Strongheart: The Lost Journals of May Dodd and Molly McGill

by Jim Fergus

  * * *

  As day broke, we heard again a loud commotion issuing from the perimeter of the camp, the sentries hollering, then yipping the vocalization of triumph. A few minutes later, a gathering crowd pushed into our formerly peaceful camp center, herding a man in the middle of the throng, women and children beating him about the legs and buttocks with sticks, others throwing stones at him. They laughed and harangued him with insults. The captive was clearly an Indian, but from what tribe, I did not know. I heard him trying to speak to his tormenters, but, of course, as I am not even fluent in our own tribe’s language, I had no idea what he was saying.

  We were all up and about by now, and getting ready to return to our lodges, though many had already done so, including Martha and May, who were bunking together. Now, catching a phrase or two of the man speaking, Gertie said: “Well, I will be goddamned, I wonder what the hell a Comanche brave is doin’ up in this country. From what I hear, they got enough trouble a’ their own down south, without needin’ to come lookin’ for it here. It don’t look to me like any of these folks speak that tongue.”

  “How do you know he’s speaking Comanche, Gertie?” I asked.

  “Learnt it while I was livin’ with the Southern Cheyenne. We were real friendly with the Comanches, traded with ’em an’ sometimes made war together against the Apaches. Which is kinda a funny thing, cause they speak the same language the Shoshone do, and the Cheyenne and Shoshone are bitter enemies … I think I’ll mosey over there and see what the poor fella has to say.”

  I followed her to the edge of the crowd. Gertie, being Gertie, pushed her way through it, as if swimming the breaststroke, speaking Cheyenne, and extorting them all to quiet down a bit and to stop beating the man. When she reached the captive, they had a conversation, and he looked relieved. Now Gertie turned to the crowd, waved her arms outward in a dismissive way, and announced that this man was a friend from the Comanche tribe in Texas, he came in peace, and to leave him alone. For some reason unknown to me, they dispersed on the strength of her testimony. She took the Comanche by the arm and led him over to me. He was a fierce-looking fellow, with a painted face that made him look like the devil, and it is no wonder they considered him an enemy.

  “Molly, let me introduce you to Chance Hadley. He says he’s a friend a’ May’s.”

  “Real pleased to meet you, ma’am,” he said with a polite smile, despite the fact that he was clearly hurting from having just been sticked and stoned repeatedly.

  “A pleasure to meet you, Chance,” I answered, not unaware of the bizarre nature of this introduction. “You’ve come looking for May, have you?”

  “Yes, ma’am, I sure have. Trailed her all the way here.”

  “And on what business, may I ask?”

  “We are friends, ma’am,” he said, “maybe … maybe even a little more than friends, if you understand my meaning … at least we was, ’till I did somethin’ stupid … real stupid.” Even beneath his paint, I could see that he was blushing like a lovestruck schoolboy and that was enough for me to believe him. “I may not look like it right now, but I’m actually mostly a white man, a wrangler by trade.”

  I laughed. “Yes, Chance, I rather guessed that from the way you speak English, and your accent. I would be happy to lead you to May’s lodge, if you’d like.”

  “That’d be mighty kind a’ ya, ma’am, and I would sure be much obliged. And you, ma’am,” he said, holding out his hand to Gertie, “from the looks of things you saved my life, and I sure do appreciate that. I never expected to run into anyone up here who speaks Comanche, but I figgered it was better to try that out on ’em than it was to talk American.”

  “You’re right about that, son,” Gertie said, as she took his hand and pumped it in a manly handshake. “They probly would a’ killed ya right off if you’d done that. But see, the Comanche language is real similar to what the Shoshone speak, because a long time ago they used to live together. And the Cheyenne hate the Shoshone near as much as they hate the whites. So even though no one here likely speaks that language, exceptin’ me, they’ve heard enough of it spoke to recognize it. That’s probly why they was being so rough on ya, and they surely woulda kilt ya anyway, real slow like. I’ll let Molly take you over to where May is bunkin’. An’ then later when we get a chance, love to have a chat with ya.”

