Silver huntress, p.7
Silver Huntress, page 7
“We have no system like this in our country,” he said as he approached the counter. “You seem to do it rather well.”
“It was marvelous!” Stanhope exclaimed, grinning. “I expect we could learn rather a let just from watching you.”
“Bring me something to trade,” she told them, smiling, “and I’ll show you what it’s like.”
“Oh, no,” Stanhope laughed, his hands raised in playful protest. “If I do that, I think I shall be lucky to escape with the shirt on my back.”
Deery leaned an elbow on the counter and glanced around the large room. “You’ll trade for almost anything, by the looks of it.”
She knew she was feeling too much pride in the unexpected shower of praise, but at the moment she wouldn’t feel guilty for her self-indulgence. She had done well and knew it, and she felt good that her success was not sloughed off to mere luck. “If it has value, if we can trade or sell for something else, yes,” she said.
“Well,” Deery said casually, “could you trade for silver?”
“We never see it,” she said without thinking. “The mountains here have game, not holes from digging for rocks.”
“I see.” He thought for a moment, then pushed himself upright. “You will still be joining us for dinner?” When she nodded, he knocked the counter with his knuckles. “We will expect you,” he said. And though it was clear Stanhope wished to linger for a few moments more, the two Englishmen left together, talking quietly and nearly colliding with Strong Bear when they passed him on the boardwalk. Apologies, a brief conversation, and the white-haired chief was inside scowling.
Samantha sensed a dark mood had settled over him like a storm cloud over the peaks of Medicine Bow Range. When he questioned her about the pelts, she gave him no more than the details. He grunted his satisfaction. Then he told her, with much chopping of the air and deep-squinted glaring, that the party Sinclair had brought in was annoying his people too much. Each of the riders had been walking through the village, stopping every Indian he met, and asking about the silver mine the Shoshone owned on the slopes. A few of them were surly, a few had tried bribes, and all were growing more unruly as they were met with blank faces. Some of the blame for this he obviously placed on Sinclair’s shoulders for not dispelling the myth before it took too strong a hold in the imaginations of outsiders.
When Samantha protested, however, he only shrugged. The silver mine was just one of his problems. Another was Black Wolf, who had last been seen that morning, riding into the western hills with Gaines and Hitchcock. The three had been carrying weapons. Deery had assured him they were merely scouting places where he and his companion could do some successful hunting, but Strong Bear doubted his story. So much so that he directed his daughter to learn as much about their activities as she could when she ate with them that evening. He needed to know just how careful he should be in dealing with these men from England.
It was not an unusual request. Because of her facility with English, conversation was not difficult. Because of her beauty, and the fact that most men tended to underestimate her intelligence because she was both a woman and an Indian, she had more than once elicited information that had been used to ward off potential problems for the tribe. In many cases it had turned into a game—how long could she manipulate a man’s vanity for the good of her clan before he realized he was being taken.
This time, however, she felt uneasy. It would be better, she thought, to concentrate on Gaines and Hitchcock than on the Englishmen. After all, they were strangers to this country and had probably been duped into believing the silver mine story. But considering her father’s black mood, she knew she’d be overruled. Besides, these men were from a place she could barely imagine existing. It would be fun to learn more about it and do Strong Bear’s bidding as well.
There was also an added possibility: Sinclair might be there. She’d been so busy during the day, she’d not been able to escape from the trading post long enough to search for him. At dinner, if he was there, she might have an opportunity to have a few words with him to underscore her concern.
Finishing her work swiftly, she rode Nightwalker home and spent over an hour bathing and agonizing over what she should wear. And for the first time in her life she experienced a pang of envy for the women in the communities far east of her mountain home. In pamphlets and books she had seen detailed drawings of frilled and elaborate gowns, and before this she had only scorned them. They were quite obviously impractical and virtually useless. And they were shocking—exposing parts of a woman’s figure that only her man should see.
Now, however, she felt a glimmering sense of occasion. Just as she had her white tunic and white fringed boots for celebrations and ceremonials, so did those women have their fancy ribbons and lace for the white world’s equivalents.
It didn’t take her long to begin wondering how she would look in their clothing.
She sighed, and shrugged.
While Strong Bear in the front room fumed and fretted that her pace matched that of a snail, she quickly donned the snow-bright dress, the glass-beaded headband, and the cloud-soft boots that encased her calves. She brushed her hair until she brought out its starlike highlights, and braided it deftly, weaving crimson ribbons and tufts of airy down from the chest of an owl through the braids. When she finally stood in front of the mirror, she turned first to one side, then to the other, smiling, frowning, swooping her palms down her sides to smooth out the deerskin that tightly hugged her figure.
Then her chin rose and her expression grew solemn. A princess, she thought, no matter what Father thinks. And when she walked into the front room, she barely noticed the disapproval in his eyes.
And once noticed, she ignored the look.
Tonight was going to be a very special occasion. She could sense it in the air, could feel it in the soft pounding of her heart. Tonight she was going to be treated as she had never been treated before.
