Night Thunder's Bride: Blackfoot Warriors, Book 3 (24 page)

But when Night Thunder glanced back toward her and grinned, as though to say, ‘They are delighted to see us,’ she knew that there was no immediate danger.

“
Po’kioot
!” the incoming braves were saying, and she realized, because of their hand motions, that they must be asking the warriors to follow them.

She felt the stare of the unfamiliar Indians upon her, as the young men brought their ponies to a stop, but Rebecca could not actually catch any of them looking at her. It was not the first time she had experienced a feeling of such scrutiny, without anyone actually staring at her, and she was beginning to wonder how the Indians did it.

No introductions were made between her and these warriors, however, and Rebecca decided to ignore them as best she could.

The young braves led their party into the camp, and at once the Indians, who had for so long accompanied her and Night Thunder, disassembled, the men obviously taking their leave to find their own lodges.

Rebecca stuck as closely as she could to Night Thunder, but she couldn’t help noticing that the Indian women seemed not at all as discreet as the men: all stared at her openly, though Rebecca could not sense any particular animosity in their observation.

One woman, however, one very beautiful Indian woman, regarded her oddly—looking, Rebecca thought, as though she were witnessing a ghost. The woman was beautiful. Was Night Thunder’s fiancée so pretty?

Neither the thought nor her immediate reaction to it comforted her, and Rebecca hurriedly glanced away. Was this jealousy? she wondered. Was it jealousy when a woman wanted to hide her husband away from all other eyes, wanted to keep him with her so that no one else could have him?

He was not truly her husband, Rebecca reminded herself, and she threw back her head, glancing once more around her.

Children swarmed through the camp like wild little whirlwinds, and their gaiety, their very joviality provided her with a welcome sense of relief. Canines, half-wolf, half-dog, ran here and there, too, their howling adding to the sounds of the prairie’s ever present wind, to the beating of the drums in the distance, to the murmur of voices and the happy laughter which seemed to surround everything here.

She became curious. Somehow she had thought that an Indian encampment would be a serious and frightening place, certainly not one of amusement and entertainment. The observation made her ache to ask Night Thunder more about this place, about these people, the children, and, in particular, that one woman who had looked at her so strangely. But she did not know how to begin to ask.

She was also uncertain of the etiquette involved in talking to a warrior in so public a place as this, and she hesitated to do anything that might throw disregard upon him.

At length, Night Thunder led her to a tepee in the center of the encampment, and alighting from his pony, dropped his buckskin reins and strode toward the conical structure. Without saying a word to her or even glancing in her direction, he opened and entered the lodge, leaving Rebecca outside to confront the curious stares of the Indians. But she needn’t have worried; no one approached her or said a word to her, either.

The scent of roasting food and campfires teased at her nostrils, and her stomach growled, reminding her that she hadn’t yet had breakfast. There was another smell in the air, too, a pleasant one, and one with which she was fast becoming familiar—that of the sweet-herb aroma of sage and sweet grass.

All around her came the sounds of camp life, of laughter and good cheer, of the high-pitched voices of children and the buzz of women’s talk, interrupted here and there by a hearty round of giggles and laughter. And throughout the camp came the sound of drums and singing.

Curious. Everyone appeared so happy.

She noted one elderly man, closer to her, engaged in painting what looked to be a war shield, and entrenched around him were a group of young boys, all of them listening in rapt attention as the old man spoke.

It was odd, she thought, that the rumors she’d heard of the Indians didn’t include the description of the fellowship and friendship which she was witnessing here. Strange, since she had been in the camp only a few moments and already she was aware of it. How could another, reporting about the Indians, have missed such a thing?

A woman approached her, the same pretty woman whom Rebecca had taken note of upon first entering the Indian encampment, the one who had looked at her so curiously.

“
Kyai-yo
!”
the woman said to her, and Rebecca glanced down toward the girl. “
Ah’-ko-two-kr-tuk’ah-an-on,
”
the young woman tried again, but Rebecca shook her head, trying to communicate by body language alone that she did not understand.

The Indian woman touched Rebecca’s leg where she sat astride her pony, and Rebecca flinched.

“
O’toyimm
,”
the girl pointed to herself and smiled, extending her hand toward Rebecca.

Rebecca let out her breath. It was obvious the woman was trying to be affable, but still Rebecca hesitated, frowning. She had also heard too many stories about the deadliness of Indian “friends.” Wasn’t it Daniel Boone who had once said that one must never trust an Indian, even a congenial one?

Rebecca looked away.

“
Poka
,”
the young woman tried again, and this time when Rebecca glanced back down, she was met with a hearty smile from the young Indian woman. Sighing, Rebecca capitulated. It was obvious the woman was not going to go away, and seeing the woman’s hand still extended toward her, Rebecca decided it would not do her any harm to place her own into that of the other woman’s grasp.

She did so.

And suddenly Night Thunder appeared at her side, though Rebecca had not been aware of him until the last moment, the man having stepped out from the tepee so silently. He looked pleased, too, and Rebecca could only wonder at it.

He said to the young woman, “
Nit-ik-oht-yaahsi’taki k-ikaa-o’too’hs’yi,
I’m glad you have arrived.”

“
O’toyimm. Ah’-ko-two-kr-tuk’-ah-an-on,”
the Indian girl repeated, and Night Thunder nodded.

He said to Rebecca, “She tries to tell you that she has friendly feeling toward you. She had heard that there was a woman traveling with me and she is glad to see that we have arrived safely. She welcomes us home.”

Rebecca raised her chin. She asked, “Why would she welcome you home, and why should she feel friendly toward me?”

Night Thunder’s glance went from one woman to the next, looking as perplexed as any male might when confronted with something he didn’t understand, and from two specimens of the female sex.

