culture which committed, even laughed at, the destruction of another human being, no matter what its civilized or savage aspect.
Without consciously willing it, she suddenly felt doomed, more so than at any other time—doomed to be neither white nor red, doomed to belong nowhere.
And it was this, perhaps more than anything else, which caused Julia to look within herself, searching for a spark of inner strength. And oddly, she found there, within herself, a shred of courage, a semblance of her spirit that would not allow her to quit. She found there an ability to cloak herself in insouciance.
And though another might not appreciate it, Julia knew she could at least pretend, if only for herself, that none of this mattered: not her captivity, not her heartache, not even Neeheeowee’s disregard for her. She could assume, if only for a little while, a nonchalance. And if she might truly feel the apathy of her plight, she determined that no one would know it.
“I will not quit!” she murmured to herself, and squaring back her shoulders, Julia lifted her head.
Rags or no, grime or no, she would allow no one, especially not Neeheeowee, or any other Indian, to realize she had lost. Lost faith in herself, faith in her fellow man, in Neeheeowee, faith in the gods that be. And though outwardly she might assume the appearance of being unaffected by her captivity, deep within her soul, Julia knew she would never be the same.
Her world, she herself, had forever changed.
“What do you know of the white captive?”
Neeheeowee’s question was met with silence. But at length Mahoohe, Red Fox, grinned, eyeing his brother-in-law with sly appreciation.
“Eaaa! She is pretty, despite her rags, is she not?”
Neeheeowee snorted. “Do you think I care whether a white slave is pretty or not?”
His brother-in-law merely raised an eyebrow. “And why would you not?”
Neeheeowee grunted, his only response.
The two men sat side by side within the lodge of Mahoohe, a buffalo robe laid out comfortably beneath them. Beside them, the men’s war shields and bows hung from the inner tepee lining, within their reach, while their quivers full of arrows were strung from the same, ready for use. The bottom flaps of the tepee were rolled up to permit fresh air into the lodge while the usual cooking stones and the buffalo-paunch which served as cooking pot were relegated to the outside, the cooking to be done in the open on this hot, spring day. The scent of sage on the floor, of sweet grass burning in the air, perfumed the atmosphere, already scented with the familiar tepee smells of leather, rawhide, and smoke. Sounds of camp life, of children playing outside, filtered into the lodge, forming a sort of muted background to their conversation. Now and again, the aroma of buffalo and wild turnip stew wafted into the lodge, enticing the taste buds of those within, churning an empty stomach.
Neeheeowee glanced to the spot where Mahoohe’s wife had chosen to store the family’s possessions. The parfleches, which acted as a sort of chest of drawers, now held Neeheeowee’s things, too. They were neatly set off to the side, these brightly beaded buffalo bags, whose designs depicted the special dream sequences belonging specifically to Mahoohe and his family.
The tepee flap suddenly opened, catching Neeheeowee’s attention, and he looked up to see Voesee, Happy Woman, Mahoohe’s sister, leading her small son into the lodge; both were followed by Aamehee, Always A Woman, Mahoohe’s wife.
It was an unusual sight, to see Mahoohe and his sister, Voesee, together since custom dictated that after a certain maturity of age, Cheyenne siblings of different sexes could not be alone with one another, nor could they speak to each other—at least not directly. And though this might seem strange to an outsider, to the Cheyenne, this conferred the greatest respect upon one’s brother or toward one’s sister.
But Voesee was not known for keeping
Without consciously willing it, she suddenly felt doomed, more so than at any other time—doomed to be neither white nor red, doomed to belong nowhere.
And it was this, perhaps more than anything else, which caused Julia to look within herself, searching for a spark of inner strength. And oddly, she found there, within herself, a shred of courage, a semblance of her spirit that would not allow her to quit. She found there an ability to cloak herself in insouciance.
And though another might not appreciate it, Julia knew she could at least pretend, if only for herself, that none of this mattered: not her captivity, not her heartache, not even Neeheeowee’s disregard for her. She could assume, if only for a little while, a nonchalance. And if she might truly feel the apathy of her plight, she determined that no one would know it.
“I will not quit!” she murmured to herself, and squaring back her shoulders, Julia lifted her head.
Rags or no, grime or no, she would allow no one, especially not Neeheeowee, or any other Indian, to realize she had lost. Lost faith in herself, faith in her fellow man, in Neeheeowee, faith in the gods that be. And though outwardly she might assume the appearance of being unaffected by her captivity, deep within her soul, Julia knew she would never be the same.
Her world, she herself, had forever changed.
“What do you know of the white captive?”
Neeheeowee’s question was met with silence. But at length Mahoohe, Red Fox, grinned, eyeing his brother-in-law with sly appreciation.
“Eaaa! She is pretty, despite her rags, is she not?”
Neeheeowee snorted. “Do you think I care whether a white slave is pretty or not?”
His brother-in-law merely raised an eyebrow. “And why would you not?”
Neeheeowee grunted, his only response.
The two men sat side by side within the lodge of Mahoohe, a buffalo robe laid out comfortably beneath them. Beside them, the men’s war shields and bows hung from the inner tepee lining, within their reach, while their quivers full of arrows were strung from the same, ready for use. The bottom flaps of the tepee were rolled up to permit fresh air into the lodge while the usual cooking stones and the buffalo-paunch which served as cooking pot were relegated to the outside, the cooking to be done in the open on this hot, spring day. The scent of sage on the floor, of sweet grass burning in the air, perfumed the atmosphere, already scented with the familiar tepee smells of leather, rawhide, and smoke. Sounds of camp life, of children playing outside, filtered into the lodge, forming a sort of muted background to their conversation. Now and again, the aroma of buffalo and wild turnip stew wafted into the lodge, enticing the taste buds of those within, churning an empty stomach.
Neeheeowee glanced to the spot where Mahoohe’s wife had chosen to store the family’s possessions. The parfleches, which acted as a sort of chest of drawers, now held Neeheeowee’s things, too. They were neatly set off to the side, these brightly beaded buffalo bags, whose designs depicted the special dream sequences belonging specifically to Mahoohe and his family.
The tepee flap suddenly opened, catching Neeheeowee’s attention, and he looked up to see Voesee, Happy Woman, Mahoohe’s sister, leading her small son into the lodge; both were followed by Aamehee, Always A Woman, Mahoohe’s wife.
It was an unusual sight, to see Mahoohe and his sister, Voesee, together since custom dictated that after a certain maturity of age, Cheyenne siblings of different sexes could not be alone with one another, nor could they speak to each other—at least not directly. And though this might seem strange to an outsider, to the Cheyenne, this conferred the greatest respect upon one’s brother or toward one’s sister.
But Voesee was not known for keeping
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