Sacred Is the Wind by Kerry Newcomb Read Free Book Online

on the roof, it truly had lost intensity.
    â€œWister …?”
    The old man turned.
    â€œI will sleep by the fire.”
    â€œHelp yourself,” the tavern keeper said. “Plenty of floor space. And I reckon the excitement’s about over. ’Lessen maybe the creek in back rises up and washes us all away.”
    Panther Burn’s gaze narrowed. “The o-he-ke … the creek … what is it called?”
    â€œWhy, uh, let’s see, in your lingo …” Wister glanced over at the man in the shadows for help. The gravelly voice drifted over to them.
    â€œ Mamaa-estse ,” said Sabbath McKean.
    Panther Burn felt the weariness leave him at the name the white man had spoken. Mamaa-estse! The Warbonnet! He leaned back upon the warm hardwood floor, closed his eyes, and drifted into sleep, exultant that his journey was over, never realizing it had only just begun.

2
    H alfway into the following day, Panther Burn lay beneath a green canopy of weeping willows. He cautiously settled down in the moist sand along the banks of the War-bonnet. Here where the creek became a broad sun-dappled pool with its golden gleaming stones shimmering below the jeweled surface of the water, four young Cheyenne women frolicked in the shallows. He grinned, shimmying underneath the leaf-tipped streamers, and worked himself into a better position with a more unobstructed view. He counted four actually in the creek-fed pond and seven more lying in various states of undress along the opposite bank, sitting by the water’s edge, washing their hair, braiding their thick strands, chattering to each other. One of the four in the water leaped upward. Panther Burn caught his breath at the sight of her lithe tawny limbs and torso rising from the surface of the pond. A flash of coppery skin, small firm breasts crowned by nipples the color of chokecherries. As the young woman slid once more below the surface, Panther Burn grudgingly lifted his eyes to the line of trees beyond the pond, where the creek spilled over a deadwood dam. Columns of smoke rose above the treetops. Sabbath McKean had instructed the young brave to follow the creek downstream in order to find the Southern Cheyenne village. He had not lied and in fact had even expressed an interest in accompanying the Northern Cheyenne. But at the last minute, McKean decided to continue on to the white man’s town of Castle Rock, for he was wary of the intentions of Colonel Jubal Bragg. As memories of departure from Foot o’ the Mountains faded, the Cheyenne brave returned his attention to the pond. In front of him, beyond the rotting logs, he noticed a pile of buckskin clothing. A thought came to mind as to how he might announce his arrival among his uncle’s people. His features brightened in a grin.
    Rebecca Blue Thrush burst upward from the pond, her long black hair whipping outward, fanning the other young women with a fine cold spray. Esther Madison, a Cheyenne woman who had taken the last name of her Anglo husband, laughed and shielded herself. Hope Moon Basket, a round-faced portly girl, dove toward Rebecca, determined to meet the challenge, and caught her off guard, knocking her off balance. Rebecca disappeared beneath the water, only to regain her footing and emerge choking and coughing water from her lungs. Esther Madison and Faith Little Shield rushed to help, but Rebecca waved them off, and cupping her hand, swept it across the surface and splashed Hope in the face. She sputtered, caught her breath, and splashed back. Esther, petite but resilient as whipcord when it came to girlish rough-and-tumble play, joined the fray, siding with Rebecca while Faith fittingly supported Hope. From the safety of the opposite bank the other girls cheered on their favorite combatants and wagered their recently gathered berries and roots on who would be the first to cry “enough.” Few were foolish enough to wager against Rebecca Blue Thrush. For the