Page 18 of The Last Warrior

Still, there was one aspect of their friendship which Black Lion wished were different: she paid him money to stand watch over her and to act as her guard. Because it was not in his nature to take money from a woman, oftentimes he felt the guilt of doing this. Many times he had tried to tell her it was his duty to protect a person who was his elder and, this being so, he should not receive remuneration. But her only reaction to this had been to laugh.

“Elder?” she had asked him, batting her eyelashes at him.

Black Lion had grinned, but the point had been made. He had never mentioned the matter again, nor had she, although she still continued to pay him wages for his services as a watchdog. As a consequence, since he had no use for the white man’s money, he was sending what little he had back to the reservation. His friend, Two Bears, would need it. With the deep snows of winter upon them, and because he feared Two Bears might still be ill, he suspected his friend would be only too happy to receive the gift.

“Auntie,” Black Lion called out again, “I have come to call on you as your note asked me to do.”

No answer.

Black Lion waited a moment. “Auntie?”

Obviously she wasn’t in. Should he linger?

He knew the answer, of course. Her note had said she needed him immediately. If such were the case, then he would stay here all day, if necessary. Though his feet were cold, stoic-like he sat on his haunches, ready and willing to wait.

He turned his attention outward, at the snow gently falling to the earth. He appreciated this time of year, prized it for the lack of sound a good snowstorm lent to the air, and he basked in the quiet cast all around him.

However, were he at home, back on the reservation, he might not feel so kindly toward the winter. This time of year was often brutal for his people. Food could be scarce.

But this was not so here at the Wild West Show. There was more food to go around than any of them could possibly eat, a circumstance which often left Black Lion full, happy and able to relish the beauty of the season without fear of imminent peril. If only it could be so for the people back on the reservation. Perhaps when his duty was discharged and he didn’t feel the constant burden of the responsibility which drove him, he might lend his hand at changing this aspect of reservation life. None should go hungry.

On this thought, he again directed his attention outward. It was then he heard it. What was it? Tinkling, as white man’s glasses sound when they touch? No, this was different. This had a melody to it.

Curious, he rose, turning his notice to the Song Bird’s tent. The sound was coming from in there.

“Auntie?” he cried out again.

Still no answer. But someone was in there. He could hear their movements, like the faint swish of silk over canvas.

Cautiously, as quietly as his namesake, he ducked in beneath the tent’s entrance flap, and like a cat, crept into the inner sanctuary of the Song Bird’s private quarters. Hers was an unusual tepee. It was quartered off into sections, with drapes and room dividers making four separate spaces. The sound came from the back room. There, he could see a soft beam flickering, and the scent of a gaslight wafted to him.

Creeping silently across the outer parlor, as the Song Bird liked to call this room, Black Lion paced one careful step after another, until at last he had reached the Japanese-constructed room dividers.

Squatting, he peeked around the partition.

A woman swayed to the pulsing sound of a music box. Her back was turned toward him, and all he could see was a cascade of long dark hair, a slim body and gentle curves beneath a robe that hugged her silhouette.

She danced. And she danced. After a while, she started to hum in time to the music, as well. As though bewitched, Black Lion couldn’t move.

Who was she?

Then she sang aloud, softly at first, but as the song rose and fell, her words gained more and more beauty. Her voice was spellbinding, like nothing of this world. He wondered if he had stumbled upon a goddess.

The tinkling music in the box slowed. The woman crossed the floor toward the music container, turned the key, and the tune played all over again.

Barely daring to breathe, Black Lion continued to watch.

Should he announce himself? Was it right to remain where he was and stare at her without her knowledge? But if he made her aware of his presence, would it end the enchantment?

Because he feared it might be so, he remained hidden.

Still swaying to the slow beat of the music, she turned her profile toward him. For the first time since stepping foot inside this tent, he saw her in full, and he was startled to witness the tears falling over her cheeks. She inhaled a ragged breath, breathed out, and more tears slid down a perfect profile—one he recognized.

It was she, the beauty from England. The woman he had knocked into the mud so unceremoniously.

What was she doing here? And why was she crying? She had been anything but melancholy on the day when he had met her.

Black Lion straightened and tipped forward on his feet, as though with his body he might reach out and give her comfort.