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—Bryant
The day was brilliant with sunlight, the air sporting only a slight chilling breeze. It was a fun and carefree day for Mariah as she stood beside Echohawk in a meadow spotted with autumn wildflowers, amazed at his quickly improving skills with a rifle, though he was still half-blinded.
She watched breathlessly as he reloaded his rifle, then aimed and shot at the blue-winged teal, the most delicious of feathered creation, as the flock flew past. When one fluttered to the ground lifeless, the others changed directions in unison, yet did not immediately fly away from the danger of more gunfire. They continued to soar overhead, seemingly oblivious of the continuing threat.
Echohawk went to the fallen bird and picked it up by its legs and carried it to his horse, securing it with a rope behind the saddle. “As you see, though my eyesight has been impaired by the white man’s blow to my head, I shall master again my weapons,” he said as Mariah stepped up beside him. He gazed into the sky, seeing only smears where there were birds—the teals still enjoying sweeping high, then low across the wide stretches of the meadow.
“I am so proud for you,” Mariah said, smiling at him, trying not to think about the man responsible for his dilemma.
Her father!
She knew that she would never wholly relax until somehow she settled things with Echohawk about her true identity.
“You see how the birds fly high, then low?” Echohawk said, resting the barrel of his rifle in the crook of his left arm. “It is best not to fire upon the blue-winged teal if they are flying high in the autumn of the year, for they are fattened on the wild rice of the river and would burst open upon falling.”
“I went on hunts with my father often, but mostly for animals, not birds,” Mariah said, feeling sad when she gazed at the beautiful thing hanging lifeless on Blaze. “It seems such a pity to kill something so . . . so . . . beautiful.”
“When you live solely off the land and animals, as the Chippewa have for generation after generation, you close your eyes to the beauty of those birds and animals that you kill,” Echohawk said softly. “You look at them as food for your people, for their survival.”
He frowned down at Mariah. “Until the white people came to our land, there was not such a struggle each day to find food,” he said, his words edged with bitterness. “Each day there are fewer animals, for the white trappers have used steel teeth in which to trap the innocent animals, and not only a few daily. They trap many each day. Soon, even, some of the animals that roam the lands today will become extinct. Then what of the red man?”
Mariah’s lips parted, and she blanched, knowing exactly what he was referring to. Her father and his men moved through the forest daily, taking from it what they could, not stopping to think about the harm in killing in numbers.
They wanted the pelts, at any cost.
“Let us travel onward,” Echohawk said, offering Mariah a hand. “There is some place I would like to take you.”
Mariah sighed shakily as she let him help her into the saddle, then relished the solid strength of his arm as he placed it around her waist and settled into the saddle behind her.
Echohawk took the reins and wheeled his steed around, soon galloping across the sun-drenched meadow. They rode for some time; then he drew rein at the foot of a butte.
“We must go the rest of the way on foot,” Echohawk said, dismounting, then assisting Mariah from the saddle. “Up there,” he said, pointing at the high butte overhead. “What I want to share with you is on the butte, a place of peace, where land and sky become as one.”
“What is it you wish to show me?” Mariah asked, falling into step beside him as they started walking up a narrow path.
Echohawk did not respond. He moved determinedly upward. A strange sort of haunting in his eyes caused Mariah to become apprehensive. What had he so adamantly chosen to show her?
She quickly reminded herself that she had thus far placed much trust in him, as well as the rest of the Chippewa, and hoped that such trust was warranted.
Yet now, with their adventurous day marred by his indifferent, cold attitude, she was not sure if she had trusted too quickly!
What if he had discovered who she was and planned to shove her off the butte as payment for her treachery. It would be so simple for him to lead her into a trap!
But her worries were cast into the wind, so it seemed, when they reached the top of the butte. Where the land leveled off, her breath was stolen away when she saw the site of many graves lying side by side.
“My fallen people’s resting places,” Echohawk said, looking glumly down at the mounds of earth.
He walked to a grave marked with a cedar post and knelt beside it, placing a hand on the mound of earth. “This is my father’s,” he said, his voice breaking.
“If only it were I lying there instead of my beloved father!” Echohawk said, his voice filled with anguish. “My heart cries out for him both night and day. Never were a son and father so close! So devoted!”
As Mariah watched Echohawk despairing so deeply over the loss of his father, she covered her mouth with a hand, stifling a sob behind it, regret and guilt fusing within her. She wan
ted to shout to Echohawk that she was sorry for his distress. She had never had such a shared love with a father, and now that she knew such things could exist, she ached inside for having participated in destroying that special bonding.
Echohawk turned to Mariah and offered her a hand. “Come,” he said. “Kneel beside me. Let my father feel your presence at my side. Because of you, his son is still alive.”
His words, his trust in her, made Mariah’s heart feel as though it were tearing in shreds. But she had to put on a good front, for even though he could not see the pained expression on her face, he would be able to hear it in her voice. This was not the time to reveal truths to him. Not while he was at his father’s grave, where only peaceful thoughts should be shared.
