In the Shadow of the Hills

by Madeline Baker

  Several girls shrieked with horror when Harvey toppled to the floor. Other than that, no one seemed to be too upset by the fight other than my mother and Mrs. Arnett, who muttered something very unladylike under her breath when she saw the bright red blood that was staining her imported carpet.

  Harvey’s parents were furious when they heard about what happened. They couldn’t believe that their son could have done anything bad enough to provoke such a beating, and assumed the fight was entirely my fault.

  It was like being back in school all over again.

  At home, my mother turned on me in cold fury.

  “How could you?” she exclaimed. “When will you ever learn to control your temper, to behave like a civilized man?”

  She paced the floor of the parlor, fury evident in every step. “I can’t believe you attacked Harvey like that. We were at a party, John. A party! The story will be all over town by morning. I can just imagine what Rose and Martha will have to say when I meet them for brunch tomorrow.”

  She paused long enough to glare at me. “I want you to go to Harvey first thing in the morning, and apologize.”

  “The hell I will.”

  “I’m not asking you, John. I’m telling you.”

  “And I’m telling you no.”

  I guess I should have known what was coming. She stormed out of the room. Five minutes later, the old man was there.

  “Let’s go,” he said.

  Wordlessly, I followed him out to the barn. I peeled off my shirt, then stood there, my hands clenched at my sides, while he reached for the horsewhip.

  No matter that I was seventeen years old now and a good head taller than he was. He gave me the worst beating of my life, and because I had been taught by Sun Seeker and Quiet Antelope to respect my elders, I stood in the middle of the barn and let that old man beat me, even though my hand itched to grab the whip out of his hand and give him a dose of his own medicine.

  My back felt like it was on fire when the old man’s arm finally gave out. He came around to face me, his eyes never leaving my face while he coiled the whip. I knew he was hoping to see tears in my eyes, hoping I’d collapse at his feet and promise never to embarrass him or my mother again, but I stared back at him defiantly, my hands tightly clenched, while the blood ran down my back and shoulders, too stubborn to give him the satisfaction.

  With a grunt, he turned and walked out of the barn.

  As soon as he was gone, I dropped to my knees, my head bent, while I waited for the worst of the pain to pass. Kneeling there, I cursed that old man with every word I knew.

  Twenty minutes later, I walked back to the house. My mother found me in my room a few minutes later. There was no expression on her face, not sympathy, not compassion, nothing. I hated her at that moment as I had never hated anyone.

  Convulsive tremors wracked my body as, head high, I grabbed a shirt out of the closet and stalked out of the house.

  “John. John, come back here!”

  I didn’t stop, didn’t turn around. I didn’t need to hear another lecture on my rotten behavior, or another speech on how I embarrassed her at every turn. What I needed was Clarissa.

  It was a long walk to the Van Patten mansion, and every step was a new experience in pain, but I didn’t care. I needed to see her, to talk to her, as never before.

  I was close to passing out by the time I reached the mansion. It took every ounce of strength I had to climb over the back fence. A few minutes later, I was rapping on her bedroom window.

  “John!” she exclaimed. “What are you doing here at this hour?” She raised the window, and then gasped when she saw the blood staining my shirt.

  “Can I come in?”

  “Of course.” She offered me her hand. “What happened?”

  “Old Trevor’s been trying to beat the savage out of me again,” I murmured as I stepped over the sill, and collapsed at her feet.

  Clarissa was sponging the blood from my back when I regained consciousness. Her hands were gentle, but new fires sprang to life each time she touched me.

  “Cry if you want to,” she said. “You don’t have to put on a brave front for me. I know how badly you must be hurting. I won’t think the less of you for it.”

  “I’m fine,” I said through gritted teeth.

  Tears sparkled in Clarissa’s emerald eyes as she carefully bandaged my back. “You should see a doctor, John.”

  “No.” I could not abide the thought of anyone else seeing what the old man had done to me.