  “Likewise, ma’am. But one other thing … I rode in this mornin’ on a dappled gray horse. I figger these folks will have already divvied up my belongings, but you think there’s any chance I can get my mount back?”

  “The boys will be lookin’ after ’em,” Gertie said, “so they’ll be well cared for. As to gettin’ ’em back, I’ll see what I can do, son. That’s a touchy subject, as you probly know. Usually whoever caught ya and counted coup first gets to keep your horse.”

  “Yes, ma’am, I do know how that works. When I rode in, the sentries surrounded me, one of ’em knocked me outta the saddle, an’ they all counted coup. But if there’s anything you can do, I’d be much obliged. I’m real attached to that animal.”

  As I was leading Chance to Martha’s tipi, he suddenly stopped and touched his face. “I don’t mean to cause ya any more trouble than I already have, ma’am,” he said, “but would ya mind terrible if we went down to the creek first so I can wash off this grease paint, ’fore I see May?”

  “Are you afraid you’ll scare her, Chance?” I asked. “And by the way, you can call me Molly.”

  “No, ma’am … I mean, Molly … it ain’t that. She’s already seen me like this. But this time, I just want to look a little more, ya know a little more, ah…”

  “… handsome?” I offered.

  “Yes, ma’am, somethin’ like that.” He laughed and I could tell he was blushing again. “Also, I think a few of the rocks those boys were throwing at me cut my face up a little, so that way I can wash off the blood, too.”

  I was impressed that he didn’t say this last with any trace of anger, or self-pity, nor had he when he described his capture and treatment by the sentries. “No trouble at all, Chance; we’ll go down to the creek first.”

  I knew from our experience with Martha during her Red Painted Woman days that it is not so easy to wash grease paint off with cold creek water, but Chance clearly knew what he was doing. I sat up on the bank as he took his hide war shirt off and laid it neatly on the grass, knelt down by the water and scooped two full handfuls of mixed mud, sand, and pebbles, vigorously scrubbed his face with it, rinsed with clear creek water, and then repeated the maneuver a second time. Finally, he took two more handfuls of water in hand and combed his hair back, then splashed some on his armpits as well. He stood and picked up his shirt, dried his face with it, and slipped it over his head.

  After he climbed back up on the bank, he looked at me and said: “How’d I do, ma’am … Molly … did I get most of it off?”

  He is a handsome fellow, no doubt of that, with strong angular features and sun-darkened skin, reddened by the scrubbing. It occurred to me that he could almost pass for an Indian. I assumed because he spoke Comanche that he must have some native blood.

  “You did well, Chance, and, indeed, you do look much more presentable for a reunion with your … your lady friend, if I may be so bold as to make that characterization.”

  At this he smiled broadly, and proudly. “Yes, Molly, I believe ya can say that … at least, I sure hope so.”

  I could see that Chance was one of those people who virtually everyone likes instinctively. He had an easy, natural way about him, entirely without artifice. He was polite, and manly, and I could see why May would be attracted to him. I smiled to myself as I remembered Susie and Meggie’s remark about her, as by my count, in her little over a year and a half on the plains, she’s had already three lovers—Captain John Bourke, Chief Little Wolf, and now Chance Hadley.

  As we are walking back into the camp, I asked Chance how he and May met.

  “Well, that’s kinda a strange story, Molly. See, I was workin’
as a wrangler on a cattle drive up from Texas … I caught May stealin’ a horse from me … that’s how we met.”

  At this, I could not help but let out a burst of laughter. “My goodness, how romantic!”

  Chance laughed, too. “That’s the funny thing, Molly, ’cause it was romantic.”

  I liked this man more and more, and I couldn’t wait to deliver him to May. When we reached Martha’s lodge, I scratched on the opening, and Martha peeled it back, saw us, and stepped out. “Hello, Molly,” she said, regarding Chance with something between suspicion and curiosity.

  “Is May inside?” I asked.

  “Yes, Molly, I’m here,” she called from inside. “I’m coming out, I’m just covering myself, I just woke up … that was a long night, wasn’t it?”

