In the Shadow of the Hills

by Madeline Baker

  “What do you think?”

  “I think your heart is good for the Lakota. I think maybe you are of the blood.”

  “Cheyenne,” I admitted proudly, “but I have not seen my people for a long time.”

  The warrior reached out and grasped my forearm. “My heart will always be good for you.”

  “And mine for you.”

  “May Wakan Tanka guide your footsteps,” he said by way of farewell, and vaulted lightly onto the back of the bay I had ridden.

  The other two warriors followed his lead, each taking the lead rope of an extra mount.

  In moments, I was standing alone in the darkness, with only the sound of the wind in my ears.

  Watching them ride away stirred memories I had buried deep in the recesses of my mind and heart, and I felt an intense longing to follow them, to ride the high country again, to hunt the buffalo and gorge myself on rich red hump meat and tongue.

  Later, lying in my white man’s bed beneath a gabled roof, I yearned to race a paint pony across the vast sunlit plains and I fell asleep dreaming of the Black Hills, and days that were forever gone.

  * * *

  There was quite an uproar in the city when it was discovered that the Indians had escaped. Ladies refused to leave their homes, certain a naked savage was lurking behind every bush, just waiting to take their virtue, or their scalps. Men went around carrying rifles. The police searched every building in the city, but, of course, there was no sign of the Indians. They were long gone, and after two days of near hysteria, the citizen concluded that the savages had left town and life returned to normal.

  There were other Indians in the news, as well, and though I had been forbidden to even mention the word ‘Indian’, I scoured the papers for news of the west, and there was plenty of it.

  Most of the stories told of Indian treachery, of whites being brutally murdered by screaming savage hordes, of women being raped and scalped, of men being burned alive. There were heart-wrenching tales of children being torn from the arms of their dying mothers and carried off into captivity. Little mention was made of the Indians who were butchered, of the peaceful villages that were attacked, or of the awful things the vehoe did to Indian women and children.

  All the talk about Indians filled me with an over-powering sense of homesickness, and I yearned for the sounds of my people, for the soft lullabies the mothers sang to their infants, for the age-old chants and prayers of the shamans, the blood-stirring war songs of the young men, the stories and legends of Coyote the Trickster, tales that had been handed down from generation to generation.

  I longed for the sight of home, for the endless plains and flowering prairies, for the majesty of the Bighorn Mountains, the haunting beauty of the Badlands.

  I yearned for the days when I had run wild and free in the shadow of the Black Hills.

  But those days were gone.

  Chapter 10

  1868 was a big year for me. Early that summer, I had my nineteenth birthday. A month later, I asked Clarissa to marry me, and she accepted.

  Telling my mother about our engagement was easy. I knew she would be pleased with my choice. After all, the Van Pattens were a nice, respectable family, a scion of New York society. And almost as wealthy as old man McKenna.

  Clarissa’s parents did not take the news quite so well.

  Her folks stared at us, dumbfounded, when Clarissa announced our engagement. I had known they would be less than enthusiastic, but Clarissa was genuinely surprised by their shocked, disapproving silence.

  Her father found his voice first. “Clarissa, surely you’re joking!”

  “A joke! Of course,” her mother exclaimed, placing one hand over her heart. “And a good one, too.”

  “It’s no joke,” Clarissa said stiffly. “I intend to marry John next year.”

  The Van Pattens had always treated me with a cold politeness that bordered on the edge of rudeness. Now, they acted as if I wasn’t even in the room.

  “Clarissa, this is insanity! Why, he’s half-Indian. What will people say?”

  “He’s half white, too, mother,” Clarissa replied curtly. “And I don’t care what people say. I love him.”

  “Love!” Mrs. Van Patten spat the word. “What does a heathen savage know of love?”

  Clarissa cast an embarrassed glance in my direction. “Mother, please!”

  Grace Van Patten was a tall angular woman with immaculately coiffed brown hair and hazel eyes. She looked at me as if seeing me for the first time. Her cheeks flamed until they were the same color as the expensive silk dress she wore. With a sigh, she turned away, mutely imploring her husband for help.

