Chapter 3
Chapter
Three
Black Lion awoke with a start. Had he overslept?
It appeared he had; the signs were not good. Sunlight poured in overhead from the ear-flaps of the canvas tepee, and, glancing up through the lodge poles, Black Lion caught sight of the sun, which was already positioned mid-sky.
What had caused him to oversleep? And this on a day when he had been cautioned to arrive for the performance in a timely manner. Needing to pull on his jeans over his naked body, he had no more than stepped foot into them when he remembered he was supposed to be attired in traditional dress.
“Damn.” He uttered the white man’s word.
Tossing his jeans to the side, Black Lion grabbed hold of a breechcloth lying on the floor, stretching the softened leather through his legs and tying the long string securely around his waist. Sliding his feet lightly into his moccasins, he decided he wouldn’t bother with leggings today—the kind of riding he was doing was traditionally done naked anyway.
The Long-haired Show Man—Buffalo Bill—might have words to say to him later, but Black Lion couldn’t consider this now.
He grabbed his quiver full of arrows—mere sticks with rubber tips, since they were now minus the traditional bone arrowhead—and his bow. Then he heard feminine laughter outside the tepee.
Black Lion shook his head as though the simple action might serve to enlighten him. What was wrong with these European women that they followed him? Why did they wait for him? Touch him? Ask for his autograph?
Sighing, he realized he was doomed. Not only would he be unable to hurry to the arena as was needed, he was going to have to humor these females. It was either this or face a dressing-down if one of them complained.
And this would never do, not when he acted in his friend’s stead.
Accepting his fate, Black Lion seized hold of his headdress, as well as his shield, and stepped out of the lodge.
Frowning, he inhaled the moisture-laden air as he quickly counted the number of women in his audience.
At least there were only fifteen this time.
Last night there had been more than fifty.
Giggles sounded around him. “May I have your autograph?” asked one of them.
He smiled at the girl. “For twenty-five bucks.” He uttered the words good-humoredly, however, for he accepted the young lady’s pen and paper without further argument.
“My parents have given me permission to ask you if you would like to join us for dinner this evening,” said another one of the women as Black Lion attempted to scribble out his name—although it wasn’t his name, it was his friend, Two Bears’s, name.
Black Lion nodded at the golden-haired, pretty and immaculately dressed girl.
In truth, if duty were not so heavy on his shoulders, he would have liked nothing better than to spend more time in this young lady’s presence.
But he could not. Not only was he a man haunted by a responsibility to his people, he was also here representing his friend, Two Bears, who was married.
“Stop it, Sadie, I wanted to ask him.” The owner of another voice pushed in toward him. “Maybe you could come to see me tomorrow?”
He breathed out another deep lament. Here before him was yet another beauty. Black Lion jerked his chin to the left—a Lakota gentleman’s gesture—and grinned first at one of them, then at the other woman. “I would like nothing better than to get to know you all,” he admitted. “Alas, I cannot.”
“Why can you not?” came several voices all at once.
“Because I have work to do and because—”
“I…be jealous.” The voice was low, feminine and came from behind him.
Looking around, Black Lion recognized the wife of Running Fox, a fellow Hunkpapa tribal member. He smiled at this woman whom he knew to be called Little Star.
Meanwhile, the giggling of those surrounding him had stopped. Each of the beautiful young women was staring at the speaker.
“I…often jealous of…women,” Little Star stated, “who ask…husband to dinner.” It did not escape Black Lion’s notice that Little Star omitted saying exactly who her husband was.
“I didn’t know you were married,” observed one young lady.
“I didn’t either,” chipped in another.
“Nor I.”
“Sorry,” voiced Black Lion simply. “But Buffalo Bill rarely hires an American Indian man who is not married.” He cast Little Star a quick wink as well as a grateful smile. Little Star nodded. “And now,” said Black Lion to the girls at large, “I must leave you. I am late for my performance.”
Without a backward glance, he struck off toward the livery.
Once he was far enough away from the women, he didn’t waste another moment, but ran as though he were in a race, bolting over obstacles in his way, which included a rather large hitching post, as well as several mud holes.
“Where’s Ranckles?” he asked Old Doe, the man who attended to the animals.
“Son, you’re late,” the old-timer remarked.
“I know,” panted Black Lion, barely catching his breath. “I must hurry.”