  Now May stepped out, wrapped in a trade blanket, squinting into the morning sun. She stood for a long moment, looking at Chance. “Good God,” she said at last, with a small, sly, and possibly even loving smile on her face, “how the hell do you keep finding me, cowboy?” Then she laughed and threw her arms around Chance, her blanket falling from her body as he took her in his arms. “I followed your sign, May,” he said, “like I always do.”

  “Why don’t you come over to my tent for a visit,” I suggested to Martha, “we’ll make coffee.”

  She nodded. “Lovely idea, Molly.”

  7 September 1876

  To my relief, Hawk and Wind arrived early this morning, herding before them the horses that May and the medicine woman brought to us. After the scouts relayed the news that they were headed across the valley, many gathered to watch them ride in, happy to find their leader, Aénohe, again, fully recovered from his wounds. Most in our band know also Little Wolf’s trusted seer, Woman Who Moves against the Wind, and our own ladies, with me at the head of this contingent, trilled enthusiastically at their entrance. Even we have become rather proficient at this charming manner of welcoming our returning people.

  Wind has been invited to sleep in the lodge of Holy Woman and her granddaughter, whom they call Howls Along Woman, Amahtóohè’e, a name bestowed for what reason I have not ascertained as I have yet to hear her howl. I would say that she is roughly fifteen or sixteen years old and appears to be both assistant and apprentice to the old woman. She rides with her, sets up her lodge, and serves as her eyes.

  Hawk and I have pitched our lodge just on the edge of the confines of the camp, but not outside it as I might have preferred. Due to Hawk’s position in the band we are expected to camp among the rest and not to set ourselves apart. Thus, speaking of howling, there would surely be no more of that in the throes of our passion. Still, we enjoyed a quite pleasurable, if less vocally uninhibited, reunion under the buffalo robes.

  9 September 1876

  The weather is changing; the temperate autumnal climate we have been enjoying these past days giving way suddenly to a cold wind blowing down from the north, presaging the coming season. Some of the young warriors who joined us from the agencies have taken their leave ahead of the approaching storm to return to their families and the scant handouts there from the U.S. government that are supposed to see them through the winter. There has been much nervous discussion among the band about making our permanent village for these next frigid months ahead. Some feel that our present location, which has been the longest bivouac yet during these past weeks of travel, would suffice—there is ample water, and grass for the horses to graze, as well as good visibility in all directions to identify the approach of enemies.

  As I suppose with every society, tribal political structures are complicated, sometimes even byzantine, especially given the fact that we have several extended Arapaho families with us, and they operate under a different system. Since all the Cheyenne elders went with Little Wolf, our band has a quite uncommon composition—younger, with more children and white women, especially since the addition of May, Gertie, Ann, and Hannah. Now, with the departure of those young warriors to the agencies, we women actually outnumber the men, and, as a consequence, after much deliberation around the fire and passing of the pipe, we have reached an agreement regarding a new tribal council that reflects this unusual situation. Pretty Nose, an Arapaho, having already been designated a war chief, technically holds the highest rank. However, Hawk, because he is Cheyenne and respected by both tribes as a leader and warrior, has also now been given equal status. Other council members include Gertie, because she was once married into the Southern Cheyenne tribe; Phemie, due to her achievements on the battlefield; May, because she is the wife of the Sweet Medicine Chief; and Woman Who Moves against the Wind, Little Wolf’s trusted advisor. One of the most interesting choices, because some believed that at least one peacemaker should be represented, is our Mennonite chaplain, Christian Goodman. Finally, filling the remaining seats of power are two of our other Strongheart members, Warpath Woman and Kills in the Morning Woman. Red Fox, Hawk’s friend, and a young Arapaho warrior named High Bear round out the council, making for a total of seven women and four men. In this way, we have formed a unique kind of government, in a sense a new tribe altogether, yet one without a name, and with new rules still to be written … figuratively, of course …

  Both Hawk and Pretty Nose have spoken with Holy Woman, who, as a seer, holds a special place in the tribe, based on the faith of those who wish to follow her, in the same way as a priest or pastor does in our society, though without political authority. Hawk, perhaps due at least a little to my influence, has become a bit frustrated by the intransigence of the old blind woman and her insistence on guiding us in circles, while Pretty Nose wishes to continue following her.