SEVEN
The evening was soft, the air a whisper of velvet against her cheeks as she rode to the village and hitched Nightwalker in front of the trading post. The painted eagle over the doors stared blindly down at her, and she smiled a short prayer to the eagles in the mountains, thanking them for her good fortune. The smile turned to a quick grin when she realized her palms were moist, and she became short of breath.
Princess, she reminded herself, half in jest, half for something to cling to as she entered the hotel and moved swiftly up the corridor to the lobby, strangers or not, they must not forget who and what you are.
And though she had had no idea what to expect once she had arrived, she was surprised to discover that the dinner appeared to be a private one. In the dark-beamed, candlelit dining room only a single table had been set, directly in the center of the gleaming oaken floor; the other tables had either been taken from the room entirely or had been pushed back along the wainscoted pine walls. She hesitated in the open doorway, unsure of how to proceed, allowing her vision to adjust to the warm golden flickering from the glass-chimneyed sconces affixed to the walls.
She thought it magical, amazed that such a normally drab room could be transformed so easily into something dreamlike. And she wondered how much of it had been directed by Spotted Deer, how much by the Englishmen.
She thought at first she was alone, so long did she stand there admiring the scene before her, but the moment she took a nervous step over the threshold a figure drifted out of the shadows near the door through which she was walking. She held her breath, then relaxed—it was William Stanhope, dressed in a deep brown suit and silk ascot, so out of place in this mountain country that she could not help but stare unabashedly until he took hold of her hand and bowed low over it.
“I am very pleased,” he said warmly, “that you have consented to join us.”
The dancing light was trapped in his rich brown hair, and the angles of his face softened. There was no doubt he was a handsome man, with just enough youth left to prevent his face from being as deceptive as his friend’s. His black eyes smiled as well, and were openly admiring.
Abruptly she frowned, and Stanhope, concerned, asked her if something were the matter. “I am foolish,” she said in self-recrimination. “It is our custom to bring a small gift. I—I have forgotten to bring one.”
“No matter,” he said. “That you are here at all is gift enough, I should think.”
The words were pretty, and she acknowledged them with a smile, but she could not help wondering why her father had not reminded her of something so basic. Did he really distrust these people so much he was willing to risk their ire by being deliberately rude?
Stanhope, unaware of her distress, flashed his smile again and led her silently to the table. Once she was seated with her back to the door, he took the chair to her left and leaned back comfortably, the admiration she had noted earlier now in full bloom and crossing his face from his eyes to his lips. She looked away and brushed her hand over the dazzling white linen tablecloth, nodding to herself; this was not Spotted Deer’s work. The Englishmen, incredibly, must have brought the cloth with them, all the way from their country.
When she finally looked up again, Stanhope was still staring.
“Lovely,” he said quietly. Her gaze lowered to her lap.
“Please,” he said. “Please do not think me forward, Samantha—I may call you Samantha, mayn’t I?”
She nodded, puzzled at the faint fluttering she felt stirring in her stomach.
“Samantha it is, then. And as I said, please do not think me too impolite, but your dress is quite lovely. As is,” he added with a grin, “the rest of you.”
She had no idea how to respond to such overwhelming compliments. Perhaps, she thought, it was an Englishman’s way or custom to be so bold and frank; yet despite the novelty, she felt no unease at all. In fact she experienced quite the opposite sensation, and she had to chide herself for feeling as if she were a bird fluffing itself on the edge of a pond.
A silence drifted across the room, neither awkward nor unpleasant; it was, she thought in amazement, like the quiet between two old friends who did not feel compelled to fill the air with empty words. It so astonished her that she could not avoid looking to Stanhope to see if she could mark a similar reaction in him. There was nothing, however, but a smile and a nod. It puzzled her. Her instincts were not often wrong; she felt relaxed with him, yet she felt he was holding back his true feelings. Perhaps, she decided, it was because he felt he didn’t yet know her.
Then, with a barely audible sigh, he sat upright and reached toward the center of the table for a broad-faceted decanter of wine that had been placed between two polished tamarack candlesticks whose bases were carved in the shape of the closed talons of a hawk. As he poured some into each of their crystal glasses—the English way, she guessed—she glanced once more around the room, at the table setting, at the young man so dapper beside her. Spotted Deer had certainly outdone himself this night, and she imagined with a prideful inner smile that he and his family had spent the entire afternoon in the kitchen, slaving over a meal she prayed would not be more glitter than substance.
Still, something was missing, and it took her several seconds to pinpoint what it was.
“Mr. Deery—” she began, turning slightly in her chair to look into the dimly lit lobby.
“Ah, yes. Well, I’m afraid it’s a spot of business,” he told her regretfully. “He sends his apologies, but rest assured he will arrive presently.” His glass rose to his lips, the crystal winking in the candles’ glow. “To you, Samantha, and to your people,” he toasted.
She smiled—though not exactly sure what he was doing—and took a sip from her own glass. The wine was sweet, warm, and the languid burning that slid down her throat was like nothing she had ever tasted before. She sipped again, then stared at the swirling red liquid.
“You are not, I take it, used to such things,” Stanhope said with a nod toward the wine decanter.
“I have had this before,” she answered, not precisely certain why she should feel so defensive. “But only at the times when the—when your people take it. At the times you worship your God. Not like this.”