  “Oh, Johnny,” she murmured, “why did you let him do it? Why didn’t you run away?”

  “I don’t know. Just stupid, I guess.”

  “You’re not stupid! You’re kind and good, and I love you so very much.”

  Clarissa’s fervent words and the love and compassion in her eyes touched a chord deep within me. To my horror, I began to cry. And once I started, the tears really began to flow, and I couldn’t seem to stop.

  Clarissa thought I was weeping because of the pain, and that was part of it. But more than that, I was crying for my father and for Quiet Antelope and for Snow Flower; for a way of life that had died on the banks of Sand Creek.

  Clarissa took me in her arms and comforted me as a mother might comfort a wounded child, comforted me as my own mother never had, and I loved her all the more for it. It felt good to let it all out, to know I could release all the pent-up hurt and anger I had been carrying around for so long. To know Clarissa would not belittle me for it.

  I fell asleep in her arms, and she held me all through the night. I woke now and then, tormented by the pain in my back, and always she was there, her eyes filled with love and concern, her voice soothing me back to sleep.

  I left her room just before dawn, more in love with her than ever before.

  The mansion was still dark when I tiptoed up the long staircase to my room. With a sigh, I stretched out on my stomach and was quickly asleep again.

  And sleeping, began to dream that I was back in the Dakotas, riding the war trail with the Sioux. In my dreams, I killed a hundred white men, and they all looked like Trevor Hamilton McKenna.

  Chapter 9

  Incredibly, another two years passed by. Dark Star was a three-year-old stallion now, and had won a number of races. Gut-instinct told me he would be a champion.

  The city was no longer strange, and I was no longer a stranger in it. Shoes and stiff collars no longer bothered me, although I still refused to wear long underwear. I could make polite dinner conversation with the best of them; my table manners were impeccable. I could talk intelligently about the latest opera, the rising price of gold, foreign affairs.

  I knew which husbands were faithful, and which were not. I had acquired some fine swear words, and could swear like a drunken sailor when it suited me, though never in female company, of course. Gambling and drinking were other vices I acquired with ease, though my capacity for alcohol was pretty low, due, I supposed to my Indian blood.

  Clarissa and I continued to see each other every chance we had, and I began to think of her as mine and mine alone, even though her parents insisted she was too young to have a steady beau - especially a half-breed beau. They encouraged her to go out with other young men as often as possible.

  I occasionally dated other girls, but I never really felt comfortable with any of them. They all seemed artificial and shallow when compared with Clarissa’s natural grace and charm. And there was always an underlying tension about them, as if they were not quite at ease with me. Even after all this time, it seemed as if they were still waiting for me to do something savage and uncivilized.

  Eventually, I stopped seeing other women altogether, and on those nights when Clarissa was out with one dandy or another, I went to a little place called Rafferty’s over on the East Side.

  Rafferty’s was a cheap, two-bit dive that catered to the non-elite. It was the habitual hangout for pimps, con men, hookers, and the like. Old man McKenna would have had my hide if he’d even suspect
ed I frequented such a place, but I continued to go there, liking the dark, dangerous atmosphere, and the hint of trouble that hung in the air like a dark cloud.

  It was the one place where I could go and just be myself. I didn’t have to be on my good behavior, or try to impress a lot of snooty people. It was the one place where the color of my skin didn’t matter because most of the other patrons were also people of color, ranging from slant-eyed Chinese to mahogany-skinned Negroes.

  The bartender at Rafferty’s was one of the biggest men I had ever seen, standing a good seven inches above six feet. He had a shock of unruly brown hair, sharp brown eyes, and a long scar that angled down his left cheek. His name was Hutch, and he always tossed me the same greeting when I walked through the door. Tonight was no different.

  “Hi, John!” he called cheerfully. “Scalped any palefaces today?”

  “Only at the poker table,” I called back.