  It did not appear that any decision had been reached on this matter until this evening, when the camp crier made his rounds, announcing that all were to prepare to move out in the morning, headed where, we have not been advised.

  10 September 1876

  We wake this morning to a near blizzard, unusual though not unprecedented, I am told, this early in the season. Surely, we will not be traveling in weather such as this, says Hawk. Yet shortly thereafter, the camp crier arrives in our “neighborhood,” calling out his instructions to break camp and prepare for departure, his words barely audible over the sound of the wind buffeting our tipi. But this cannot be possible! Yet I crack open the tent flap and see that those who have received the news before us are already struggling to dismantle their lodges and load pack dogs and travois with their goods. Reluctantly, we begin to do likewise, for a tribal order must be obeyed.

  It continues to astonish me with what exceptional speed and economy these peoples are capable of disassembling an encampment, even in such inclement weather, and I, too, have been well initiated into the proper procedures by Hawk’s departed grandmother. My little Mouse, who has moved in with us again, is already quite competent at her assigned deeds and watches me attentively for instructions, which, in this wind, can only be accomplished with the use of sign talk. Inside of an hour, the entire band is under way, against an ungodly headwind stinging our faces with blowing snow that feels like we are being pelted with beads of icy sand.

  Fortunately, with the new stock Wind and May have given us, all in the band are now mounted, and none afoot, even the children, some doubled and even tripled up astride a single horse. In the face of the tempest, there is no possibility of conversation. We wrap what protection we can around us, and I have covered Mouse, riding behind me, with a trade blanket, her arms around my waist, so at least my body offers warmth and serves as a kind of windbreak. I try to keep my eyes half shut, my face averted so as not to be looking directly into the maelstrom.

  And thus we ride, hour after hour it seems, though we have no way of judging the passage of time or the direction we are taking, for the sun is obscured and we are enveloped in a cocoon of whiteness. The horses move slowly, putting their hooves down tentatively, taking each careful step as if seeking purchase, uncertain that there will be solid ground beneath. I begin to wonder, and not for the first time, if Holy Woman stil
l has full command of her mental faculties, and, by extension, do we, for following her? And I begin to fear that if the storm continues and we do not seek shelter, we might all perish. As if reading my mind, Hawk signs me to say that he is riding ahead again to consult our guide, which he has done twice already since our departure. He is reluctant to leave us. Because the visibility is so poor, we all travel together in as compact a formation as possible, for if one were to become separated from the main group it would be virtually impossible to find them again. I nod, answering him to go ahead.

  He is gone too long, and I begin to worry, yet I do not dare go in search of him. Time passes, the blizzard continues, even intensifies. I feel as though we are trapped in a nightmare, not moving through a storm, rather captives of it, being carried along to some terrifying destination. I long to break free, to see sunlight again, space, landscape, however barren, anything at all familiar. I feel Mouse gripping me harder around the waist, and I sense that she is afraid, or perhaps with her little head against my back, she simply feels my quickening heartbeat.

  Now from the head of our expedition, carried on the wind, comes the most mournful wailing sound, a kind of brokenhearted animal howl such as I have never before in my life heard … no, never. It is not the cry of a coyote or a wolf, or even a whole pack of wolves, but an expression of full-throated human grief so profoundly unsettling that the horses all stop in their tracks, raise their heads to the wind, nickering and neighing nervously. My mare, Spring, throws her head and paws the ground, and I tighten up on her reins for fear that she might bolt. I wonder what tragedy has occurred to elicit such a cry and I am immediately afraid for Hawk, wherever he may be.

  As our band rests frozen thus in place by the recalcitrant horses, the tempest begins to lift, the wind to abate, the driving snow reduced to lightly falling flakes that barely touch the ground before melting. It appears that we have ridden out of the storm at last, the clouds that have imprisoned us parting to reveal patches of deep blue sky above. A collective sigh of relief issues from the band, most of whom, with the exception of those riding directly beside us, have been invisible to me for hours. I see now that we have remained in a remarkably tight unit.