  Belmont Van Patten was tall and handsome. His hair was black, just turning gray at the temples. His eyes were light brown. He cleared his throat several times before he said, gruffly, “I’m sorry, young man, but I cannot allow you to marry my daughter.”

  I had a lot of angry words jumping around inside my head, but I never got a chance to say them. Clarissa grabbed me by the hand, squared her small shoulders, and glared at her father.

  “I shall marry whom I please,” she said quietly. “And if I cannot marry John with your blessing, then I’ll marry without it. But I will marry John.”

  “Clarissa...”

  “I’m sorry, mother. Father. But I love John, and he loves me, and nothing you can say will change that.”

  Apparently the idea of an Indian being capable of love was a new thought. Clarissa’s mother and father exchanged bewildered glances, all the fight gone out of them. Clarissa had always been a sweet, obedient daughter, and I knew they blamed me for this display of rebellion.

  With a sigh of resignation, Grace Van Patten slumped into a chair, her face as pale as the white rose pinned to her dress.

  “Are you sure you won’t reconsider?” Belmont asked.

  “I’m sure,” Clarissa said.

  In the end, her parents gave us their blessing, and we set the date for July 17th.

  But there was bigger news than our engagement making the headlines. The United States had decided to abandon the Bozeman Trail that year. Red Cloud rode triumphant through Fort Phil Kearny, and then burned that hated symbol of the white man’s strength to the ground. It looked like a great victory for the Indians, but I knew better. A railroad was being built south of the trail and with that in mind, the Army had decided it would be easier to surrender the fort than continue fighting Red Cloud over a trail that would soon be obsolete.

  In the latter part of ’68, the name George Armstrong Custer began turning up in the newspapers again. I’d gone to Washington with my mother and Wentworth one year, and I’d met Custer at a party. We had taken an instant dislike to each other. He had been out of favor at the time, having recently been court-marshaled for insubordination, among other things. His punishment had been a year’s suspension without pay. Now he was back, as pompous as ever. Seeing his name in the paper, I knew it meant trouble for the Indians somewhere down the line, and I was right.

  In late November, the 7th Cavalry, led by Custer and marching to the tune of “Garry Owen” attacked a sleeping village of peaceful Cheyenne camped on the banks of the Washita River. The troopers rode through the village, shooting anything that moved, trampling men, women and children beneath their horse’s hooves. Those Indians who survived the initial attack ran for cover, their feet freezing as they scrambled across the snow-covered ground.

  It was Sand Creek all over again. More than a hundred warriors were killed. No count was made of the dead women and children. In the end, fifty-three women and children were taken prisoner. The best animals from the Indian horse herd were divided among the Army officers, the Indian women were allowed to pick out horses, and the rest of the herd was slaughtered. The village was burned. Black Kettle, who had survived the Chivington massacre at Sand Creek, did not survive the Custer attack.

  It was a great victory for the Army, and for Custer. People talked of it for weeks. I was not very good company during t
he holidays that year. Old man McKenna grew irritable with my sullen mood, but my mother, usually so callous, seemed to understand that the Custer massacre had awakened old memories that were painful and hard for me to bear.

  The new year came amid snow and gray skies, and I put Custer out of my mind as the day of my wedding drew near.

  I guess I was as nervous as any other bridegroom when the big day finally arrived. Standing at the altar, waiting for Clarissa, I could feel my heart pounding like a Cheyenne war drum. Sunlight filtered through the church’s stained glass windows, making broad slashes of color on the white runner than covered the middle aisle of the chapel. Huge bouquets of white flowers filled with air with a sweet fragrance, reminding me of the park where Clarissa and I had first tasted love.

  As the strains of the Wedding March began, hundreds of people rose to their feet.

  I’d known Clarissa would make a beautiful bride, and I was not disappointed. Clad in a modest gown of fine white satin, her lovely face veiled, she seemed to float down the aside, looking like an angel fresh from heaven. Stepping forward, I took her hand in mine, and we stood side by side in front of the minister.

