by John Foxjohn
Someone jumped on his back, but he fought his way to his feet. Something hit him in the head again. Ringing like a bell made it hard to keep his eyes open. Blood flowed into his eyes. Held on the ground, Hand raised his head. He blinked away the fog clouding his mind. Crazy Horse strained against the ones holding him in the doorway of the cage.
Hand fought, but several people flopped on top of him. He pushed one away, and labored to his feet. He couldn’t breathe with a soldier’s arm around his neck. Like a giant bull, he swung him away.
A giant blow struck his kidney. He fell to his knees, and black and stars flashed in his head as a blow knocked him face first into the dirt. He continued to struggle through the haze, but more bodies toppled on him.
He raised his head, his mouth full of dirt. Little Big Man ran and grabbed Crazy Horse’s arms. Chills exploded down Hand’s back. Last time he had grabbed Crazy Horse, No Water had shot his brother. Hand fought to get away, and again something hit him in the head. A body dropped across his neck, but he raised his head. Red Cloud stood with a scornful, hate-filled expression. Red Cloud yelled, “Kill him. Kill him now.”
Things slowed in Hand’s mind. His eyes drooped for a moment. Where was Whankan Thanka when Crazy Horse needed him the most? His brother had done nothing wrong.
Hand opened his eyes. More Indian police ran and grabbed Crazy Horse’s other arm. A soldier stabbed with the long knife on the gun, but he missed, hitting the door.
Red Cloud’s voice rose above the noise, yelling, “Kill him. Kill him.”
Hand struggled to get free. He had to kill Red Cloud, but too many people held him.
As he struggled, the soldier pulled the long knife from the door and lunged again. This time the long knife sank deep into Crazy Horse’s back. Crazy Horse sagged in the arms of the Indian police who held him. The soldier stabbed again. Crazy Horse sank to his knees in the dirt.
Although several men held Hand on the ground, he crawled toward his brother. Others grabbed him, but he kept going. They finally let him go. To weak to walk, Hand crawled the rest of the way.
In a soft voice Crazy Horse said, “Let me go. You have hurt me enough.”
Face first in the dirt, Crazy Horse caught hold of his brother’s hand and squeezed. Bright red blood trickled out of the corners of his mouth. Hand’s throat constricted as if someone choked him. “What can I do?” Hand asked.
Crazy Horse squeezed his hand harder. “They have killed me, and for what reason I don’t know.”
Several people grabbed Hand from behind and pulled him away. Someone yelled, “Take that one to the guard house.”
He didn’t struggle. It didn’t matter anymore. Someone grabbed his feet and started pulling him with his blood-coated hair dragging in the dirt. After the soldiers threw Hand into the cage, the door slammed shut, leaving him in total darkness. Wailing from outside sent shivers shooting thought his body. Mourning cries continued from all over the agency, thousands joining in, and with tears streaming like the blood that gushed from Hand’s head, he knew his friend and brother had died.
Twenty-One
Hand lay on the dark cage’s dirt floor, crying. Everyone he’d ever loved had died—his parents, Lone Bear, Hump, Cat, Little Hawk, and now Crazy Horse. Did the Great Spirit intend for all his loved ones to die, leaving him alone?
Time passed. How long he lay in the dark cage he didn’t know. When the door opened, bright light blinded him. Someone set food down and darkness took his spirit again. This routine continued sun after sun. Time had no meaning.
After several times he asked to speak with Worm, but the Indian told him he had left the reservation.
Hand didn’t ask any more. He knew what Worm left to do. He, too, had made a promise to Crazy Horse about his special place.
Days later, the blinding light returned. Hand sat in the corner and covered his eyes. When he opened them, a soldier stood in the doorway. Hand wanted to leap up and grab him by the throat when he approached, but curbed the impulse.
The soldier squatted close. “What’s your name?” he asked in English.
“Wrong Hand.”
“What’s your real name?”
Hand thought for several minutes and shrugged.
“Is it Andrew Jackson Johansson?”
Hand’s eyes widened. The name reverberated in his memory. How did the soldier know that? “My name is Wrong Hand.”
“That’s your Indian name. You know it and I know it. I’ll tell you something else. You were called Andy by your parents.”
Hand straightened. “Did you know my parents?”
“No. Someone else told us.”
Hand attempted to move his hair hanging in his face but blood dried in it and most wouldn’t budge. He stood on wobbly legs. “My name used to be Andy. No one is alive who knows me by that. Haven’t been for years. My name is Wrong Hand.”
