Chapter 6
Chapter
Six
They often had balls at the fort, and Blair would sit up all night playing the banjo in the “orchestra.”
— FROM THE LETTERS OF GEORGE BENT, GEORGE E. HYDE, THE LIFE OF GEORGE BENT
A few days later
The sounds of music, of gay laughter, of the stomping of feet in time to the beat of a low-pitched fiddle, spilled out between the pioneers’ and the merchants’ pitched tents.
Accompanied by the scents of roasting meat, freshly baked bread, vegetables and sweets, the festivities were too loud and too fun to ignore, especially when the evening ahead loomed large and full of promise.
As the moon began its early ascent into an evening sky, Fort Leavenworth, as was custom, closed its gate to the outer world, including in its exclusion the tents of the pioneers, tents that were scattered far and wide across its lawn.
If this bothered any of the settlers or merchants who frequented these shelters, it was not seen upon their countenances.
Laughter and the hum of conversation could be heard from all quarters of the camp as the pioneers, merchants, soldiers and even the Indians intermingled.
However, the Indians, most of the Mexicans and some of the shyer soldiers hung back from the general crowd, each group keeping to the shadows that were cast over the land by the tents.
Here, if one observed closely enough, the Indians could be found to be frowning, while the Mexicans appeared somber.
Most of the soldiers, however, were smiling, though within all three groups could be seen a fellow or two hurling a wistful glance toward the dancers.
Indian women, white and Mexican women stepped lively, keeping time to the triple-time beat of the jig, no man or woman appearing to discriminate against the feminine persona, regardless of her age or color of skin.
When it came to the male dancers, clearly the white men dominated the celebration.
True, a scattering of Mexican men could be seen dancing, but due to the lack of Mexican women at Fort Leavenworth, these couples were very few indeed.
And so, it could be said that only the braver of the Mexicans and the more courageous Indians dared to draw in closer to the dancers.
Swift Hawk was one of those few.
Though Swift Hawk would have liked to believe that he had been drawn to this place by the promise of a feast, he knew he would be speaking in half-truths.
Deep in his heart, he sensed that the real reason he was here was because he needed to see her again.
Perhaps he would discover that he had merely imagined her beauty.
Or maybe, if he were lucky, he would discover why this woman had appeared in his vision and was now haunting his dreams.
Picking up a single, though rather large buffalo rib, Swift Hawk took a bite of the delicacy and gazed right at her.
It was not simply her whereabouts that he had committed to mind.
At what might appear to be a casual glance, Swift Hawk, in the time-honored tradition of the Indian scout, had taken note of many things in his environment—of the southerly wind and the warm, dry weather conditions; of the two guards who stood sentry over the dance floor; of the fact that the grass had been cut short this day; that the men had imbibed too much of the white man’s firewater, making them boisterous and maybe incapable of sensible judgment.
He had seen that there were thirty-five men here total, that they were all armed, and that their firearms were primed and ready.
Also, within Swift Hawk’s short look, he had sized up each man as a possible antagonist, had stared surprisingly at the group of musicians, noting that no one seemed concerned that no sacred drum accompanied their songs. And last but not least, he had seen that she was flirting.
Swift Hawk frowned as his attention lingered over this particular detail, while mentally he cursed himself for his attraction to her. Anger at himself filled his soul, though a good bit of that same emotion was aimed toward the man who was the recipient of the angel’s banter.
Shaking his head, he could only wonder at himself, at his na?veté.
Truly, what had he been thinking to come here?
Surely he should have known that she would be as beautiful as he remembered her to be—more so.
And certainly he should have realized what his very male reaction would be to the sight of her beauty.
Even now, that part of him that was wholly masculine twitched as though it alone understood what she might mean to him, even if he refused to acknowledge it.
The reaction of his body only served to fuel his anger. Without further ado, he spun around, that he might leave this place.
Indeed, he would have accomplished it too, except that he heard the angel laugh, and in doing so, she caught him, as readily as if she had spun a web around him and drawn him in.
Swift Hawk hesitated, he listened, but mostly he paused to admire the sound of her voice.
For its tone was not only musical, there was a quality about it that expressed life, vitality, a love for living.
Though he might be experiencing more than his fair share of apprehension, the zest within that laugh entranced him.
Hardly daring to do so, he glanced over his shoulder, toward the circle of dancers, and there he looked his fill of her, beholding the allure that was hers alone.
He should gaze away from her, he knew he should, but he found himself unable to do so. As he turned toward her, he experienced an odd feeling, as though he had suddenly sunk into quicksand, for he could not move his feet.
However, the fact did not bother him. Instead, he resigned himself for what was to be and simply stared at her, struck by the unusual style of her white woman’s dress, for it hid her womanly form, yet accentuated it at the same time.
In a white dress that swooped down to her ankles, she looked as foreign yet as stunning as a silvery morning sunrise.
The dress was not entirely white, he admitted, for its print included red dots all over it, and its sleeves were unusually full, falling over her shoulders and gaining their largest width at her elbows.
A red belt accentuated her tiny waist and a white hat with immense red ribbons sat atop her blonde curls.
An enormous ribbon, also in red, was tied under her chin, though off to one side.
Her dress swayed with every movement of her body, and she seemed never to stand still. Even when remaining in one place, she constantly moved, shifted and curled with every breath she took, with every word she whispered. And though it might be slight, each motion screamed seduction.
At present, she laughed up at a white man, one of the soldiers Swift Hawk recognized as an officer of the fort. Her gaze upon the man was nothing if not provocative.
Still, Swift Hawk had little choice but to stand there, watching her smile and tease. Gradually it came to him that he was in trouble, for a raw streak of jealousy knifed through him.
He muttered a white man’s curse beneath his breath. What was this sudden burst of hatred that he felt toward that man? What was the meaning of this desire to take his knife and…?