  From the corner of my eye, I watched her face as she repeated the words that made her mine. In the back of my mind, I had always planned to go home, back to the Cheyenne, once Clarissa way my wife, but as I slipped the wide gold band on her finger, I put the thought far from me. My bride was too tiny, too frail, to endure the rigors of life on the plains, especially now, when my people were constantly at war.

  But as I lifted the veil from her face and claimed my first kiss as her husband, I had no regrets.

  There was a big party at the Van Patten mansion following the ceremony. Everybody in New York seemed to be there, from the mayor of the city to the church janitor. I won’t bore you with the details. Suffice it to say there were congratulations and good wishes from everyone, and more presents than I had ever seen in my life.

  We danced and drank champagne for what seemed like hours, and then, needing to be alone, we slipped away from the crowd and left the mansion. Unbeknownst to anyone in either family, I had made reservations at the best hotel in the city, and that was where we spent our wedding night.

  We had made love countless times before, Clarissa and I, and yet, as we undressed each other, it was like the first time all over again.

  I have to admit, I was as nervous as any bridegroom romancing his bride for the first time. My hands trembled as I unfastened her gown and slid it over her shoulders, exposing a lacy chemise trimmed in pale blue satin, what seemed to be a dozen petticoats, and a pair of pantalets, also trimmed in pale blue satin. And then Clarissa was standing before me clad in nothing but stockings, garters, and a pair of white satin slippers. My heart seemed to jump into my throat as I stared at her. Never had I seen anything more lovely than Clarissa as she stood there, her cheeks flushed, her eyes sparkling with happiness.

  And then I went down on one knee and removed her shoes and stockings, my hands caressing her calves, her thighs, my lips pressing kisses to her belly and breasts as I slowly regained my feet.

  A beguiling smile played over Clarissa’s lips as, slowly and seductively, she began to undress me, laughing softly when she removed my trousers and saw the very visible evidence of my desire.

  When she had removed all my clothes, I took her in my arms. Her skin was like smooth satin against mine as my hands slid up and down her back. Surely nothing in all the world is more satisfying, more arousing, than the touch of flesh against flesh, of soft womanly curves and sweetly scented skin and hair.

  I was on fire for her, burning for her. The same heat burned in her hands and lips as her fingertips trailed fire wherever she touched me.

  My lips slid down her neck and along her shoulder. “Happy?” I asked.

  “Very,” she whispered.

  “I love you, Clare,” I said fervently. “I’ve never loved anyone the way I love you.”

  “Truly?”

  “Truly?”

  “Show me,” she whispered. Rising on her tiptoes, she pressed her lips to mine. “Show me...”

  With a low groan, I lifted her into my arms and carried her to bed. She was like a living flame, her heat warming me inside and out, her light chasing away the shadows of the past.

  * * *

  We went to Europe on our honeymoon. What an experience! We went to plays, to the ballet, to the opera. We frequented the most exclusive shops, we dined at the finest restaurants, slept in the best hotels.

  We wandered through museums filled with ancient treasures, through great old cathedrals, and church topped with ornate crosses and twisted spires. We gazed in awe at intricate stained glass windows and vaulted ceilings. We went to art galleries hung with hundreds of paintings; visited libraries that housed thousands of books; strolled through aromatic gardens; made our way through huge, drafty palaces.

  And as we wandered from one magnificent edifice to another,

  I could not help but think of the vast difference between red man and white. The vehoe left his mark everywhere: in books and paintings, in statues and monuments, great cathedrals and lowly chapels. All proclaimed his beliefs, his very existence. Every aspect of the white man’s life was depicted in one form or another. And even in death, he left evidence of his being, be it in a simple wooden cross humbly carved with his name and the date of his passing, or a costly marble tombstone embellished with angels and cherubs.