  I took a place at the end of the bar and stood there watching the customers hustle each other. You could buy or sell anything at Rafferty’s. Opium, girls, horses, guns, anything at all. One night I had watched a sailor auction off a lovely Chinese girl. In the end, he sold her to the owner of a whorehouse for three hundred dollars and a Colt .44.

  For all that Rafferty’s was a tawdry joint people by the dregs of humanity, a lot of money changed hands there, most of it over the dirty green baize top of a card table. I won five hundred dollars in an hour one cold winter night, close to seven hundred dollars a week later. The only bad thing about visiting a place like Rafferty’s was that you had to be on your guard every minute because you never knew when one of your recent poker companions might try to recoup his losses by stabbing you in the back.

  And so the days passed and the memory of my old life on the plains faded. I was a white man now, accepted as such by those who knew nothing of my past. I dressed like a white man. I ate like a white man. I talked like a white man. I kept the white man’s time, and pursued the white man’s pleasure.

  And one balmy summer day I went to see the white man’s circus.

  It was quite a sight. Tents and stages draped with red and blue bunting. Flags flying. Gaudily painted performers. Candy and peanuts and lemonade. Posters depicting the wonders of the ages. Cages that held exotic animals. A marching band, and scantily clad trapeze artists.

  I was a grown man, but I stared at the acts and the performers, as goggle-eyed as any five-year-old kid because, like them, I’d never seen a real elephant, or a man who was over seven feet tall, or a woman who was five feet wide.

  I watched a Greek belly dancer who moved like fine silk; an Italian sword swallower clad in black satin; a German tightrope walker clad in blue tights. There were dancing bears and dancing ladies, a dozen clowns dressed in ridiculous costumes and bright red wigs. There were lions and tigers, and some of the most beautiful horses I had ever seen.

  Those circle people put on a hell of a show, and when it was over, I wandered down the midway. I felt a vague sense of revulsion as I passed Mordred the Giant, the bearded lady, the tattooed man, and all the other men and women who were billed as freaks and curiosities.

  But my revulsion turned to anger when I entered a small tent and saw three Indians chained to the wheel of a gaudily painted Conestoga wagon. They weren’t wearing much, just enough for modesty’s sake, and you could tell just by looking at them that they weren’t getting enough to eat. They’d been whipped some, too, judging by the livid scars criss-crossing their lean, copper-hued torsos.

  It made me kind of sick, seeing them chained up like dogs while dozens of well-dressed, well-fed whites poked fun at them, or made crude jokes about the noble red man.

  The whole atmosphere in the tent was depressing, yet I kept hanging around, remembering Polanski and Casey and Mordecai Wagner; recalling the weight of chains on my hands and feet and wondering if I had worn the same hopelessly defiant expression.

  Standing in the back of the tent, out of the way, I studied the captives. The warrior on the left was obviously a fighting man. I judged him to be in his early thirties. He was of medium height, stocky without being fat, with powerful arms and legs and a bull-like neck. A long white scar puckered his right cheek.

  The Indian in the middle looked sick. There were dark shadows under his eyes, and he was so thin I could count his ribs.

  The third Indian was tall and well-muscled. He had deep-set black eyes so full of anger and hate that the force of his gaze was like a physical blow. I had little doubt he would kill the first man who got too close to him.

  I spent an hour wandering around the tent, reading the newspaper clippings that were tacked to a half-dozen boards. They were all from eastern papers and went into great detail about the godless savages who were terrorizing the Plains and making the West unsafe for Decent people. There were drawings, too, vividly depicting wild-eyed Indians looting wagon trains and scalping young children.

  When dinner time came, I was the only customer left in the place. The three Indians, Lakota by the cut of their moccasins, stared at me like I was a pile of fresh horseshit. I guess I couldn’t blame them. Dressed in a dark suit and tie and hard-soled shoes, I must have looked pretty much like every other white man who had ever given them a bad time.

  Moving closer, I raised my right hand in the universal Indian sign for friend. “Hau, kola.”

  I spoke in Lakota, but the three warriors continued to stare at me, their swarthy faces impassive, their ebony eyes radiating hate and distrust.

