from the pain of his grip, but refused to demean herself by making a scene. Woodenly they walked back to the big house to argue·in private.
CHAPTER FIVE
The sun cast an arc of pink and red light across the eastern sky, followed by deep, hot yellows and golds bathing the lodges of Iron Heart's people in warm summer light. Like all Cheyenne villages, this one was constructed with the tepees in a horseshoe shape. The open end of the horseshoe faced the rising sun, as did the door of each lodge.
It was nearing the summer solstice, and more and more bands were meeting on this warm plain for great feasting and solemn ceremonies, but the hunt was not as good as it had been in years past. The great masses of shaggy buffalo were thin, and thinning even more. So were the People. Smallpox and cholera decimated them while the bullets of the veho destroyed the sacred buffalo. Still, it was once more summer, and those who were left rejoiced.
Iron Heart, now in his seventy-sixth year, was still a robust man, having survived the, ravages of the white man's diseases, a Crow arrow, and several bullets from both Indians and veho. Age had not stooped his shoulders nor dimmed his vision. He stood six foot four inches, and his black eyes were as piercing as they had been when he first counted coup as a boy of fifteen. Standing in the door of his lodge, he stretched while he watched the birth of a new day. It never ceased to awe him, as the mighty hands of the Powers sundered the blackness and thrust in the light each morning.
He heard a procession of giggling young maidens, some from his village and some from adjacent bands, venturing in search of summer berries. Iron Heart continued to watch the eastern sky expectantly. It was not only the sunrise that held his attention, but something more. He had a dream last night, and his dreams were seldom wrong. Hunting Hawk was coming back to his people. He felt it in his bones. It was time.
By midafternoon the old man's vigil was rewarded when a lone rider appeared on the horizon. Even before he could distinguish the tall rider he recognized the huge bay stallion of his grandson.
Hawk looked at the village, spread across the rich grassy prairie in a neat geometric design, clean and orderly, in union with nature. In his mind he contrasted it with the ugly sprawl of Miles City. Kneeing Redskin gently, Hawk rode briskly into the embrace of the lodges and their people. Many had come out to greet the half-blooded grandson of Iron Heart. Most were friendly, but a few of the young bucks in the warrior societies were hostile. Hawk was bareheaded and dressed in a simple buckskin shirt, pants, and soft moccasins. He wore only his knife, no sidearms, as a symbol of respect for the village he entered as a brother. The big bay carried no saddle. In Cheyenne society, only the women and old men rode with saddles.
Hawk slid effortlessly off the stallion and stood face-to-face with Iron Heart in front of the elder's lodge. They clasped arms gravely. “It is good to be home, Grandfather.”
“It is good to have you here, Hunting Hawk.” There was a look of peace in the old man's eyes as he ushered his daughter's only son into the lodge. This would be a private reunion. Time enough for feasting tonight. There were things that must be said.
“The village looks prosperous. I counted ponies like waves on the sea as I rode in, even buffalo and elk hides drying in the sun.” Hawk looked at the clean, functional interior of the tepee with its hard-packed earthen floor, soft
Similar Books