  Not so the Cheyenne. He left nothing behind. No books expounded his beliefs in Heammawihio and Maheo. No statues depicted his way of life, or paid homage to his heroes. He moved freely across the land, living, dying, taking little, leaving nothing behind to show he had been there. When he died, his body was left in the treetops to feed the birds, or buried in the earth to nourish the land, his grave unmarked except by the tears of his loved ones. Only in the hearts and minds of the storytellers did the history and legends of my people live on, handed down from one generation to the next. And when the last Cheyenne died, there would be nothing left to show that we had lived....

  * * *

  We spent six months touring Spain, Italy, France, England and Scotland, and when we returned home, Clarissa was pregnant.

  I’ll never forget the night she told me the news. It was our last night in Madrid, and we were staying with a friend of Clarissa’s mother. Clarissa sent me out to buy a bottle of wine, and when I returned to our room, she was sitting in the middle of the bed wearing nothing but soft yellow candlelight and a mysterious smile. Her hair shimmered like molten gold in the light of a dozen small candles; her eyes glowed like sapphires as she held out her arms.

  I dropped the bottle of wine on a chair and gathered Clarissa into my arms.

  “Pretty sneaky,” I drawled, nipping at her ear lobe.

  “I thought you’d be pleased.”

  “Oh, I’m pleased,” I said with a grin.

  “Are you?” She frowned at me. “Let me see.”

  I felt the heat of her gaze as she glanced at the front of my trousers - trousers that were suddenly far too tight.

  “You look a little uncomfortable,” Clarissa remarked with a knowing grin.

  “You have no idea.”

  “Perhaps you’re overdressed,” she remarked, giggling. “But I can remedy that.”

  Her hands were moving as she spoke, relieving me of my shirt. She leaned across my lap to remove my boots and I felt the heat of her breasts press against my thighs.

  I groaned softly as she began to unfasten my trousers. “Clare...”

  She looked up at me, her lips curved in a teasing smile.

  “Something wrong?”

  “No...” I gasped as she caressed me. “Nothing’s wrong.”

  It was a night never to be forgotten. We had made love many times before we were married. We had made love on our wedding night, and countless times since, but that night Clarissa gave herself to me as never before. I couldn’t put my finger on the difference, I only knew t
hat something had changed, that feelings that had been strong before were stronger, deeper.

  It was near dawn when she placed my hand over her belly, then covered my hand with her own.

  “I’ve something to tell you,” she whispered. “Something I hope will make you happy.”

  “You make me happy,” I replied, kissing her cheek.

  “We’re going to have a baby.”

  “A baby?”

  I glanced at our hands, entwined over her stomach. A baby. I was going to be a father.

  I looked at Clarissa, too stunned to speak. A baby.

  “John?”

  “A baby,” I murmured. “Are you sure?”

  “I’m sure. I...I was hoping you’d be happy about it.”

  A baby.

  Joy bubbled up inside me as I pictured a daughter with Clarissa’s golden hair and blue eyes.

  Filled with exuberance, I bounded out of bed, grabbed Clarissa, and twirled her around the room.

  “A baby!” I exclaimed. “When?”

  “Oh, in seven months or so. You’re happy about it, then?”

  “Happy! Honey, I’m thrilled.”

  Abruptly, I stopped twirling her around the room and, very gently, sat her on the bed. “Are you all right? Do you need anything?”

  I hit my forehead with the heel of my hand as I recalled how passionately we had made love earlier. Swearing softly, I knelt beside her.

  “Clare, should we have made love?”

  “It’s all right, John. I’m still the same.”

  “Are you?”

  She laughed softly as she drew me to her breast. “I’m fine, Johnny. Nothing’s changed.”

  I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. She said nothing had changed, but in that instant, everything had changed. I was going to be a father.

  I gathered her into my arms, wishing I had the words to tell her how much I loved her, how precious she was to me.

  We made love again, then stood at the window and watched the sun come up.

  I stood behind Clarissa, my hands folded over her belly, trying to imagine my child growing there, beneath her heart, trying to picture how she would look with her belly swollen with our child, when her breasts were full and heavy with milk.