Gray Hawk's Lady: Blackfoot Warriors, Book 1 (10 page)

The older man paused in his work and did nothing more than stare at the young warrior. He said nothing.

At length, however, he swallowed and said, “Yes.”
He cleared his throat. “Well now, I don’t suppose she considered that. But come, my good man. There’s no use thinking about it. What will be is what will be. Meanwhile we have to get you fitted into these breeches. It would be the utmost of bad fortune if milady were to catch you again with your pants down.” The older man tried to effect a chuckle, though the action was lost on the younger man.

Said Gray Hawk, his gaze penetrating the other man, “You speak with the foresight of a child. And I am not uncertain that you also speak with crooked tongue.”

“I beg your pardon.”

Gray Hawk scowled. “What is this begging? I do not see you begging.”

Robert grimaced. “I do not mean that I am begging.”

“Then why do you say it?”

Robert exhaled noisily. “Merely an expression, lad. Merely an expression. What I am really saying is that I am not sure I heard you correctly. Could you please repeat it?”

“I would rather you beg.” Gray Hawk stuck out his chin and looked down at the other man.

“Yes,” the white man said, “I suppose that you would.”

The atmosphere in the cabin turned to silence. And though no more words were spoken, Gray Hawk allowed the man to fit him out in breeches.

No one, though, could stop the Indian when, the breeches fully in place and the young man gazing at himself in the mirror, he broke into a fit of laughter that continued on throughout the rest of the morning.

Chapter Five

Gray Hawk couldn’t believe his eyes.

He stood within the four walls of a room the white people called a “ballroom.” And he could barely credit what he saw.

He shook his head. Was the white woman so shameless that she would flaunt herself in public? Despite his own opinions of the woman, he had never thought to see her parade herself in such a manner as he was witnessing—and with all to see.

Gray Hawk frowned and looked away from the woman.

Almost a full moon had elapsed since his capture and containment aboard this boat. Out of necessity, Gray Hawk had come to a mild truce with these people. Having grown tired of his confinement, he had given his word that he would not try to escape so long as the white people allowed him to walk the decks outside, untied and unencumbered.

That he was bound back up when he reached his room suited him just fine. It meant the white people did not trust him in his own room; it meant he could escape from there when an opportunity presented itself. It meant there was still a chance.

But these walks had given him the freedom to observe the boat, the people on it, and he had gained insight into the society and customs of these people who invaded his country, although there was more here that puzzled him than enlightened him.

For instance, gently raised and bred as a Blackfoot scout and warrior, Gray Hawk could not understand why the white men insisted on carrying and displaying their weapons, while those same men divested the Indian of any guns, bows and arrows, even knives, while aboard the boat. Always, among his people, an enemy was given a fair chance in a fight.

The white man said he did this for the Indian’s own good, that this stripping of arms acted as a “protection” of the Indian, to prevent warring tribes from taking one another’s lives. Gray Hawk, however, keenly observed that this was not the case.

So far one Indian had lost his life because of it, that man being unable to defend himself against a drunken trapper who had taken it into his head to shoot bullets at the Indian’s feet.

To make him “dance,” the trapper had said.

The Indian lay dead.

Personally, Gray Hawk believed the white men were cowards, taking away the Indians’ weapons only so that the trappers and other white men could intimidate the Indians without fear of recourse. Hadn’t he already seen those white men shouting insults and degradations at them? Laughing at the Indians and calling them cowards because the Indians had no choice, under such unequal odds, but to stand and take the abuse?

Hadn’t he witnessed the taunting of the Indian wives and maidens at the trading posts? Hadn’t he wondered what happened at night when their men, weaponless, were unable to defend the home?

He snorted. Such measures were the actions of men who lacked confidence and courage.

Scowling, Gray Hawk swung his attention back toward the white woman.

She and several of the trappers and other white men circled the floor to the strains of several instruments.

Gray Hawk didn’t understand either the dancing or the music. For one thing, the white woman partnered the men, not dancing separately as was the Blackfoot custom. For another, she danced here completely unchaperoned.

To his own mind, when she did this, she flaunted her respectability. How could she hold on to her pride after she had touched and had been touched by so many men?

And though a part of him wanted to reason that perhaps the white man’s custom was different from his own, he still couldn’t quite credit it.

Women were, after all, women, weaker in strength and easy prey to men. Therefore, to his own way of thinking, a woman should consider her own vulnerability. If she truly took pride in herself, she should be looking to the men in her family for protection.

He thought back to his own tribe, the Pikuni. There, a similarly aged woman, faced with the same situation as he saw here, would have called upon her male relatives to protect her honor, her virginity.

But this white woman didn’t. Why? Was she beyond respectability?

The thought was oddly disturbing.

There was also something else that he had observed here that he didn’t understand: why did the white men cater to her? Waiting upon her as though she were distinguished, as though she were a warrior recently returned from a successful raid?

Never had he seen such a thing. And he wondered if this was a common practice among the whites, and if so, why the white men preferred to treat their women so badly.

All his life Gray Hawk had been taught that women had a rightful place in society, along with the men, but as women. Women possessed skills and emotions a man was often at a loss to explain. A stupid man might negate such things; a wise man valued them.

Even as a young boy, Gray Hawk had observed that men did not exercise their will against women, nor did men cross the line and do the work of a woman. For to wait on a woman when she was well enough to care for herself would be as to declare to that woman that she was not worthy of the man’s attention or affection. And no man who valued his woman would stoop to such a thing.