“He’s over there in the stall. He’s saddled.” Old Doe winked.
“Thank you, Grandfather. I will honor you for this.”
“Honor? Forget about the honor, and just get in there. He’s come down here twice to check on ya.”
Black Lion had no need to ask who he was. Shoving a gift—a pouch of tobacco—into the old-timer’s hand, Black Lion adjusted his headdress over his hair, grabbed hold of Ranckles’s reins and hurriedly headed toward the arena.
It had rained the day before the show was to open. This was both good and bad. The good was that the air was clear, fresh and invigorating, if a little humid. The bad was there was muddy water everywhere.
Black Lion had no choice but to leap over the many mud holes, as he pulled Ranckles, an Appaloosa, after him.
In an effort to determine the time, Black Lion glanced upward toward the sun, not the best action to take when one is also running.
Momentarily blinded, he rammed straight into an obstacle, sending whatever it was to the ground, and unfortunately for it, directly into the mud.
Luckily for Black Lion, Ranckles seemed to have more sense than his owner and stopped quickly enough so as to avert a real disaster.
Looking down to see what it was he had run into, Black Lion was disconcerted to behold yet another female. Grimacing slightly, he rolled his eyes.
“I saw how you looked there,” said the female heap who had landed at his feet. Her voice was surprisingly beautiful.
Black Lion, however, was not so easily impressed, since it was still a female voice. He looked passively at the woman and uttered, “I am sorry,” then he groaned a little as he gave her a closer look.
The woman had raised her eyes, and they were the deepest, most clear blue eyes he had ever seen, and Little Blue Eyes, as he immediately dubbed her, stared back at him. Unwillingly, he found he was not immune to her charm.
“You rolled your eyes at me,” she complained indignantly.
“Forgive me. I am late for my performance. I hurry when I should perhaps tarry.” He heaved a deep sigh then turned to leave.
“This is all you have to say? I get no more apology than a quick, ‘forgive me’? Will you at least help me up?”
Black Lion frowned. Lovely though this young woman might be, he couldn’t help but compare her to the well-brought-up Lakota women with whom he was acquainted.
No polite Lakota woman would dare to use a voice on him which, for all that it was pretty, was filled with antagonism.
Indeed, in the country of the Lakota, it was considered the height of bad manners to speak to a man with anything but a pleasant demeanor.
“Where I come from,” he vocalized, “women speak softly and pleasingly. And they do not contradict a man.”
Perhaps he should have kept the observation to himself, however. She scoffed at him. “I beg your pardon. Do you, an American Indian, seek to lecture me on manners? You, who have not even offered your hand to help me out of this mud? Where were you raised? With wolves?”
He stepped toward her. Obviously, he did not understand what a white man was required to do. “Forgive me. I am not from here. I do not know your customs.”
“Pray, is it really so difficult to understand? Look at me.”
He did, which was part of the problem. She was enchanting…as well as… There was an aura about her that pulled at him.
At the moment, she was a mass of dark hair and sky-blue material, except where she had rolled in the mud, of course.
It occurred to him that she wanted him to help her up, a request no Lakota woman would ever expect or need.
For it was a man’s job to protect and to provide, and a Lakota woman knew this.
She would never interfere with a man or with his work.
But here in this England, Black Lion was out of his element. With one more apology, he bent over the young lady, and, as though she were as lightweight as the headdress he wore, he picked her up.
She was rounded and soft, he noted at once, and she was probably the most shapely young woman he had ever had the good fortune to hold in his arms.
However, this embarrassed him. In his country, men and women who were not married did not touch. Rarely did they even speak.
As he grasped her tiny waist, his fingers tingled at the contact. For a moment, he yearned to hold her closer, to breathe in her sweet scent.
He quickly set her on her feet. “Sorry,” he repeated, and turned away.
Apparently white women here were more than a little different than Lakota women. “That’s it? This is all? You have nothing more to say? You knock me down like some colonial gun-barreling, Wild West gunslinger. You ruin my dress and my umbrella. And all you have to say is ‘sorry’?”
Spinning back toward her, he spared the delicate creature a glance, but even though it was fast, the look was thorough.
Long dark-brown hair that cascaded into ringlets over her shoulders; creamy, pale, pinkish complexion; blue eyes that were made bluer by the color of her clothes.
In truth, she was more than beautiful. She was… exquisite.
He said, “I am late.”