“Thank you,” he said. “And I am right, then, in saying you don’t drink wine as a habit.”
“The Shoshone,” she told him, “do not care for those things that take thought away.”
“A wise course, Samantha,” he said. “I can well imagine that a drunken hunter doesn’t bring back very much meat to his home or to the village.”
“Only,” she said, grinning, “an arrow in his foot.”
He laughed heartily and pulled his chair closer to the table. Then, pensively, he cupped his hands around the stem of his glass and looked at her solemnly. “Samantha, I think I ought to warn you about something.”
She tensed, her hands flat on the tablecloth.
“Sir Malcolm—” He paused, appearing to choose his words with care. “Sir Malcolm is not always the most diplomatic of men. While he certainly feels he owes you a debt because of the behavior of those men today, he is also, quite frankly, interested in the lost silver mine. As you have no doubt heard.”
“I have,” she said. “And … Sir Malcolm has been told, too, that there is no mine.”
Stanhope’s gaze lowered for a second, and her hand went immediately to her chest. The silver eagle lay on her breast, dangling from a beaded necklace. She’d slipped it on after leaving the cabin, thinking it would be important to impress these men as much as she could. She had no idea why at the time and had no idea now. She did know, however, that she had deliberately gone against her father’s express wishes and would be in a great deal of trouble should he discover what she’d done. Quickly, then, she related the pendant’s history to her eager listener and explained as carefully as her command of the language would allow that such trinkets were common among her people, who occasionally did make small finds. If there were a large vein of the precious metal, didn’t he think the Shoshone would be living in houses considerably more luxurious than those in Skywater? Not to mention the fact that they’d not have to run all the businesses they did.
Stanhope immediately lifted a hand in protest. “Samantha,” he said, “I am not questioning your honesty. Not in the slightest. I simply don’t want you to hold such talk against Sir Malcolm. He has worked very hard to reach the station in life he now holds, and it is in him to continue working until the day he dies. This”—he pointed to the eagle—“will only remind him of what he is after.”
Her smile was sardonic. “Your people,” she said, “spend much of their lives hunting money, don’t they?”
Stanhope shrugged. “There are a lot of things one can do with a lot of money, yes. It buys comfort, peace of mind—”
“And has other people looking for a way to take it from you,” she said.
“Indeed,” he admitted with a smile of his own. “But some people find that exciting. It gives—how shall I put it?—a purpose to one’s life.”
She sipped at the wine and found to her surprise the glass was empty. Before she could say anything, however, Stanhope had already tipped the decanter over it and let the thick liquid slide into her glass to the rim. Another drink, and she found herself responding to his gentle, earnest questions. He wanted to know how her people kept warm in winter. Did they really wear cloaks made from the hides of monster-sized bears? What was the significance of the paint he’d seen on Black Wolf’s chest? Why were the Shoshone, virtually alone among the other Indian nations, so blatantly friendly with the American whites? She answered as best she could, saying no more than she had to, and countering with questions of her own about this place called England. It pleased her to learn the ruler was a woman called Victoria, slightly less pleased to know the English were thinking of supporting those states beyond the mountains who permitted men to own other men in what was sure to lead to a war. Before she could explain her feelings further, however, a shadow fell across the table and Stanhope rose quickly to his feet.
Malcolm Deery stood in the doorway, dressed in an elaborate black suit with a long jacket and wide lapels, silver buttons, a gold-trimmed waistcoat, and an ascot held at his throat by a glittering diamond. Samantha smiled at him more warmly than she’d intended, and when his lips brushed over the back of her hand she felt a laugh budding in her chest. No Indian would dare consider such a gesture. It left the other hand out of sight, thus possibly armed for a treacherous blow. And the moment the thought passed through her mind she realized how foolish it was; she had somehow managed to confuse greetings between two men with a greeting between a man and a woman. She blinked slowly, barely hearing Deery compliment her on her appearance as he took his seat. She was suddenly very warm, and it didn’t take her long to realize it was the effect of the wine Stanhope, in his eagerness to please her, kept pouring into her glass.
Slowly, very slowly, she straightened herself in the chair and focused on the near candlestick. A surreptitious deep breath, a second, and a third, and the commands she kept sending to her thoughts finally lined them up coherently. Nevertheless, she fell into silence until she was positive she could control her tongue. Stanhope seemed puzzled, but Deery, taking her quiet as a sign of great interest, proceeded to describe their journey across the country, some of the curious people he had encountered, and some of the adventures he had experienced during his hunting.
And as he spoke, Spotted Deer and his wife slipped into the room bearing trays of food.
It was, as Samantha had predicted to herself, a large meal with more show than taste: venison, rabbit, corn from the fields, freshly baked bread steaming on a wooden platter, freshly churned butter from the small herd the Shoshone kept, strips of steak, a portion of fresh fish from Redhawk Creek, and small bowls brimming with dark red berries gathered by the children on the shadowed eastern slopes. Prepared by a more talented cook, the ingredients would have delighted the most critical of guests; Little Sky, however, had not been inspired, and she’d treated the fish and meat as she would for any ordinary occasion. As a result, Samantha was hard pressed to tell one dish from another.
