DANCING MOON KNEW the end was near. A Crow war party had attacked and killed two of her cowardly husband’s cousins and captured their wives. Her useless husband was killed while running away and she was down to just two arrows. That was when a Crow war arrow pierced her heart. First the pain, then the darkness, but the darkness was short-lived. She came to overlooking a magnificent valley. She knew instinctively that it was the Death Valley of the Northern Cheyenne. The beautiful and wraith-like She-Manitou was waiting for her. The She-Manitou had an aura of goodness and virtue surrounding her. She told Dancing Moon that she had nothing to fear, but that she could not enter the Death Valley of the Northern Cheyenne because she was taking her back to the Land of the Living.
* * *
THE SHE-MANITOU explained to Dancing Moon that once in the Land of the Living; she would meet her new husband. Dancing Moon was a bit apprehensive because her two previous bouts with marriage had been disastrous. Her father sold her when she was thirteen to a forty-year old man for two war ponies. The older husband beat her whenever he was angry. Fortunately, he was killed while raiding a Crow hunting camp. Since she was young, she reverted to her father and he sold her to the father of her second husband, the coward, for three war ponies. Her second husband was too stupid to even purchase her himself. Her new father-in-law hoped that a spirited young wife might give his indolent son some backbone. He was wrong. Now the She-Manitou was telling her that her new husband was a white man. She had only seen one white man, a trapper with a Northern Cheyenne wife. She was both anxious and apprehensive, a bridal dichotomy.
Dancing Moon was ruminating, “Is he handsome?”
The She-Manitou told Dancing Moon that her future husband was called Jeff Jacobs. “He’s thirty-six years old, handsome, tall, six feet, three inches, brave like a Cheyenne Dog Soldier, smart as a subchief, strong, fearless, well-built, hazel eyes and light brown hair. He’s rich in his world and will love you and take care of you. In his time, he was cheated out of a virtuous woman.”
All of this sounded very good to Dancing Moon. His description was the exact opposite of her two previous miserable husbands. Her depiction would certainly please a new spouse. She was twenty-six years old, five feet, six inches tall; taller than most Northern Cheyenne women in 1850. She had long, raven-black hair that she wore in twin braids. Her smooth skin was the suntan color of the sand along the Yellowstone River. Her haunting eyes were almost Oriental, but not quite, with pupils as dark as anthracite. An exquisite shape. Stunningly beautiful best described her.
Jeff Jacobs was the future husband that the She-Manitou depicted to Dancing Moon. He was Jeffery Jacobs until the eighth grade, then he became Jeff. He was indeed wealthy and had an impressive home, on two acres, in Beverly Hills. His grandfather made a fortune in logging timber country and in a large sawmill. His father built on the fortune by purchasing land and had an extensive portfolio. Jeff had spent time in the army as an armored cavalry company commander. His wife, unhappy with military life, had him leave the army. Missing the action that combat provides, he joined the Los Angeles Police Department. His perfidious wife, not satisfied with a policeman’s salary, left him for a wealthy diamond merchant. His parents were killed when a drunk driver was traveling the wrong way on a one-way street. He inherited the home, the portfolio, the timber holdings, the agricultural acreage and the ability to put money to work. He was well educated: a BA from California Baptist University, a Masters in Police Science from USC and an MBA from Stanford.
Lately, his wealth could not keep the nighttime headaches and strange dreams from plaguing him. Each night he dreamed he was supposed to travel to Jackson Hole. He was familiar with the Jackson Hole area, having hunted deer and elk there with his grandfather when he was young. It was not hunting season and he had no reason whatsoever to journey to Jackson Hole. He finally decided that if he was ever going to end the nightly headaches and troubling dreams, he needed to make reservations in Jackson Hole. He did, at the Stag Country Inn, and the headaches ceased, but not the dreams.
His office was in Century City, the financial heart of Los Angeles. He told his managers that he was going to take a short vacation to unwind. He would have felt foolish telling anyone about the dreams and the headaches. He arrived at the rustic Stag Country Inn, having no idea why he was there. That first night, the dreams returned, but minus the headaches. This dream told him to travel to a spot some twenty miles outside of Jackson Hole and to be there at 8 p.m.
He rented a GMC SUV and went to the area in his dream. Feeling like a fool, he made a fire ring of stones and started a small campfire.