The soldier’s mouth twisted in a wry grin. He turned to leave, but stopped. “We’ll see.”
Hand fell back to the ground. His routine continued. He didn’t understand why they put him in the cage, but his own body odors made him sick.
Then Worm visited him. He sat in the dark for a long time without speaking. Finally, he said, “I think they are letting you out of here, soon. I’ve tried my best.”
Hand reached out and grasped his father’s shoulder. “Did my brother go to his special place?”
“Yes, but I have told no one where he is. No one knows but you and I. Let’s keep it that way.”
Hand nodded. He agreed with that plan. People wouldn’t leave his brother alone in life. He and Ate could ensure they did in death. “That’s a good idea.”
The silence seemed deep in the dark. Worm stood. “Hand, you will always have a place in my lodge.”
“Ate—”
“Let me speak, Hand. Years ago, I told you the whites may make you decide. I hope that isn’t the case, but I think they will try to make the decision for you.”
Tears welled in Hand’s eyes. Hollowness settled in his chest. “What should I do?”
“You were a little white boy when Crazy Horse brought you to us. You are a grown man now—a white man whether you want to believe that or not. Each race has its good points. Born in one and raised in another, you should be able to exist in both.”
Sometime later, after Worm left, Hand fell asleep. Creaking of the door woke him. As he sat up, several soldiers marched in, turned him over, and placed irons on his hands and feet. Someone pulled him up by his hair. Bright sunlight blinded him as they pushed him outside. He stumbled and fell, and again they yanked him up.
Walking him across the dirt, they took Hand into a room and sat him in a chair. He leaned his head back with his eyes closed. The door opened, but he didn’t look up.
Someone spoke to him in English and his eyes flared open when they jerked his head up. The door opened again. Surprised, Hand looked into the face of an older white man who wasn’t a soldier. For some reason, through the fog in his brain, Hand recognized the man from somewhere.
The young white woman standing beside the man captured Hand’s attention and held his gaze. With golden hair and bright, sky blue eyes, the slim woman was clearly the most beautiful he’d ever seen.
Now her eyes flashed with anger. She strode forward. “Get those chains off of him.”
Stunned, the soldier standing by Hand shook his head. “We can’t do that ma’am.”
She strode closer. “You can and will, or get out of my way and I will take them off.”
Hand shook his head. Confused he glanced from the woman to the soldiers. How did this woman order soldiers around?
With the chains removed, the soldiers left the room. She crept closer and sat at the table across from Hand. His gaze had not left her eyes since she’d walked into the room.
The man walked behind the woman and placed his hands on her shoulders. Hand couldn’t get over his feeling of recognizing her.
Her voice soft, she asked, “Are you And
y Johansson?”
Who are these people? Did the soldier who talked to him tell her?
“Andy. Do you remember me? I’m Abbey Martin. We were friends on the wagon train.”
Her name exploded in his brain. At first, his father’s words broke though his thoughts, the words when he had a vision in the sweat lodge after Cat’s death. He’d said, “Don’t forget Abbey Martin. She is your future.”
Andy’s brain went in reverse—the white girl on the balcony at Fort Laramie, and back to the beginning, the wagon train. The little girl who kissed him goodbye. Her name was Abbey Martin.
He continued to look into her eyes. “My name is Andy Johansson.” He knew the journey of the spirit had ended, but this new journey had only just begun.
The End
About Author John Foxjohn
John uses his extensive experience, as well as meticulous research, to write his suspenseful true-to-life novels. Born and raised in the east Texas rural town of Nacogdoches, he quit high school and joined the army at 17, spending six years as an army ranger in Vietnam and Germany. He became the youngest sergeant in the history of the US Army.
After getting out of the Army, John became a police officer and worked as a homicide detective. His investigative skills helped him solve several notorious and difficult cases. John has always had an intense interest in forensics, especially fingerprinting. His has attended fingerprinting and other forensic science schools. After ten years of police work John decided to go to college and fulfill a promise he made to his dying mother.
John graduated from Stephen F. Austin State University in Nacogdoches with a degree in history and began teaching and coaching. A gifted motivator, his students and athletes excelled under his direction, winning awards and making remarkable academic progress. He used his classroom experience when he wrote Journey of the Spirit to create a compelling, yet historically accurate for both adults and young adult readers.
John lives in Lufkin, Texas and is now a full time writer and speaker who instructs writers in forensics, crime scene investigations, writing mystery and suspense, and self-promoting novels at conferences and workshops.
Visit John’s personal website!
www.johnfoxjohnhome.com