Stone Heart's Woman

by Velda Brotherton

  “Did you...like him? I mean before he did all those horrid things.”

  “I never saw him again, but I hated him for what he did to me and my mother. After a year at the academy I ran away. I went back to see her, but she had died of the smallpox. It is said, though I cannot prove it, that he delivered blankets to the Sioux and Cheyenne infected with that terrible disease, in an effort to wipe them out without firing a shot.”

  “How awful, if it’s true. No wonder he is so hated.” She paused, touched him like she once soothed her baby brother. “So you were white most of your adult life? Whatever made you return to...to such a hard life?”

  His lips tightened and he looked away. “It was all a lie, that life. They were training us to go into battle against the Indians. I could not be, did not want to be like my father. When I learned of the horrible massacres he’d led, I knew I just couldn’t live that lie any longer. Nothing matters now but that I help my people. The rest is gone, finished. That is why it is so difficult for me to put on this uniform and play white again. I vowed never to return to that life. I hate it.”

  “But you are going to do it. To help your people even though they do not wish it?”

  “If I am not Cheyenne to them, then I must help them as a white man. Besides, I met you. Things are different.”

  Outside a horse whinnied, wood crackled in the stove, and she held her breath through the silence, finally was able to speak.

  “And what does that mean?”

  “I’m not sure, yet.”

  “Well, when you are, I wish you’d let me know.” She tried to keep the anger from her voice, but it was there and he caught it. He had never spoken of their future together, never even said they might have one.

  “A’den, please come here.”

  With the front window now in full shade the room was gloomy, and she couldn’t make out his face. She rose from kneeling in front of the stove and reached for the hand he held out to her.

  Starved for the affection he offered, she went to him. Even as she moved into the circle of his arms, she feared their love could never be. For despite what he said, he was and would always remain a Cheyenne warrior. Yet she couldn’t stop the hope anymore than she could pull away.

  He held her close, his arms like steel bands, and she leaned against the warmth of his chest, closed her eyes, and begged God for just a little mercy. Enough to see them through this terrible time. It wasn’t a sin to want happiness, to yearn for some peace with the man you loved, and so that’s what she prayed for. She knew, as she always had, that it was up to her to grab at her own happiness, up to Stone Heart to do the same. The only thing God could do was catch them if they fell, pick them up, and set them on their feet again. she could only pray He would allow them to walk the same path.

  After Stephan left her, she had followed the path on which she was set, and now here she was, prepared to do the same thing yet again. Wiser of her if she simply caught the first stage that broke through the drifts of snow and went home to Saint Louis. But she had never been very wise.

  She stirred in his arms.

  “What?” he asked, lips in her hair.

  “I have an idea.”

  “Yes.” The flat of his hand spread over her back, still refusing to let her go.

  “The reporter?”

  “Yes?”

  She struggled to lean away, looked up into his face. Wanted to see his expression when she said what she was about to say.

  He loosened his grip a bit, lifted her chin and stared down into her eyes. “What is it?”

  “If I could get him to come here, talk to you, I think that would make more of an impact than my talking to him.”

  Eyes slitted, he let her go. “I do not think so.”

  He reverted so easily to his Cheyenne way of speaking, moving, thinking.

  “Why not?”

  “I’m not sure why not, except that I’d feel like a freak of some kind. Him dissecting me, digging out all my feelings. I know how some of them are. When they get the truth they exaggerate or even change it. Besides, suppose he runs to Wessells with the story. They’d have me in chains before you could snap your fingers.”

  His refusal angered her. “All you want is to kill or be killed,” she said sharply.

  “And all you care about is keeping me here, with you.” The realization of what the reporter’s presence meant hit him, and without thinking what the outcome might be, he blurted it out to her. “His coming here. This means you could leave. The roads must be clear. You could return to Saint Louis any time.”

  She blinked, her mouth forming an O around the words she had been about to utter, that there was nothing wrong with her trying to keep Stone Heart there with her. Safe, away from harm.