  Again, I made the sign for friend.

  This time the warrior with the angry eyes gathered a globule of spit in his mouth and let it fly in my direction. It landed on the toe of my right shoe. The other braves grinned faintly, waiting for my reaction.

  “Friend,” I said in English. “Kola. You savvy?”

  The warrior with the angry eyes and the sickly one continued to stare at me, their faces expressionless, but I could see the stocky brave understood me.

  “How long have you been prisoners?” I asked, careful to keep my voice low so as not to be overheard by passersby outside.

  “Five moons,” the stocky warrior answered gruffly.

  “A long time.” I gestured at the wagon. “Do you spend the night chained to the wheel?”

  He nodded, his dark eyes suspicious as he watched me.

  “Anybody stay here with you? A guard?”

  “No. Why do you ask so many questions?”

  “Thought maybe I’d help you get away from here.”

  “Why?”

  “What difference does that make?” I glanced toward the doorway. “Do you want out of here, or not?”

  “What do you think?” the warrior asked dryly.

  “I think so,” I replied, grinning. “I’ll be back tonight when the moon is high.”

  A faint smile softened the warrior’s grim expression. “We will be here.”

  * * *

  Later that night I made my way to Rafferty’s and let it be known that I was in the market for six fast horses and that money was no object.

  Along about nine o’clock, a little bit of a man drifted in to Rafferty’s and slid into the chair next to mine.

  “You the gent asking after some fast horseflesh?” he purred in a silky voice.

  “Maybe. What have you got?”

  “Six of the sweetest little ponies this side of Heaven,” the man assured me with an oily smile.

  “How much?”

  “Fifty bucks each, and a steal at the price.”

  “I’m sure of that,” I retorted. “Where are they?”

  “Waiting’ out back. You got the scratch?”

  “After I see the horses.”

  “To be sure, to be sure,” he said quickly, and slithered out the back door.

  They were good-looking animals, all right. I’d never seen finer horses, and I was sure there were six soldiers somewhere who were catching hell for losing their mounts.

  I took a careful look at those broomtails, p
aying special attention to their feet, because as the feet go, so goes the horse. I couldn’t find a thing wrong with any of them.

  With a curt nod of approval, I handed the weasel three hundred dollars, and he handed me six lead ropes and melted into the shadows.

  I threw a bridle over the head of a deep-chested bay gelding, swung aboard its back, and rode out to the circus grounds, careful to stay off the main road.

  It was about two a.m. when I reached the midway. The Indians came to their feet as soon as I stepped inside the tent. Years of training as warriors kept their faces impassive, but I saw the faint glimmer of hope that flared in their eyes when I started sawing through the spokes of the wagon wheel.

  In minutes, the three warriors were free of the wagon, though their hands were still shackled. I’d brought along a pick and file for those irons, but they’d have to wait until we were safely out of town to pick the locks.

  “Follow me,” I whispered, and we made our way out of the tent, down the midway, and over a low hill to where the horses were tethered.

  There was a tense moment then. The Indian with the angry eyes gave me a couple of long hard looks, and I could see he was itching to get his hands around my throat. I couldn’t blame him. He had been a prisoner for five months. He had been mocked and whipped and Lord knows what else, and he was eager to spill some blood. For a moment, I thought it would be mine as he exchanged some heated words with the stocky brave.

  I didn’t catch much of what they were saying, but a finger drawn across a throat means the same in any language, and I knew a moment of real apprehension. After all, these were seasoned fighting men, and the odds were all in their favor.

  The stocky warrior grinned at me. “My brother, Kills Quick, thinks we should send you to the land of your ancestors.”

  “I figured that,” I replied.

  “He is young,” the warrior said, as if that explained everything.

  “You’d better go. There are only a few hours until daylight.”

  “We are grateful for your help, kola, although I do not understand why you have helped us. Kills Quick thinks it is some kind of paleface trick, and that you are going to shoot us as we ride away.”