“What a haunting melody,” she whispered to herself. “Butperhaps that’s only because it’s in a minor key. Yet…”
She glanced right and left. Where was this vocalist? Was she safe here in her little spot? Or was the originator of the song within staring distance of her? Had he seen her? Surely not, she decided, or he would have given warning, since the Indians that resided around Fort Leavenworth were known to be friendly to whites.
Regardless, she decided that she had best leave her bath as quickly as possible, and she started to wade to shore. Even as she took a step forward, another melodic refrain sounded, and something about it kept her still. It was a high-pitched melody, especially for a man’s voice, yet the voice did not strain.
Well, she supposed it was the strangeness of it all that stopped her, and squatting onto her knees—that she might submerge her shoulders in the water—she listened to the song for the longest time. Odd, with each word she became more and more curious about it, and its origin.
Enough. She should wade to shore, dress, get back to camp.
But she didn’t.
When she started for shore, tree branches bent down, this time making sweeping motions toward the river. It was as though the old tree were pointing her in the direction of the song.
Hands on hips, Angelia frowned up at the tree. “You want me to go there, don’t you?”
The tree swayed gently.
“Do you know something that I don’t?”
Again, the tree answered in its own way, rocking back and forth.
“Very well,” said Angelia. “I will go and see who this is, since I’m very curious about it myself. But if there be any trouble, I will expect you to intervene on my behalf. Do we agree?”
Gently, branches intermingled, creating a whooshing sound, and Angelia was certain she heard the tree answer.
Within moments, Angelia found herself paddling toward the Missouri River proper, and keeping to its grassy shoreline, she floated downriver, toward that voice. It was not the smartest thing she had ever done. Yet something drove her onward, and she smiled, thinking that she felt as enchanted as a princess in some far-off land.
Perhaps she should fear for her safety, but she didn’t. For one thing, silly though it may seem, she trusted that tree. For another, the long grasses, wild pea vines and bushes that bordered the river hid her from view. It gave her a feeling of security, though she realized that out here on the prairie, there really was no such thing.
Still, she floated on downstream until at last the singing was so close, she knew she should stop and look up. Luckily for her, the sun was beginning its gradual rise into a steel-colored sky, lending the land the tiniest bit of gray light. On a bluff overlooking the river, she saw him, Swift Hawk.
He faced east—in her direction, although he didn’t appear to be aware of her, for his attention was elsewhere. This was a good thing, she decided, because it gave her the opportunity to look her fill at him without being seen.
And look she did, drawing in a breath as she gazed up at him. She sighed. He was a magnificent creature. She would not be female if she didn’t appreciate how his broad chest tapered to hard, narrow hips, or how his long black hair, caught in the wind, rushed back from his face, lending him a noble air.
All at once her stomach seemed queasy, as though she had been twirled round and round. Yet the sensation was far from unpleasant.
Her thoughts were scandalous, however, for the man was practically naked. Gone were his leggings; gone, too, were the shirt and breastplate he usually wore to their evening gatherings. He stood up there on that bluff, utterly exposed,except for his breechcloth and knife sheath, moccasins and a bit of Indian jewelry. At his feet lay his weapons, his bow and his quiver full of arrows, his rifle.
But he ignored them. Instead, his arms were open wide, his feet spread apart, his face inclined toward the sky. He sang as though he would praise the very sky itself.
It was a beautiful moment, but for the life of her she could not put to words why this was.
What was it that Swift Hawk held in his hand? A tuft of smoldering grass? Or was it sage, or sweet grass, perhaps? A few nights ago, Swift Hawk had informed her that Indians prayed using sage.
Was Swift Hawk praying?
Angelia paused, her chin lifting as she peered up at the man. Being raised a minister’s daughter, she should recognize prayer when she saw it.
Ever so slowly, she nodded. It was so. As she watched, it seemed to her as if the entire prairie had become his church.
From out of nowhere a ray of misty light spilled from the sky, shining dimly on the man. Angelia held her breath. The sight was incredible, as though all that was spiritual acknowledged this man.
The moment was extraordinary, set out of time, and gazing up at Swift Hawk, Angelia rammed headlong into a sudden awareness.
Perhaps it was because of their nightly lessons that Angelia was beginning to look upon Swift Hawk not simply as an Indian—someone alien to her—but she was beginning to view him as she might anyone else. Or perhaps it was because here, on this Western frontier, her perspective was changing. Whatever the reason, she realized that Swift Hawk’s people were not the savages they were being made out to be.
Here were not a people without God, without honor or intelligence; here were not a people without love. The caravan’s campfire stories, the newspaper articles she’d read, the soldiers’opinions, all these expressed the Indian as a savage.