  “I...I no longer want to go home. You heard me say that.”

  “But I didn’t believe you. Looking at you now, I still don’t. Go home, A’den. Go back where you belong and leave this to me. I have to finish what I started.”

  “There’s nothing wrong with my wanting to keep you safe.”

  “Not unless it gets my people killed.” Her skirting the issue of going home convinced him that it was precisely what she wanted to do.

  “What will get your people killed has little to do with what we might or might not do. Not now. Don’t you see that? These soldiers are going to do what they set out to do. They’ll never give in. You said so yourself. The most we can do is cause them some trouble.”

  He whirled from her. “Or kill as many of them as I can before they get me. I don’t need a woman telling me what is right.”

  “No, I know you don’t. Go on, getting killed will help your people, all right.”

  He slammed his way to the door, jerked it open without even looking to see who might be out there. “Go home, A’den before you get hurt.”

  “Please, stay.” The door slammed, cutting her plea in half.

  Fear knifed through her heart and she ran to the window to watch him stride away from the barracks, out in the open in broad daylight, like he hadn’t a care in the world. At any moment she expected to see soldiers surround him, take him prisoner. But none did, and he disappeared around the corner of a long building across the way.

  She had not gone after Stephan when he deserted her, but she would not do the same with Stone Heart.

  Throwing on the cloak Retha had loaned her, she hurried out onto the street. She would find him, make him see reason. She couldn’t help but believe that the story he could tell the reporter would sway many people. He was the half-breed son of George Armstrong Custer, and could speak as a white man with the understanding of a Cheyenne. They would listen and put pressure on the president to do something about this dreadful situation. But first she wanted to talk to the reporter, feel him out. Even though she wanted this desperately, she would not put Stone Heart in jeopardy.

  The man in the mercantile told her she had just missed the reporter. “He writes for the Evening Star in Washington City. Came in on a stage from the depot down on the Platte.” the man said. “Wonder why such an important newspaper is interested in a scraggly band of half-dead Indians?”

  “It just might be that somebody cares what happens to them,” she retorted. Came in on the stage, he’d said, and she managed to ignore it. For the moment.

  Back out on the boardwalk, she glanced over the rows of buildings toward the distant horizon. The snow and mud, the drab surroundings. Such a remote, ugly place. Perhaps she should go home. She couldn’t live like this, or like Stone Heart and his people. There was really nothing for her here but heartbreak and lost love. Her gaze drifted back toward her own mean quarters where Retha Woods and a citified young man stood outside her door.

  Lifting her skirt, she crossed the road through chunks of mud-colored ice. Reaching the easier footing of the boardwalk, she ran, waving her arms and yelling in a quite unladylike fashion.

  Retha’s hand, poised to knock on the door, fell away, and she watched Aiden approach with a somewhat a
stounded expression.

  “My, but aren’t you all a-twitter? We were looking for you. This young man is the reporter I told you about.”

  Aiden panted out a reply. “Yes, I know. I saw you.” She grabbed the astounded man’s extended hand and pumped it vigorously. “I was looking for you. We have to talk...I mean, could we talk?”

  Retha eyed her strangely. “This gentleman is Marcus Young with the Evening Star in Washington City. Mr. Young, this is my newest friend, Aiden. I’m afraid I don’t remember your last name, dear.”

  “Connor. My name is Aiden Connor. I’m from Saint Louis. Won’t you come in? I mean, if you have the time, I’d like to speak to you.” She glanced toward Retha. “In private, if you don’t mind.”

  “Well,” the young woman huffed. No doubt disappointed to be left out, she remained gracious nevertheless.

  “I’m sorry,” Aiden said. “I don’t mean to hurt your feelings. It’s just that...well, there are some things I need to tell Mr. Young here that are better not repeated. They could only cause you grief, Retha. You do understand, don’t you?”

  Though itching to get the reporter alone, Aiden took the time necessary to assuage Retha’s injured feelings. She certainly didn’t want to alienate the only friend she’d made here.

