Red Wind snorted and shook his head, ears twitching nervously from side to side, as we rode through a narrow swath of trees. Abruptly, two warriors materialized out of nowhere, and I screamed as they grabbed the stallion’s bridle. Too frightened to speak, I sat stiffly, trying to hide my fear, as they led us into the village.
My first impression of the Indian camp was one of noise and confusion. Countless dogs barked and snarled at our approach. Half-naked children with straight black hair and shiny black eyes chased each other around the lodges, whooping shrilly as they darted in and out of the lanes. There was the soft cooing of a mother nursing her papoose, and the happy clatter of squaws as they stirred huge iron pots filled with strong-smelling soup. I saw long racks of meat drying in the sun, and an old woman beating the dust from a buffalo robe. I saw several hides stretched between cottonwood poles, and others pegged on the ground. Beyond the village proper a horse race was in progress.
There was a sudden hush as we entered the village, and I felt every eye swing in my direction as the two warriors leading Red Wind halted before one of the largest and most elaborately decorated tepees.
The Indian on my left gestured at the lodge. “This is the lodge of Two Hawks Flying,” he said in Cheyenne, prompting me to wonder how he knew I was interested in this particular lodge, but then I realized they had recognized Shadow’s horse.
“Thank you,” I mumbled, and was about to dismount when a tall warrior wrapped in a red blanket emerged from the lodge. I knew immediately that this was Shadow’s father. He had the same hawk-like nose, the same stubborn set to his mouth. Through eyes as black and fathomless as those of his son, he examined me from head to heel.
“You must be Hannah,” he said at last, and when I nodded, he remarked tonelessly, “You’ve brought bad news, daughter. Come inside and we will talk.”
The interior of the lodge was dim and cool. It reeked of wood smoke and grease, of hides and tobacco, of sage, and other alien smells I could not identify. There was a fire pit directly before the doorway, with a willow backrest on the far side of the pit. Clay pots and woven baskets of all sizes and shapes hung from the lodge poles. Two women were seated on a blanket to the left of the doorway. One was sewing porcupine quills on a pair of exquisitely wrought moccasins; the other was braiding a red ribbon into her long black hair.
“My wives, Fawn and New Leaf,” Shadow’s father said, nodding briefly in their direction. “I am Black Owl.” He dropped gracefully to the ground, indicating I should sit beside him. “Will you eat?” he asked politely.
“No,” I replied, puzzled that he should offer me food when he had guessed I carried bad news. Later, I would learn that Cheyenne hospitality required it. Had I been a man, he would also have offered me his pipe.
With the amenities disposed of, Black Owl said, “You bring me news of Two Hawks Flying. I would hear it now.”
Haltingly, in English and Cheyenne, I related the story Shadow had told me, ending with Shadow’s request for Elk Dreamer.
“It is good you came,” Black Owl said tersely. “Come, we will get Elk Dreamer and be on our way.”
Black Owl did not wait for my reply. Rising, he strode briskly out of the tepee, calling orders as he crossed the village, and ducked into a huge lodge decorated with golden suns and crescent moons and brightly colored comets. Moments later he emerged from the lodge, followed by the skinniest, ugliest man, red or white, I had ever seen.
Elk Dreamer must have been a hundred years old if he was a day, I thought, amazed that a man so bent and frail could get around under his own power. He was dressed in a knee-length shirt of bleached doeskin, fringed leggings, clout, and moccasins. A necklace of bear claws hung from his neck. His hair hung over his shoulders in two long gray braids, tied at the ends with bits of fur. His face was gaunt, the skin the color of an old saddle left too long in the sun and rain. Only his eyes had escaped the ravages of age. They were as bright and alert as those of a child.
Just then a youth of perhaps thirteen appeared leading three horses, and I watched in open-mouthed astonishment as Elk Dreamer swung aboard a big roman-nosed sorrel with all the grace and agility of a much younger man. Shadow’s father mounted a skittish gray stallion, leaving a dainty chestnut mare for me.
