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“Gah-ween-wee-kah, never,” he hissed. He gestured with a wave of a hand toward the entrance flap. “Nah-quszly, leave. Ah-szhee-gawh, now! I am soon to be taken to the resting place of my father and those of my people who are buried with him. I do not wish to have a white woman accompany me where she is not wanted.”
Stifling a sob behind her hand, Mariah rose and ran to the entrance flap, rushing outside. Blinded with tears, she went to her wigwam and threw herself on a pallet of furs close beside her firepit.
The fire was warm on her flesh, but her heart was cold and aching. She saw no chance at all of getting close to Echohawk, yet she was not going to give up this easily! She would stay at the village indefinitely. She would find a way to make him realize that she was a friend—even more than that. She had felt a bonding between them, that which could develop into something more, now especially since he had admitted to having felt a difference in hers and Nee-kah’s presences when they had taken turns sitting with him.
“I know he doesn’t hate me,” she cried to herself. “He just wants to so badly, he won’t allow himself to give me a chance!”
When she heard hoofbeats passing by just outside of her wigwam, Mariah went listlessly to the entrance flap, lifted it, and peered out. She wiped tears from her eyes as she watched Echohawk riding by, flanked on each side by two braves, who were keeping a close eye on him, lest he should start to fall from the horse in his weakness.
A deep sadness engulfed her as she went back to the fire and sat down beside it. She felt helpless—totally helpless.
Drained of all energy and hope, she stretched out beside the fire and fell into a restless sleep, then was drawn quickly awake when she heard a voice that was familiar to her speaking close by outside. She paled and her insides tightened when she realized who was there, in the very same village as she! And thank God Echohawk had gone to his father’s burial grounds! For the man he hated with all his might was there, bold as an eagle, mixing with the Chippewa, after having just slain so many!
She went to the entrance flap and scooted it aside only slightly, spying her father still on his stallion, yet most of his identity hidden in the shadows of a large-brimmed hat pulled low over his brow. He wore a large buckskin cape, hiding his lame leg beneath it.
Yes, Mariah thought bitterly, he was very well disguised.
She watched breathlessly as Chief Silver Wing went to her father and stared coldly up at him.
“I do not know you,” the chief said, his voice far from friendly. “Why do you come to my village?” He looked cautiously from side to side, at Victor’s two companions, realizing that there were others hidden in the forest, for his braves had come with such a warning. The three white men had entered the village only because Chief Silver Wing allowed it, his braves’ weapons drawn on them at all times.
“I come in peace. I am searching for my daughter,” Victor said, keeping his voice low and unthreatening. “She disappeared several days ago. Is there a chance that you might have seen her?”
Mariah’s heart raced, praying that the chief would recall why she had fled her father. And she prayed that the chief would recall how she had been welcomed into the village, almost as one of them, since her act of bravery.
“This daughter,” Chief Silver Wing said, his voice steady. “What is her name?”
“Mariah,” Victor said softly. “She goes by the name Mariah.”
Chief Silver Wing’s jaw tightened as he recalled how No-din had spoke so unfavorably of such a father, and how she had fled his wrath. “Gah-ween, no, I do not know of such a person named Mariah,” he said, the lie coming easy across his lips. “Now leave, white man. You have no cause to be here.”
Victor glared down at the chief for a moment, then wheeled his horse around and rode briskly away.
Mariah went limp with relief. When Nee-kah came into the wigwam and lunged into Mariah’s arms, she clung to her friend, feeling blessed for having found someone so compassionate, when in truth, it could have been so different. These Chippewa could have burned her on a stake, or could have gladly handed her over to her father, to rid themselves of her.
Instead, they were protecting her as though she were truly one of them.
She clung to Nee-kah, hoping that Echohawk would eventually feel the same about her.
Chapter 10
An able man shows his spirit by gentle words and
resolute actions; be is neither hot nor timid.
—Chesterfield
Several Days Later
The day was pleasantly warm, even though the trees had changed to marvelous shades of gold, russet, and crimson. To bide time until she could find out where Echohawk had gone for target practice, Mariah was with Nee-kah and several other Indian women on a root-digging expedition, helping to collect roots to dry for the upcoming winter’s use.
As she trod through the forest, Nee-kah at her side, Mariah became lost in thought. She had decided never to give up on her promise that she would find a way to make wrongs right for Echohawk. Sitting vigil at his side while he had been recovering had not been enough, it seemed. Once he had recovered enough to be alone, to do things as he liked, and at his own pace, he did not allow her near him.
Yet Mariah did not take that too personally. He had not allowed anyone to be with him in his time of awkwardness while trying to learn again how to survive in everyday ritual and to aim accurately at a target with impaired eyes. True, he had refused to let her become his eyes, but he had also refused trusted braves who had offered their services.
“No-din, we Chippewa are constantly aware of the need of conservation,” Nee-kah said, quickly wrenching Mariah from her thoughts. “When we gather roots, some plants are left for seed. Earth is mother, who furnishes the food, and we Chippewa are considerate not to leave her scarred.” She paused and brushed away a string of cobweb as it floated just in front of her face, one of the aggravations of autumn. “A few berries are always left on bushes for birds and squirrels and other animals,” she further explained. “We never forget that the animals are the future food for our people.”
“That is such a lovely way of explaining it,” Mariah said, shifting her basket from one hand to the other. “I am discovering that the Chippewa are quite artistic, not only in designs I have seen on their clothes and dwellings but also in expressing their thoughts.”