  Obviously miffed, Retha finally gave in. “I’m sure he’ll be interested in your thoughts on this unfortunate situation with those poor savages. I can’t imagine what you might say that I shouldn’t hear, but never mind. I’ll leave you two alone.”

  Aiden took her hand, gazed into her troubled eyes. “Thank you so much. I’ll never forget what you’ve done for me, it’s just that this...well, if you don’t know certain things, then you won’t be in trouble later.”

  The gray eyes widened. “I can’t imagine what you might be talking about. Oh, never mind. I’ll just be on my way.”

  Aiden turned back to the reporter. The dapper young man, who looked like a greenhorn in pin-striped pants, wrinkled white shirt, and vest, tilted his black bowler and smiled. “You certainly have my curiosity stirred up. I’d be most interested in what you have to say. I seem to be running up against it trying to get any of the officers or men to talk much to me. They took me over to the hospital, let me see that they’re caring for these poor souls, but wouldn’t let me talk to anyone there.

  “The president is concerned, and I believe a story or two out of this remote fort about what is really going on with these so-called savages, might make him sit up and take notice.” He beamed as if he personally had the president’s ear.

  “But not concerned enough to send an emissary, it would appear,” she said. “Oh, never mind. Let’s go inside out of this cold. I’d be happy to tell you what I think about this abhorrent situation.” Though sure his reports would be self-serving, Aiden supposed they might inform the rest of the world, including President Hayes. There was nothing like pressure from voters to sway a politician.

  She spoke to the reporter at great length about what she had seen, then cleared her throat. Heart hammering until she could barely hear herself speak, she got around to what was important.

  “I...uh, I have a friend...he...well, this is very difficult. I must have your word that you won’t go to any of the officers here on the post with what I am about to tell you. It’s very important, a matter of life or death, you might say.”

  Young leaned forward in the straight chair, pad on his knee, pencil poised. “I never divulge where I get my information. However, I must also say that your telling me something someone else told you is not reliable enough to print.”

  “Oh, that’s exactly why I wanted to speak to you in private. I think I can arrange for you to speak to him directly, if only I can convince him that you won’t trick him or twist his words. If he is caught, he may well be killed. It’s that serious.”

  Young gulped audibly and his eyes shimmered. She was right about one thing, he wanted this story bad. The desire was there in his eyes, the way his fingers gripped his silly little hat, the nervous licking of thin lips. Just how truthful he would be, she could only guess. But if he refused to take secondhand stories as fact, then he must be somewhat honorable.

  “Just who is this...this gentleman?”

  She gnawed at her lip, shifted in the chair. “He is a Cheyenne, but his father is General Custer.”

  “George Armstrong Custer?” Young’s close-set eyes bulged.

  She merely nodded.

  “My God.” Young breathed out the exclamation. “Can he prove it?”

  “Oh, I seriously doubt that he can, but I think what he has to tell you will be enough proof in itself. You can check it out, though I’m sure the trail has been obliterated quite well.”

  “Do you know this for a fact?”

  Twisting her hands in her lap, she finally had to admit that she didn’t. “Only from the stories he’s told me. You have to listen to him. You have to tell his story, these people’s story to the world. They’re going to kill what few of them remain. Dull Knife’s Beautiful People will be no more if someone doesn’t do something.”

  “Morningstar,” he murmured.

  “Who?”

  “Dull Knife is only a nickname. His true name is Morningstar. Tell me, does...ah, your friend...does he know if Dull Knife is still alive?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  “I’d go anywhere, promise anything, do anything, to talk to Morningstar if he is alive. And I swear to almighty God I would never tell where he is.”

  “Will you make that same promise about my friend, Stone Heart?”

  Young scribbled the name in his pad, stared at her intently. “I most certainly will. You find him, set it up. I’ll be there, and I won’t tell anything he does not wish me to, not to a living soul, ever.”

  For a long while she stared into his earnest face, could read no deceit written there. Only a burning desire to find out the truth. At last she made up her mind.