We rode out of the village single file with Black Owl in the lead and the old medicine man bringing up the rear. Once clear of the village, Black Owl put his stallion into a mile-eating lope, a pace the hardy Indian ponies could maintain for long distances without tiring. We stopped only once on the long ride back to the trading post, and then only for a few minutes.
We reached home just as the sun was sinking over the horizon. I was off my winded little mare and running into the house before the weary chestnut came to a halt. Breathless, I flew to Shadow’s side, then felt myself go cold all over as I saw how pale he was, how labored his breathing.
“He’s unconscious,” Mother said softly, and I felt her arms go around me as she added, “I’m afraid we’ve waited too long, Hannah.”
“No!” I screamed. “No! No!” and buried my head in her bosom as I had when I was a child.
A polite cough at the door drew Mother’s attention, and she left me to greet Elk Dreamer and Black Owl. Shadow’s father spoke English, and as I sank to my knees beside Shadow’s bed, I could hear Mother explaining about Shadow’s leg.
Feeling as if my heart would break, I took Shadow’s hand in mine. It was hot and dry. “Oh, Shadow, please don’t die,” I whispered brokenly. “Please don’t leave me.”
“Hannah?” His voice was weak and seemed to come from far away.
“Yes, I’m here. I’ve brought your father and Elk Dreamer. Hang on, darling. Please hang on.”
Still clutching Shadow’s hand, I rose to my feet as Elk Dreamer approached the cot. Gently, the old medicine man removed the sheet from Shadow’s leg and unwrapped the bandages. Shadow flinched as Elk Dreamer ran a gnarled but steady hand down the length of the wounded leg. Nodding to himself, Elk Dreamer sniffed the wound, muttering something I did not understand. Squaring his thin shoulders, he said, in halting English, “Women leave lodge.”
“Not…Hannah,” Shadow rasped.
Black Owl and Elk Dreamer exchanged disapproving looks, then Elk Dreamer shrugged. “Squaw go,” he insisted, and Mother went upstairs.
Elk Dreamer had brought a rawhide bag into the house with him, and he rummaged around inside it for a few minutes before producing a long, thin Mexican dagger and an assortment of square packets wrapped in leaves and doeskin.
While Elk Dreamer laid out his medicines, Black Owl spoke to Shadow, encouraging him to be brave, offering him gentle words and comfort and affection. I was strangely moved when Black Owl caressed Shadow’s cheek, much as Shadow had caressed mine in days past. Elk Dreamer was ready then, and Black Owl’s face was suddenly wiped clean of emotion as he took hold of Shadow’s leg and held it immobile in his strong brown hands. Shadow had objected when Pa held him down but he accepted his father’s restraining hand without complaint. With a quick, sure motion, Elk Dreamer thrust the dagger into the swollen mass of discolored flesh just above Shadow’s right knee. Shadow squeezed my hand and his face went dead white as dark red blood and greenish-yellow pus spurted from the wound. Chanting softly, Elk Dreamer pressed gently but firmly on the infected area, forcing more and more poison from the angry wound until, at last, only bright red blood oozed from the incision. Shadow endured the medicine man’s ministrations in tight-lipped silence, and I marveled anew that he could endure such torture without a sound. Only the pressure of his hand clasping mine and the rivers of sweat coursing down his face indicated the depths of his suffering.
Elk Dreamer let the wound drain for perhaps another thirty seconds. Then, satisfied that all the poison was gone, he sprinkled a fine white powder over Shadow’s leg from thigh to ankle, chanting all the while in a minor key. A yellow substance was sprinkled over the white, followed by more chanting and the rhythmic shaking of an elkhorn ra
ttle. Lastly, the wizened old man wrapped Shadow’s leg in soft brown leaves, and over this he laid a strip of softly tanned deer hide.
“Need plenty robes,” Elk Dreamer demanded, and I hurried to the back of the store and pulled three gray wool blankets from the shelf. Elk Dreamer nodded as he took the blankets and covered Shadow.
“Make sweat,” he explained. “Cleanse body. Break fever. By morning he will be dead or healed.”
