and sat down beside Sage.
Slowly and methodically, Spotted Feather began splashing water from the container onto the hot rocks. A wave of intense heat wafted around the inside of the hut, striking the warriorsâ bodies, causing them to sweat profusely. Some who got too hot sank their heads lower, between their legs.
âHan-e-ga! Han-e-ga! â rang out among the men each time water splashed on the rocks, meaning âgood.â
Then Sage began singing softly, Naye-e sin, the War Song. After the song was finished, the men would put special war feathers in their hair. Ornamented with turquoise, the war feathers were never seen by women or children. Each of the warriors believed that if a woman or a child saw his war feathers, it might cause him to behave like a woman or a child in battle. For Sage and his men, such behavior would bring disgrace to the god Nayenezrani, who had given them the War Song and the rituals surrounding it.
After singing and taking the sweat bath, they left the lodge and dived into the river to cleanse themselves, then banded together as they dressed in their finest warring gear. They put on war shirts made of the thickest buckskin obtainable. Since Sage was their chief and the wealthiest of them all, he used four thicknesses of buckskin, glued together with sticky gum from leaves of the prickly pear cactus.
Each of the warriors fortified himself by eating dried yucca, which would give him energy, and then they all mounted. They made a fine sight on their beautiful horses, the men wrapped in striped blankets belted at the waist, with the silver buttons on their tight breeches gleaming in the sun. Their brightly painted lances bristled fiercely at their sides, and many of the men carried bows and arrows and rifles as well.
Sage felt displaced. Never had he expected to have to go against the white pony soldiers for any reason. Especially not now, for he did not want to think that Leonida might be harmed. At this moment in time, her heart was pure toward the Navaho. But how would she feel once she discovered that he was capable of abducting innocent women and children? He despaired to himself.
He sighed heavily, knowing that he must restrain himself from ever thinking about her again or caring what she thought about anything.
She was now as much his enemy as Kit Carson was.
Chapter 7
A creature might forget to weep, who bore
Thy comfort long, and lose thy love thereby.
âE LIZABETH B ARRETT B ROWNING
Â
Â
After a full night in the stagecoach, having stopped only long enough at daybreak for everyone to see to their personal needs in the privacy of the bushes, and for everyone to partake of a quick meal of cold beans and beef jerky, Leonida was now squeezed back inside, among the whining children, long tired of hearing stories, and their mothers, who had ran out of ways to please them.
It was midday, the sun was pouring down from the sky in a beating heat, the worst of it seemingly trapped inside the stagecoach.
Leonida fanned herself with one hand as perspiration trickled down her face. She drew her drawstring blouse partially away from her chest, where perspiration was beading up in the valley of her breasts. As she held the blouse away from her skin, she blew down the front of it, receiving at least a momentâs relief.
Feeling lucky to be sitting beside a window, Leonida leaned her face over close to it, flinching when the driver of the stagecoach drew back his whip and uncoiled it, snapping it like a fusillade of rifle fire.
Chains clanked. Axles groaned. The horses strained in their harnesses as the stagecoach moved along on its way in a great cloud of dust. The driver whistled softly through his teeth while the military escorts kept a steady pace beside, in front of, and behind the stagecoach.
Trying to ignore the complaining children, Leonida settled herself as comfortably as possible against the back of the seat again. Once again fanning herself with her hand,
Slowly and methodically, Spotted Feather began splashing water from the container onto the hot rocks. A wave of intense heat wafted around the inside of the hut, striking the warriorsâ bodies, causing them to sweat profusely. Some who got too hot sank their heads lower, between their legs.
âHan-e-ga! Han-e-ga! â rang out among the men each time water splashed on the rocks, meaning âgood.â
Then Sage began singing softly, Naye-e sin, the War Song. After the song was finished, the men would put special war feathers in their hair. Ornamented with turquoise, the war feathers were never seen by women or children. Each of the warriors believed that if a woman or a child saw his war feathers, it might cause him to behave like a woman or a child in battle. For Sage and his men, such behavior would bring disgrace to the god Nayenezrani, who had given them the War Song and the rituals surrounding it.
After singing and taking the sweat bath, they left the lodge and dived into the river to cleanse themselves, then banded together as they dressed in their finest warring gear. They put on war shirts made of the thickest buckskin obtainable. Since Sage was their chief and the wealthiest of them all, he used four thicknesses of buckskin, glued together with sticky gum from leaves of the prickly pear cactus.
Each of the warriors fortified himself by eating dried yucca, which would give him energy, and then they all mounted. They made a fine sight on their beautiful horses, the men wrapped in striped blankets belted at the waist, with the silver buttons on their tight breeches gleaming in the sun. Their brightly painted lances bristled fiercely at their sides, and many of the men carried bows and arrows and rifles as well.
Sage felt displaced. Never had he expected to have to go against the white pony soldiers for any reason. Especially not now, for he did not want to think that Leonida might be harmed. At this moment in time, her heart was pure toward the Navaho. But how would she feel once she discovered that he was capable of abducting innocent women and children? He despaired to himself.
He sighed heavily, knowing that he must restrain himself from ever thinking about her again or caring what she thought about anything.
She was now as much his enemy as Kit Carson was.
Chapter 7
A creature might forget to weep, who bore
Thy comfort long, and lose thy love thereby.
âE LIZABETH B ARRETT B ROWNING
Â
Â
After a full night in the stagecoach, having stopped only long enough at daybreak for everyone to see to their personal needs in the privacy of the bushes, and for everyone to partake of a quick meal of cold beans and beef jerky, Leonida was now squeezed back inside, among the whining children, long tired of hearing stories, and their mothers, who had ran out of ways to please them.
It was midday, the sun was pouring down from the sky in a beating heat, the worst of it seemingly trapped inside the stagecoach.
Leonida fanned herself with one hand as perspiration trickled down her face. She drew her drawstring blouse partially away from her chest, where perspiration was beading up in the valley of her breasts. As she held the blouse away from her skin, she blew down the front of it, receiving at least a momentâs relief.
Feeling lucky to be sitting beside a window, Leonida leaned her face over close to it, flinching when the driver of the stagecoach drew back his whip and uncoiled it, snapping it like a fusillade of rifle fire.
Chains clanked. Axles groaned. The horses strained in their harnesses as the stagecoach moved along on its way in a great cloud of dust. The driver whistled softly through his teeth while the military escorts kept a steady pace beside, in front of, and behind the stagecoach.
Trying to ignore the complaining children, Leonida settled herself as comfortably as possible against the back of the seat again. Once again fanning herself with her hand,
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