Swift Hawk reined in his thoughts. Realization dawned: She could not be the salvation he thought her to be—she must not be. He had been wrong in coming here, wrong in seeking her out, wrong in thinking she could help him.
Clearly she represented nothing but dishonor to him.
For he knew that if he were to be in this woman’s presence for any length of time, he would ruin her and ruin himself.
It would follow as surely as dawn follows the night.
As he was unable to resist her, his vow of celibacy would go disregarded, and in the end he would overcome her objections and woo her to his bed.
He knew he would. And it was a thing he must not do.
Perhaps, he thought, grasping at straws, it was her brother who would help him. After all, her brother had also been a part of Swift Hawk’s vision.
Very well. There was only one thing he could do and retain his honor: He must leave here at once. He must return to the prairie and offer up his thoughts to the Creator.
So it was with this determination that Swift Hawk again turned to leave. He had managed no more than a few steps in retreat, when a delicate hand touched him on the shoulder.
“Mister Swift Hawk?” said the voice. “I believe that is your name, is it not?”
Swift Hawk stopped completely still, as though her touch had transformed him to stone. He did not turn around. He did not look around. He dared not.
“Mister Hawk, have I introduced you to my brother, Julian?”
Swift Hawk cleared his throat to speak, but it seemed she did not require his reply, for she went on to say, “Jules, may I introduce you to Swift Hawk, who has come here to act as a scout. Isn’t that a coincidence? That the two of you should be occupied in the same trade?”
“A scout, are you?” asked Julian. “Say, this is a touch of luck then, isn’t it?”
Swift Hawk didn’t respond. He turned around slowly, dreading coming face-to-face with her. Glibly, he thanked his elders for instilling good manners within him, for it was only these formalities that enabled him to bestow upon sister and brother a simple inclination of his head.
That done, he turned to leave, but again she caught him with the mere grace of her touch.
“Please stay. I was so hoping that you and Julian might find a good deal to talk about.”
“Yes,” chimed in the brother, with a huge smile. “Have you ever traveled the Santa Fe Trail?”
Swift Hawk acknowledged the man with a positive tilt of his head and glanced down at the feminine hand pressed against his arm.
Her gaze followed his, and she quickly withdrew her hand.
“Both routes?” asked Julian, acting for all the world as though he were unaware of any exchange between Swift Hawk and his sister. “The desert, as well as the mountain route?”
Another nod from Swift Hawk.
“Which do you prefer?”
Swift Hawk paused to give himself time to settle his emotions. “The mountain route is the better of the two. Though it is longer, there is no risk of running out of water for yourself and your stock. Besides, the mountain route travels toward my cousin’s fort.”
“Your cousin, you say?”
“Aa, yes. However, it is probably more truthful to say that my cousin is adopted. The fort is known as Bent’s Fort. William Bent, who built the fort, married my adopted cousin.”
“Ah, Bent’s Fort. William Bent married a Cheyenne woman, didn’t he?”
“He did.”
“And she is your adopted cousin?”
“She is. I was adopted by the Cheyenne when I was still a young boy. Bent’s wife, Owl Woman, and her sister, Yellow Woman, are my adopted cousins.”
“Ah…” said Julian, as though this explained something, “and your real tribe is…?”
“My own tribe is an old one, but it is distantly related to the Blackfoot, who are in the North.”
“Blackfoot.” Julian drew out the word and frowned. Then under his breath, “The tigers of the Plains.”
Swift Hawk didn’t deign to respond.
“Blackfoot, eh?” Julian repeated, and running a finger under his collar, he sighed. “Then you might have heard of a friend of mine, since he used to scout up that way. John Bogart?”
“I do not know him,” answered Swift Hawk, “but I know of him, since he is one of a handful of white scouts. I have often heard William Bent speak of him.”
“Ah, then maybe you have heard of me too—”
The angel in white placed her hand over her brother’s arm. “I think I should tell you that—”
“Yes,” drawled Julian, “I’ve spent many an hour with Bogart over a campfire, talking of many things.”
“Julian, listen to me—”
“Taught me everything he knows, and vice versa, and—”
“Please stop this. He knows,” said the angel succinctly before turning away from the two of them, where she directed her gaze out toward the dancers, as though she were more interested in them than in the conversation at hand.
Julian frowned. “He knows? He knows what?”
Spinning back toward her brother and lowering her voice, she whispered, “He knows that you have never met John Bogart.”
“But…but…” Julian looked decidedly uncomfortable, and he strained his gaze in his sister’s direction.
“Don’t look at me like that. I did not tell him,” she defended. “Mr. Hawk was listening to us the other day.”
“He heard us talking?”
“I’m afraid so,” she said.
“But I didn’t see him anywhere around there.”
“Yet he was there. I spoke to him after you left.”
Swift Hawk frowned at the young man. “The white man has not learned to sense the presence of another. And it is this that often causes his doom. If you are to scout, it is one of the first of several awarenesses you must gain—to sense the presence of another being.”
Julian’s eyes grew large. Without so much as a blink of an eye, he said, albeit a little defensively, “What do you mean, learn? I am a scout.”
Swift Hawk raised a single eyebrow.
“Well, I am… That is, I could be…”
“Yes, yes,” said the angel. “Mister Swift Hawk, might my brother and I interest you in a little chat?”
Swift Hawk drew back from her. “A chat?”
She nodded. “Yes, a chat…a conversation. I believe that my brother and I would like nothing more than to have a moment of your time, if you will…away from here, where we might talk. If you would be so kind.”
As though his assent were already given, she placed her hand through the crook of his arm, as well as that of her brother. Then, without another word being spoken, the angel in white and red led Swift Hawk and her brother out into the ever-darkening night.