And with that comforting bit of news, he gathered up his herbs and the dagger and went to sit on the floor at the foot of Shadow’s bed. For a moment, he sat with his head bowed and then, ever so softly, he began to chant—a strangely compelling tune that sent shivers down my spine. Over and over again he repeated the same words, and though I could not quite make out the words, I knew Elk Dreamer was praying to Maiyun, the Great Spirit of the Cheyenne, to spare Shadow’s life. After perhaps five minutes, Elk Dreamer pulled a red stone bowl from his pack, sprinkled some sacred pollen and herbs into the bowl, and offered it reverently to the four corners of the earth. Soon a pungent aroma wafted through the air, making me think of berries and burning sage.
I turned to ask Black Owl what was in the bowl but he was nowhere in sight. A movement caught my eye and glancing outside, I saw a tall, dark figure standing alone in the moonlight, arms upraised, head lifted toward heaven. It was Black Owl, supplicating the Cheyenne gods for his son’s life.
Shadow tossed and turned all night long, mumbling wildly as he refought old battles. Occasionally he called my name, and at such times I would squeeze his hand and whisper that I loved him. Sometimes chills racked his body and he shook uncontrollably. At other times, sweat poured from his body, almost faster than I could wipe it away. About midnight, Elk Dreamer gave him something to drink, and Shadow fell into a deep sleep. I guess I fell asleep, too, because the next thing I knew it was morning and I was in my own bed.
The house was as still as death. Fearing the worst, I raced downstairs. And almost fainted with relief when I saw Shadow sitting up in bed, drinking a cup of coffee.
It was a miracle, I thought—nothing less. Wanting to express my gratitude, I looked around for Elk Dreamer.
“They’ve gone,” Shadow said. “My father wanted to take me home, but your mother talked him out of it.”
“I’m glad.”
“Hannah.”
Just the way he said my name thrilled me with delight and I went into his arms readily, hungering for his kiss, eager for the touch of his hands in my hair and on my face. I wished, shamelessly, that we were alone in the house so that he could make love to me again. I could tell by Shadow’s expression that he was thinking the same thing, and the thought warmed me clear to my toes.
“I love you,” I said, wanting to laugh and cry at the same time. “Oh, I love you so much!”
“Show me.”
“As soon as you’re well,” I promised.
“Another kiss at least—to hurry my recovery.”
Willingly, I pressed my lips to his, loving the taste and the touch of his mouth on mine.
The sound of approaching footsteps shortened our embrace, and I moved out of Shadow’s arms as my mother entered the room.
“You two are looking rather well this morning,” she noted with a grin.
“Yes. Where’s Pa?” I asked, suddenly realizing that I hadn’t seen him that morning, or the night before.
“Your father rode out yesterday to have a look at the Berdeen place,” Mother said. There was a thin edge of worry in her voice. “He said he was going to stop by the Tabor place, too. And probably the Walkers’. Likely he spent the night with one of them.”
“Of course,” I agreed. The Tabors and the Walkers lived close to the Berdeens, and it was just like Pa to ride out and make certain they were all right. Knowing Pa, I was sure he’d take time to stop and warn the rest of our neighbors that the Indians were on the warpath.
Shortly, Mother went upstairs to fix breakfast, and I went out to feed the stock. Nellie whinnied at me as I forked her some hay, and I spent a few quiet moments scratching her ears before I returned to the house.
Mother was unusually quiet during breakfast. Neither of us ate much. Afterward, I suggested she rest while I did the dishes, but she sent me downstairs to sit with Shadow, saying she wanted to be alone for awhile, and I knew she wanted to pray for Pa’s safe return.
Shadow was asleep when I got downstairs. I sat in the chair beside his cot and studied his face. How handsome he was! And how I loved him!
Mother joined me about an hour later. An uneasy stillness settled over the house as we waited for Pa to come home, neither of us daring to speak the ugly thought that nagged at the corners of our minds, somehow afraid that speaking the words would make them so. Mother sat by the front window, mending one of Pa’s shirts, a faraway look in her lovely gray eyes. Seeing her there like that reminded me of Florence Sanders, and I shivered with sudden apprehension as I mumbled a prayer for my father’s safe return.
