feeling, could it?
Chapter Five
Glancing at Night Thunder as he trod ahead of her gave Rebecca an odd feeling.
Tall, straight, with wide shoulders and slim hips, Night Thunder had to be one of the handsomest men of her acquaintance. With his black hair falling down his back, emphasizing the slenderness of his muscular body, she couldn’t be blamed if her gaze kept centering in upon him, could she? She had once estimated his age to be about twenty-seven years. Now she wondered. Though physically he might appear to be young, he exuded the emotions and wisdom of one much older and more experienced.
He wore a breechcloth and leggings that fit his legs so tightly, she could almost see the expanse of each muscle. Long fringe that looked to be part buckskin and part scalplocks, hung down the sides of his leggings, falling straight to the ground. And above his moccasins his leggings split, making a sort of rectangular panel over each ankle. His moccasins were black, making her wonder if this was perhaps how the Blackfeet had obtained their name. His gait was certain, sure, even when he was negotiating an expanse of difficult terrain.
He wore no shirt, like most of his companions. She supposed that was due to the hot summer weather. His lack of a shirt gave her more than an ample view of his back, the muscles defined for her inspection. He had several different small bags attached to the tanned belt that held up his breechcloth, as well as a beaded sheaf that encased his knife.
He wore an armband, decorated with beadwork and a certain type of fur she had trouble identifying. And across his back slashed his quiver full of arrows, his bow over one arm.
There were two feathers in his hair, tied with buckskin to a lock in back and hanging straight down. The feathers did not look like eagle feathers, although she couldn’t be certain. They looked more to be the feathers one would see from an owl.
Not that she was studying him all that closely, she tried to tell herself. It was only that he afforded her a singular view, the only thing she had to look at as he took the lead.
She sighed, deciding she was fooling no one but herself, and determinedly glanced away from him.
They had been traveling in a northerly direction for a few days now, their party conspicuously lacking horses. At first they had wandered only during the night, but more recently, perhaps because they were closer to their own territory, they journeyed during the hours when the sun was full in the sky.
“Night Thunder? Why is it that we have no horses?” she asked, taking a few quick steps to catch up with him.
He didn’t break stride or turn to look at her, and she feared he was not going to answer her. Then he said, “This is a war party which set out to avenge the death of Strikes The Bear’s wife.”
“Strikes The Bear?”
“The one who captured you.”
“Oh.” She quickened her pace to keep up with him. It threw her out of breath, but she didn’t slow down. She was too intent on having a conversation with this man. All day long their party had been traveling over dry, arid, seemingly endless prairie. And though the country they traversed provided a beautiful view and would seem to inspire conversation, no one appeared inclined to talk. It was a situation she intended to remedy.
“And capturing me, was that the way they were intending to seek revenge?”
“ Aa .”
“But her death had nothing to do with me.”
“ Saa, no, it did not,” Night Thunder answered, “but you are white and a woman, and Strikes The Bear’s heart was grieved. It seemed to him that you provided the best means of retaliation, I think.”
“But that is not fair, is it?”
“Fair? What means ‘fair’?”
“Fair means to be just, evenhanded, unprejudiced. It means to treat others as one would want to be treated.”
“ Aa ,”he said, “fair. That is a good word.” He paused. “And is it ‘fair,’ do you think, to kill many hundreds of Indians—men,
Chapter Five
Glancing at Night Thunder as he trod ahead of her gave Rebecca an odd feeling.
Tall, straight, with wide shoulders and slim hips, Night Thunder had to be one of the handsomest men of her acquaintance. With his black hair falling down his back, emphasizing the slenderness of his muscular body, she couldn’t be blamed if her gaze kept centering in upon him, could she? She had once estimated his age to be about twenty-seven years. Now she wondered. Though physically he might appear to be young, he exuded the emotions and wisdom of one much older and more experienced.
He wore a breechcloth and leggings that fit his legs so tightly, she could almost see the expanse of each muscle. Long fringe that looked to be part buckskin and part scalplocks, hung down the sides of his leggings, falling straight to the ground. And above his moccasins his leggings split, making a sort of rectangular panel over each ankle. His moccasins were black, making her wonder if this was perhaps how the Blackfeet had obtained their name. His gait was certain, sure, even when he was negotiating an expanse of difficult terrain.
He wore no shirt, like most of his companions. She supposed that was due to the hot summer weather. His lack of a shirt gave her more than an ample view of his back, the muscles defined for her inspection. He had several different small bags attached to the tanned belt that held up his breechcloth, as well as a beaded sheaf that encased his knife.
He wore an armband, decorated with beadwork and a certain type of fur she had trouble identifying. And across his back slashed his quiver full of arrows, his bow over one arm.
There were two feathers in his hair, tied with buckskin to a lock in back and hanging straight down. The feathers did not look like eagle feathers, although she couldn’t be certain. They looked more to be the feathers one would see from an owl.
Not that she was studying him all that closely, she tried to tell herself. It was only that he afforded her a singular view, the only thing she had to look at as he took the lead.
She sighed, deciding she was fooling no one but herself, and determinedly glanced away from him.
They had been traveling in a northerly direction for a few days now, their party conspicuously lacking horses. At first they had wandered only during the night, but more recently, perhaps because they were closer to their own territory, they journeyed during the hours when the sun was full in the sky.
“Night Thunder? Why is it that we have no horses?” she asked, taking a few quick steps to catch up with him.
He didn’t break stride or turn to look at her, and she feared he was not going to answer her. Then he said, “This is a war party which set out to avenge the death of Strikes The Bear’s wife.”
“Strikes The Bear?”
“The one who captured you.”
“Oh.” She quickened her pace to keep up with him. It threw her out of breath, but she didn’t slow down. She was too intent on having a conversation with this man. All day long their party had been traveling over dry, arid, seemingly endless prairie. And though the country they traversed provided a beautiful view and would seem to inspire conversation, no one appeared inclined to talk. It was a situation she intended to remedy.
“And capturing me, was that the way they were intending to seek revenge?”
“ Aa .”
“But her death had nothing to do with me.”
“ Saa, no, it did not,” Night Thunder answered, “but you are white and a woman, and Strikes The Bear’s heart was grieved. It seemed to him that you provided the best means of retaliation, I think.”
“But that is not fair, is it?”
“Fair? What means ‘fair’?”
“Fair means to be just, evenhanded, unprejudiced. It means to treat others as one would want to be treated.”
“ Aa ,”he said, “fair. That is a good word.” He paused. “And is it ‘fair,’ do you think, to kill many hundreds of Indians—men,
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