  “Okay. I’ll have to find him, that could take a while. You come back here tonight after dark. I’ll do my best to have him here. Just please be careful. If you do anything to put him in danger or get him hurt, I’ll kill you myself. That’s my promise.”

  He blinked in surprise, then allowed a small, wry grin. “Why, I do believe you would.”

  Closing the door behind the reporter, she stood there with both hands gripping the latch. She could never find Stone Heart. All she could hope was that he came back after dark when he knew Meeker was due to return.

  On the chance that he would return, Aiden answered the call to supper by hurrying to the mess hall to fetch two plates of food, again begging off for her imaginary husband, who remained under the weather.

  Despite her protests, a young private accompanied her to help carry the food. She could only hope that if Stone Heart were hanging around, he would remain out of sight. It was entirely possible that he would be inside, and she could barely breathe as she reached for the latch, speaking loudly to the private as she did so. At least she could give him a chance to jump in bed and cover up. She imagined falling down in front of the young man to keep him from stepping inside and finding her Cheyenne savage. She couldn’t help but smile at the vision, even as she slipped the latch.

  Even with the door cracked open she could not see enough of the room to know if it was empty. Suppose he was in there, sitting at the table, big as you please? What would this young private do? She turned to him with a wide smile.

  “It was so sweet of you to help me carry all this. I never would have made it by myself. I’m sure my husband will be appreciative too.” Sticking her head inside, she saw only a pile of unmoving blankets.

  “Sweetheart, dinner,” she called gaily. “He’s probably still sleeping. Just put those on the table there. Thank you again.”

  The private, a tall, gangly, red-haired youth, glanced at the bed then back at her, flushed and scuttled from the room without saying a word.

  “Oh, my goodness,” she said and fanned herself with an open
hand, trying to steady her thumping heart.

  When the lumps on the bed remained still, she went over to shake him awake. So sure that he had come back and was hiding under there. She found nothing but pillows and covers, all in a bunch. No Stone Heart.

  Where was he, and why didn’t Meeker return? Nothing could force either of them to come back to her, and she feared that neither would. All Meeker had to do was fetch his pelts and keep right on going. At the Red Cloud Agency he could trade his furs for a horse and supplies and be on his way. He owed her nothing. As for Stone Heart, his one driving desire was to rescue the Cheyenne, and he thought he knew better than anyone how to accomplish that. He might well have gone back to the place where they were being held, for he seemed to have a wish to die with them. Perhaps he thought he could atone for the evil his father had done only by such a death.

  Sitting at the table without touching the food, she waited. An ashy dusk crept out of the corners to surround her, the windows grew dark, but she didn’t bother to rise and light a lamp. She was alone again, waiting for a man to return and fill her life. And she hated the feeling. Once she put him in touch with this reporter, she would do as he asked and go home. Placing herself in this situation where she depended on the whims of a man again was foolish. Let him ride to his destiny. She had her own survival to worry about. She did not belong out here, that was obvious.

  Activity on the roads and byways curving through the large fort grew less frantic after dark. Here and there soldiers walked in groups of twos and threes. Windows in most of the businesses were darkened, with only the places of entertainment showing light. The officers club and the recreational facility where enlisted men played cards, dominoes and various other games were open when Stone Heart returned from reconnoitering the fort. He had planned a route of escape from the prison, using various buildings as shields. Even as he did so, he was filled with a tremendous doubt that he could bring this off. What few of his people were left were weak from hunger and hiding out in sub zero weather could well mean their deaths. The most important thing was not to attract attention in the first place. To sneak away with no one being the wiser. He tried to imagine quieting crying babies and upset children, dragging them into the dark, frigid night. Maybe A’den’s way was best. Go back there, speak to the reporter about all that had happened. Perhaps put on the white man’s uniform so he could remain apprised of Wessell’s plans. In that way he could save what remained of Dull Knife’s Beautiful People. There had already been so many deaths.