There was more. There was a certain protocol that men observed around women. And so far Gray Hawk had yet to observe this in the white world.

That a man would cower to a woman, that a man would fear her wrath, that a man would risk anything—even that woman’s respectability—to gain her favor, made Gray Hawk seriously wonder if the white men in this country had any backbone.

He had actually asked Robert to turn around one time that the Indian might see the white man’s back. But Robert had laughed and walked away, leaving Gray Hawk to ponder in silence the strangeness of this white society.

Robert sewed; Robert cleaned the room; Robert brought in the meals; Robert saw to the Indian’s comfort, providing him with blankets and other articles of warm clothing. Robert even took orders from the white woman.

Gray Hawk didn’t understand it. Gray Hawk didn’t appreciate it.

How could a woman take any pride in herself if the man in her life did all of her work? Did the white men think so badly of their women that they would take away the dignity and respect that came from a project well done, that was rightfully a woman’s?

The more he watched and observed, the more confused he became.

He had again asked Robert about these strange customs, but Robert had only shaken his head and laughed again, leaving Gray Hawk to draw his own conclusions as to the oddities he saw.

A movement out of the corner of his eye caught his attention.

She
stood there in the middle of the floor, surrounded by five or six adoring men, and despite his antagonism toward her, Gray Hawk couldn’t help but admit that she was probably the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. In truth, he had thought so from the first moment he had seen her.

“She’s quite a sight, isn’t she?”

Gray Hawk didn’t spin or in any way turn about to acknowledge Robert, who had come upon him from behind. Indeed, Gray Hawk did nothing more than scowl, though he did note to himself that Robert had read his mind correctly and had commented on his thoughts as if he’d heard them.

“She’s a true English heiress, my good chap.”

Gray Hawk merely raised an eyebrow. He didn’t know what an English heiress was, nor did he care, though he realized it must mean quite something to Robert, to these others, if their adoration toward her were to make sense.

“You could join that circle.”

That had the Indian doing a slow about-face. He was about to comment when—

“Why, yes,” he heard the white woman’s lilting voice, “I do know quite a bit about the American Indian…from my father’s studies, you understand.”

Gray Hawk glared at her over his shoulder.

“Would you like to hear some of what I know about these savages?”

Savages? Gray Hawk narrowed his eyes at her, to the accompaniment of six to ten male voices, all muttering agreement. All except the Indian stared at her in worshipful wonder.

“Well,” she commented, and Gray Hawk could hear the smile in her voice, “all American Indians on this continent wear tanned animal skins, the fine art of producing silk and other materials being wholly unknown to these indigenous people.”

Gray Hawk looked down at his own clothing of breeches and waistcoat, something Robert had fought hard to get him into; indeed, the servant had succeeded in doing so only by hiding the Indian’s own breechcloth and moccasins. And though he hated the white man’s clothing, for the first time Gray Hawk was glad he was wearing it.

Gray Hawk smiled and turned around so that he faced the woman. She had her back to him.

“All American Indians sit upon the ground. Chairs and other furniture of the civilized world are not known to them, nor would the savages know what to do with them if they even saw such articles.”

Gray Hawk immediately sat down in a nearby chair.

“Nor have the American Indians any china: no cups, no saucers, no plates, no silverware. In fact, my father has found that most American Indians eat with their fingers, a most disturbing habit.”

Gray Hawk picked up a cup of tea from a nearby table, and, balancing it saucer and all on his knee—behavior he had seen Robert and other white men perform—the Indian took a sip from the cup.

Someone in the audience chuckled.

The white woman cleared her throat.

“All American Indians, except for a few Mandan Indians, have straight, black hair, and most braid or tie their hair in a bunch on each side of their face.”

Only that morning Robert had shown Gray Hawk a white wig which had once been worn by the “elite” of their society. That wig still lay close at hand.

In a quick movement, Gray Hawk scooped up the wig and plopped it onto his head.

He sat back down.

Someone in the audience coughed. A few more chuckled.

“All of these savages rarely speak, and most scowl almost continually—and they have, as a people, very little cheerfulness. Why, even their women are given to the dour and humorless life of the plains Indian.”

Gray Hawk grinned widely and, putting his hands behind his head, leaned back in the chair.

“All Indians wear moccasins, a type of shoe that wears out much too readily.”

Gray Hawk crossed his legs, the action showing off his booted feet.

A tiny ripple of laughter came from the audience.

“They have no knowledge of smoking, except their clay pipes…”

The Indian lit a cigar Robert had given him that morning.

“They all eat a diet of only buffalo meat…”

The Indian picked up a scone from a nearby table and took a bite.

“They all—” She stopped. Too many in the crowd were chuckling.

She gazed into her audience, then over her shoulder; then gradually she turned all the way around. Gray Hawk grinned at her as he caught her eye, watching as the realization of what he had been doing came to settle upon her face.

She didn’t gasp. She didn’t faint. In truth, she did little more than stare.

And Gray Hawk met that look of hers unflinchingly.

Slowly, with great dignity, she turned back around to face her crowd of adoring fans. She didn’t utter a sound for many moments until at last she murmured, “Excuse me.”

And with that simple phrase, she swept out of the room while Gray Hawk settled back in his chair, a quiet sense of satisfaction settling upon him.

Score one.

Chapter Six