Why? Rebecca wondered.

He said, “She tries to make you feel comfortable. Do you not know who this is?”

Rebecca shook her head. “Should I?”

Again, he gazed from one woman to the next, his look more than a little mystified—sheepish, even.

What was going on here?

Rebecca had little time to wonder, however, for Night Thunder did not waste any time in telling her, his voice more than a little subdued, as he said, “This is a woman whom I want to you come to know.”

Rebecca raised her chin, premonition perhaps steeling her nerves as she heard Night Thunder finish, “This is Blue Raven Woman.”

Chapter Sixteen

So, the other woman was beautiful.

Rebecca knew exactly why that particular piece of information upset her, and she didn’t like it. Not at all.

She was jealous. That was all there was to it. Completely, utterly jealous.

She was not supposed to be here. She was not supposed to be in an Indian camp, sitting beside her husband’s “betrothed,” and she the “wife” of a man she could never actually marry. She smiled to herself at this last thought, thinking it would make little sense to the civilized world, yet it explained much here in the Indian encampment.

Rebecca sat inside a tepee on this bright day. The lodge had been given to her by Night Thunder’s stepmother and aunts, and, she had been disheartened to learn, Blue Raven Woman’s female relatives, with Blue Raven Woman herself helping Rebecca to erect it.

In truth, it was Blue Raven Woman who sat across from Rebecca this minute, chatting away at her happily in a tongue that Rebecca could barely understand. But it mattered little if she understood or not. She had no desire to learn what the other woman was saying.

In due time, if only to quiet the other woman, Rebecca said, “Night Thunder told me about you.”

But when she was met with nothing but a blank stare from the Indian girl, Rebecca decided to try the phrase in the Blackfoot language which Night Thunder had been striving to reach her. “
N omohtitsiniko-o; k-wa kiistoyi
,”
she attempted.

Blue Raven woman giggled softly.

“What did I say? I wasn’t speaking it wrong, was I?”

The Indian woman shook her head and responded, “
Soka’pssiwa.
”

Soka’pssiwa
?
What did that mean? “He is good?” Rebecca thought so.

She answered, “
Aa,
yes,” and was rewarded with what could have been considered a heartwarming grin, if Rebecca were so inclined to give the other woman quarter. Rebecca wasn’t.

They both fell back into silence, Rebecca stealing a look at the other woman, under the cover of her lashes. Slim and well proportioned, Blue Raven Woman presented an image of all that might have been considered attractive about these people.

Two long braids, fashioned behind her ears, fell down each side of Blue Raven Woman’s face and over her chest, the ends of them caught and held with beaded buckskin hair-ties. Pink shells hung from her ears and from around her neck. Her face and the part in her hair were both painted, and red dots, appearing like spots of rouge, brightened the young Indian’s cheeks.

The woman’s everyday dress was unusual, too, consisting of sun and clay—bleached buckskin, which had been dyed yellow, the top half of it ornamented with paint, beads, and quills. A leather belt, brightly beaded and quilled, was tied around her waist, and on her feet she wore moccasins, again painted yellow and slightly beaded. She smelled of clean buckskin and fresh herbs and gave the appearance of being so light, her feet barely touched the ground.

Good-natured, Blue Raven Woman never seemed strained to find something to smile about, either. To tell the truth, Rebecca had been astonished to discover the good-hearted cheer of most every woman she had so far met in camp, young and old. One would hardly know, from their constant and delightful prattle, that the rest of the world considered them slaves.

She thought they would most likely laugh if she were to tell them so. Not that she would. Besides, she didn’t know the language well enough even to attempt what would have to be a lengthy conversation.

She had heard about another kind of Indian woman, however, in stories of how women had personally tortured prisoners, about how they would tear the clothing off one’s back. Rebecca dreaded the day she would meet with such a one as that.

In the meantime, she seemed doomed to have to bear the company of a woman who didn’t seem to comprehend that they were at best enemies.

The two of them had been working over a piece of soft buckskin, tanned so well that it felt more like the touch of silk against her skin than that of an animal hide. For most of the morning, they had been fashioning the leather into some form of clothing for Night Thunder, Rebecca supposed.

Not that she was being an extraordinary amount of help. Rebecca was having trouble sewing whatever article they were making, as she was unfamiliar with the Indian’s thread. Apparently, she was learning, one had to soak the string in one’s mouth in order to get it soft enough to work: soak, that is, everything but the tip of it, which was itself used much as she would have utilized a needle.

Rebecca inhaled deeply and asked, in the Blackfoot tongue, “
A’sipis…kayiiwa
?”
She hoped she was asking what kind of thread they were using.

“
Nitsstsinaa…sstsinaa
,”
Blue Raven Woman responded, and pointed to her back.

Her back?

Rebecca shook her head. “I don’t understand.”

Blue Raven Woman glanced around her, in the interior of the tepee, and spying something on the floor, pointed to it. A buffalo robe?

Blue Raven Woman said, “
Iinii
.”

Rebecca knew that word. It was “buffalo.” She repeated, “
Iinii
?”

Blue Raven Woman nodded.

What? They obtained their thread from buffalo?

“
Mo’kakiikin
.”
Again the young Indian woman pointed to her backside, obviously attempting to make herself understood. Then she formed the necessary signs for thread.

Rebecca glanced down at the strand in her hand. What was this stuff that she was soaking in her mouth? She picked up the end of it, examining it. The thread was arid and brittle unless she put it in her mouth, at which time it turned soft and pliable. But it dried hard and became much more durable on clothing than cotton thread.

Rebecca looked at the material this way and that, sniffing at the substance, holding it out and away from her.

What the…then it came to her.