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But I, grown shrewder, scan the skies
With a suspicious air—
—EMILY DICKINSON
Day lay golden along the top of the cliffs. Like a desert mirage, the canyon spread an emerald counterpane in the midst of an arid land. Irrigated by springs that swelled to a creek, the valley bloomed with willows and lofty cottonwoods. The canyon and the village of hogans nestled in the shadow of a colossal rampart of red rock wall.
Sage took the saddle and bridle off his stallion and began tying a thong about his animal’s lower jaw, then stood with one hand on the horse’s withers as he turned to welcome two of his most trusted scouts, riding hard toward him.
Something in Sage’s heart told him that the scouts were bringing more bad news. It was in their eyes and the set of their jaws and the way they made such haste into the village. Sage was not sure that he was ready to be told anything else. He and his people had just arrived back at the stronghold, the journey from Fort Defiance a quiet one.
Although Sage and many other Navaho leaders had said they would not leave this land that had belonged to their ancestors, he knew that to stay meant death to many of his people. Kit Carson had become someone foreign to the Navaho. He had stopped being Sage’s friend when he aligned himself with the other white leaders whose lives were fueled by greed and cold hearts toward all Indians.
As Sage’s scouts wheeled their horses to a thundering, dust-flying halt, his thoughts returned fleetingly to the moment when he had held the lovely white woman in his arms. In that instant of passion he had forgotten everything but the woman.
But now, thinking back, she was to him like the peace that had once sealed hearts in friendship between himself and the white leaders.
Forever gone.
“What news have you brought me?” Sage asked, forcing his thoughts back to the present. “It is hogay-gahn, bad?”
Spotted Feather stepped forward and placed a heavy hand on Sage’s shoulder. “Yes, it is hogay-gahn,” he said. The silver buttons on his leggings flashed in the sun, his waist-length black hair fluttered in the breeze. “A lie was spread to those in charge at Ford Defiance, and to Kit Carson. It was said that you led a recent raid that killed many settlers. Because of this lie, and because the white leaders believed it to be true, the white pony soldiers have been ordered to round up our people, and to kill you if you resist.”
Sage’s heart began pumping wildly within his chest. His eyes flared with rage. “And so they go this far, do they?” he said between clenched teeth. “It is not enough that they have given the order that our land will no longer be ours. But now they will take it by force. Even kill me, while doing it?”
“Only if you resist,” Spotted Feather said, lowering his hand from Sage’s shoulder. “Only . . . if . . . you resist.”
Black Thunder stepped forward, his dark eyes narrowing. “Let us gather together many Navaho and attack Fort Defiance,” he growled. “Let us show them that they are wrong to go against us in such a way. Let us fight for our land to the death. That is the honorable way.”
Sage nodded. “We will not go against the whole United States Army,” he said. “But we will use a tactic used before that made the white leaders stop and take notice. Although the strategy is unpleasant to me, I see that we must blackmail the white leaders into changing their minds.”
“Blackmail?” Spotted Feather said, arching an eyebrow. “Why do you plan blackmail? And how will this blackmail be carried out?”
“We will use white women and children as bargaining tools,” Sage said, smiling slowly.
“And where do we get these captives?” Black Thunder asked, as he curved his fingers around a knife clasped at his waist. “Do we take scalps from some and leave them dying beneath the sun, to prove we have others as hostages?”
“No, no scalps,” Sage said, his thoughts once again catapulting to Leonida and the beautiful color of her hair. It was as golden as the sun, and it gave him a feeling of forebod
ing to think even for a moment of seeing it hanging on a scalp pole.
“And no, no deaths,” Sage said in a deep growl.
“Where do we get these captives?” Black Thunder persisted. “Do we raid the settlers’ homesteads since we are already being accused of the atrocity anyway?”
“No,” Sage said dryly. “We will not raid the homesteads to get our captives. We will go in search of a stagecoach. Those who journey aboard that sort of travel vehicle are usually related closely to those in charge at the fort. Those will make the best bargaining tools of all.”
“There are always military escorts,” Spotted Feather said, leaning his face close to Sage’s. “Do we kill them?”
Sage glowered at Spotted Feather. “Did you not hear me say there are to be no deaths?” he snapped angrily. “We will avoid killing at all costs. We kill only if forced to save our own lives.”
Sage gave his horse a fond pat, then walked away from it. He looked over his shoulder at his two scouts. “Spread the word. Let us make haste in preparing ourselves. I will be waiting in the sweat lodge for my warriors.”
Hardly aware of anything around him, his mind so torn with feelings, Sage walked through his village, paying no heed to those who spoke to him from the doorways of their hogans or from the outdoor cook fires where many had gathered in the late afternoon. He was hardly even aware of the pleasant aroma of corn roasting over the large, communal outdoor fire, or of the sounds of the looms at work throughout his village. In his imagination he was experiencing an impossible dream that involved Leonida.
He was feeling her deeply within his heart.
He was tasting her.