Restless, I tidied up the storeroom and stocked the shelves. Later that afternoon several families rode in to pick up supplies. It seemed strange to be waiting on customers when Shadow was hurt and Pa’s whereabouts were unknown.
I questioned each family that entered the store and felt more and more relieved as, one after another, they said they had seen Pa earlier in the day.
I sold one box of ammunition after another to anxious homesteaders who had taken Pa’s warning to heart. Several of the men made nasty remarks about Shadow’s presence in the far corner of the room. A few said they would not come again as long as we were harboring “that redskin killer” under our roof.
Elias Walt, one of the valley’s newest residents, suggested getting a “little necktie party together to show those red-ass niggers how white folks treat murdering savages!”
When Elias Walt left the store, I gave Shadow one of Pa’s pistols—just in case Mr. Walt decided to put his words into action.
Ida Green asked my mother flat out how she could tolerate a dirty, no-good Injun in her house. “Have you forgotten those savages burned down the Henry place and killed poor John Sanders?” Mrs. Green demanded. “Not to mention that poor little child they kidnapped. Really, Mary, I think you’re carrying Christian charity a little too far!”
“This is my home,” Mother replied quietly. “And my Bible says nothing about basing hospitality on the color of a man’s skin.” Mother’s eyes bored into Ida Green’s as she added, softly, “Shadow would not be here now if our men had exercised a little honest Christian tolerance.”
“Well!” Mrs. Green exclaimed indignantly, and flounced out of the store, skirts swishing.
It was going on evening when Pa rode in. With him were Hobie Brown and four of Hobie’s five sons. Conspicuously absent were Hobie’s wife, Charlotte, and his eldest son, Adam. I was about to ask their whereabouts when a harsh look from Mother stilled my tongue, and I went upstairs to set the table for dinner instead. Pa and the Browns were covered with dust and grime, and Mother quickly warmed some water for them to wash in while I put dinner on the table. It was a quiet, strained meal with nobody saying much. When it was over, Pa offered Hobie and his boys the makings of a drink, and then the Browns went out to bed down in the barn, since our house wasn’t large enough to accommodate them.
Later, my folks and I went downstairs. I took Shadow a tray with his dinner on it and sat beside him while he ate. Mother moved about the store, a. troubled look on her face, while Pa locked up and counted the day’s receipts.
“Are they dead?” Mother asked at last, and we all knew who she meant.
Pa nodded. “Charlotte died easy. Adam wasn’t so lucky. But we gave a good account of ourselves, and that’s what saved us. The Indians retreated to talk it over, and we made a break for it. We were damn lucky to get away alive.”
“Their place?”
“Burned to the ground.” Pa threw a hard look in Shadow’s direction. “Where will it end?” he demanded. “Three homestea
ds have been destroyed. Six people killed. Seventeen, counting the Indians we did for today. A child has been kidnapped. Dammit, Shadow, when will it end?”
“When your people are driven from our land,” Shadow replied evenly, “or when the last Indian lies dead on the plains. My father, and his father, and his father before him lived and hunted in these hills. As far back as the oldest warrior can recall, the Cheyenne have lived and died here. We will not give up the land where our ancestors are buried. Our brothers, the Sioux, will not give up the sacred Pa Sapa, the Black Hills. We will fight and win, or we will fight and die. But we will fight!”
“And will you fight against us?” Pa asked angrily. “Will you kill those who have helped you?” He glanced over at me. “Will you kill those who love you?”
“I do not know,” Shadow replied honestly. “But this I do know. There will be no more fighting until spring comes again. Tomorrow the Cheyenne will leave for their winter camp. But when the grass is new, and the ponies are fat, my people will fight again.” Shadow’s black eyes, which could melt my heart with their warmth, were cold and flat as he said to Pa, “I have asked you before. Now I am begging you. Take Hannah and Mary and leave the land of the Cheyenne before it is too late.”
“No,” Pa replied firmly, as I had known he would. “We’ll stay and fight it out. There’s seventeen families in the valley now, seventeen families just as determined to stick as I am. Come spring, we’ll fight for what’s ours.”
Reckless Heart Page 9