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Susan Blackhawk 11/6/2014 8:59:59 AM
SUSAN BLACKHAWK
The copper-skinned young woman reined her spotted pony and dismounted behind a group of tall cottonwoods. A warm summer breeze fluttered through the branches as she pulled off her wet, beaded headband and unbraided her hair. She walked quickly down the narrow pathway to her secret pond as she had many times before. At the pool’s edge, she sat on a rock and stared into the water. Captured by the Comanches ten years ago, she had never forgotten her parents. . . .
Her father, a burly trapper, had helped build Bent’s Trading Fort in Cheyenne Country. Her mother, a Southern Cheyenne maiden, had picked the jovial white man over the childish youths of her tribe.
“My older brother must name the newborn,” his wife, lying under thick hides with their first child, told her husband.
“No,” the trapper said, “my baby girl will be named Susan, after my mother.”
He backed out of the tipi, raised his massive frame, and fired his great rifle into the air several times hitting a low-flying hawk. The tribe’s elders, shocked by this outburst, thought it a good omen and named the baby, Blackhawk.
“Susan Blackhawk!” The trapper danced in a circle. “I like that!”
The Cheyenne did not tolerate crying babies, so Susan nursed on her mother’s milk as much as needed. Sometimes her father held her close to his chest so she learned he was not a woman.
For nine years the little girl lived the Cheyenne way of life, learning what chores
were expected of her. She spent many hours listening to captivating stories from the elders.
“Most important,” her mother stressed, “be chaste, be honest, be generous—then life will fall in place.”
Susan’s short leisure time was spent playing house with leather tipis and with dolls made from stuffed deerskin.
One day, while her father was away trapping, Susan and her mother dug for roots and gathered wood for their fire. When they returned to camp, a Comanche raiding party was ravaging the village.
“Run! Hide!” Her mother pushed Susan toward the trees and ran the opposite way.
A Comanche warrior saw them and rode Susan’s mother down. She put up a fight, but the brave threw his lance into her chest. Susan ran to her mother’s side and held her head in her lap until her mother took her last breath. The Comanche jabbed his lance at Susan until she was herded with the other captives and fine Cheyenne horses.
Each day of captivity, Susan Blackhawk waited for her father to lead a raid on the Comanches and rescue her. As the months and years passed, he never came. Eventually, she learned from a hunter, friendly with the Comanches, that he had been killed by a grizzly. So, she resigned herself to life with her enemies. But she knew she would always be Cheyenne. Growing into her teens, she remembered her mother’s words—be chaste, be honest, be generous. She had not exchanged glances or smiles with the young braves and had kept her chastity hide tight around her slim waist and thighs. . . .
The sun inched past the high spot in the cloudless sky as Susan Blackhawk shed her long buckskin dress and stepped into the cool, shallow pond. She walked toward the water gently cascading from a high, rocky incline. Her long, black hair shone as the first drops of water touched it. Raising her intense, dark eyes to the soothing fountain, she pulled her hair back and relaxed for a moment. Then she massaged the water across her round cheeks and down her neck past the tiny shell necklace her father had given her. Soon, she splashed and sprayed water over her entire figure. Her tall body, inherited from her father, was firm and supple from years of gathering wood, digging prairie turnips, hiding buffalo, and playing outdoors in summer and winter.
Savoring the pleasant feeling of water misting on her small breasts, making her dark nipples rigid, Susan sensed another person’s closeness. Parting her lips, she lifted her nose into the air away from the falling water. Taking a few sniffs, no unknown scents came to her. All she heard was water hitting the pool and rippling outward in curved patterns. The sun’s hot rays bounced off her smooth upper body. The heat felt good against her wet skin. Thinking her senses had played tricks, Susan continued her bath under the lightly falling shower.
It was not until he parted the tall reeds on the other side of the pond and stood up, that she saw the tall Apache warrior. She gasped and dropped her hands to cover herself. He started toward her. She stood still but followed his penetrating eyes searching her every part. Maybe it had been the water arousing her body. Maybe it was his eyes, but somehow thoughts and sensations she had never known shot through her in those few tense moments. His inspection of her seemed to please him.
With a guarded smile, Susan Blackhawk waited as he approached. Stopping, he motioned with his war lance. She started to speak, but only a whisper came out.
