Reckless Heart

by Madeline Baker

  “You’re a fool,” Shadow murmured, and Pa’s head jerked back as if he’d been slapped. Only a word from Mother kept him from doing something rash, and he turned on his heels and stomped up the stairs, his face as dark as the night sky.

  “Don’t stay up too late, Hannah,” Mother said, and she looked suddenly old and tired as she followed Pa up to bed.

  Chapter Nine

  Winter 1875-Spring 1876

  The letter was lying on his pillow, written in his bold hand.

  “Hannah, your father and I will be at each other’s throats if I stay longer, so I have gone south to join my people. My heart lies heavy within me, for your father is as proud as the Cheyenne, and just as stubborn, and I know he will not leave the valley. I hope, when spring comes, that the hot-blooded young warriors will have cooled off and the battle I fear will not come. If it does, I must fight alongside my people.”

  It was signed Two Hawks Flying. How strange that name sounded as I said it aloud. Two Hawks Flying. I had never thought of Shadow by that name, and it tasted alien in my mouth. It was a proud name, a warrior’s name, and I knew that when he used it to sign his letter, he was telling me that he had cut his ties with my family and with me. He was no longer Shadow, the boy I had played with and loved and yearned to marry, but Two Hawks Flying, the Cheyenne warrior, bound to his people by a sense of pride and honor that was stronger than his love for me. A great sadness settled over my heart, for I knew I could have no part in the path he had chosen.

  And so winter came. The wind screamed through the wooded hills, stripping the last leaves from the trees until they stood barren and forlorn. Dark clouds shrouded the sky, as heavy and gray as the pain in my heart. I had never felt so alone. Lying in my bed at night, I listened to the coyotes baying at the moon and their bittersweet cries were like the echo of my own tears. I watched, listlessly, as heavy rains pelted the ground, until the trading post stood like an island in a sea of brown slush. The first snowfall came, turning the drab world into a shimmering wonderland of pristine white, but I saw no beauty in it. Christmas came and went, and I found neither joy nor hope in that most wonderful of all days. Likewise the new year, 1876.

  Mother left me to myself, knowing I needed to be alone. It was enough for me to know she was there, ready to talk when I felt the need, ready to counsel and comfort when the hurt was gone. Pa, too, respected my grief. I doubt either of them knew how much I loved Shadow, or that I had planned to run off with him. I know Mother thought I was merely infatuated with him and nursed a secret hope that I would soon come to my senses and marry Joshua, though she never voiced her thoughts.

  In late January the sun came out, and though it was bitingly cold, it was good to have dry weather and sunshine, if only for a few days. I turned Nellie out of the barn, and she cavorted around the yard like a young colt, slipping and sliding in the mud. But even her ridiculous antics failed to cheer me.

  Days later a detachment of cavalry pulled into the trading post, the first soldiers we’d seen since we moved into the valley. One of them, an old trooper named Macintosh, had a letter for me. It was from Joshua. He was stationed at Fort Lincoln under Major Reno. Josh briefly described the daily life of a trooper—roll call, mess call, stable call, close-order drill—the endless training that took a green recruit and fashioned him into a crack trooper. The tone of his letter brightened as he mentioned his idol, George Armstrong Custer, the “boy general”. Even in our remote part of the territory we knew about Custer.

  Though graduated last in the West Point class of 1861, his daring bravado and love of fighting gained him quick promotions during the Civil War, and he had attained the rank of Major General by brevet at the age of twenty-five. When the war was over, his rank was reduced to Lieutenant Colonel and he was sent to Fort Riley, Kansas, where he gained great acclaim as an Indian fighter. Now he was at Fort Lincoln preparing to ride against the Sioux, determined to bring them to their knees once and for all.

  He was a dashing and romantic figure, and as I read Joshua’s glowing description of Custer, I wondered which picture correctly portrayed the man with the long yellow hair, the one Josh painted of a brave soldier and valiant fighter, or the one Shadow had drawn for me one afternoon down at the river crossing—that of a strutting, arrogant, glory-hunting murderer who had massacred a sleeping village of Cheyenne in the valley of the Washita.

  Josh went on to say that word had gone out to all the Plains tribes in December, admonishing them to surrender immediately and report to the reservations by January 31st or be considered as hostiles and treated accordingly. Josh went on to say that in view of the bitter weather and the short notice, it was doubtful if the tribes would comply, and that there’d likely be war at last. He said that latrine rumor had it that the Army was tired of fighting the Sioux and had decided to wipe them out once and for all; that, come spring, a major campaign was sure to be mounted against the Sioux in the Black Hills…

  I laid Joshua’s letter aside. The Sioux and the Cheyenne were allies, and a cold hand closed over my heart as I recalled Shadow’s words:

  “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!”

  Troubled, I picked up Joshua’s letter and read the last few lines:

  “Tell your pa it might be wise to pull out of the valley as soon as the snow thaws. There’s talk of a lot of unrest among the Northern Cheyenne. Our scouts report that Black Owl is thinking of joining Sitting Bull.”

  As I put Joshua’s letter away, I thought of the things he’d said, and of the things Shadow had said, and it seemed to me that sooner or later the two men I cared for most beside my own father were destined to meet somewhere in the Black Hills. I wondered which, if either, would survive, and knew I would be condemned by everyone in the valley if they knew it was Shadow I prayed for most of all.

  Hobie Brown and his sons stayed with us through the winter, and we were glad to have them. Hobie’s oldest boy, John, was a skilled hunter and trapper and managed, somehow, to keep meat on our table through that long, miserable winter. Benjamin was a natural artist, and we wiled away many a night watching him sketch scenes of local wildlife that were so real you wanted to reach out and touch them. I especially liked his drawing of a red-tailed hawk, for it reminded me of Shadow. Paul played the banjo and brightened many a long, dark night with his music. David, the youngest, was a born clown. He kept us laughing with silly stories and funny poems that didn’t make a lick of sense. They didn’t rhyme, either, but that didn’t matter.

  It was David that became my dearest friend. We talked often of books we’d read, of faraway places with exotic names and curious customs. He never asked why I was so sad, but one night he took my hand in his and said, simply, “Hannah, if you ever want to talk about it, I’m here to listen.”

  It was David’s unfailing cheerfulness that reached through the layers of my unhappiness and made me smile again; David made life worthwhile.

  Spring came at last. One day it was cold and bleak, gray as Nellie’s hide, and the next morning the sun was shining, the sky was a clear, unblemished blue, and the snow was melting. Business picked up at the post. Mother’s flowers bloomed. Hobie Brown and his boys started talking about rebuilding their place, and Pa offered to lend them whatever tools and supplies they needed to get started. Paul Brown proposed to Lucinda Bailey and they set the date for late June.

  David and I spent long hours together walking in the woods along the river’s edge, glad to be out of the stockade walls. We were picnicking there one sunny afternoon when David asked me to marry him. I wanted to accept, for I was very fond of David, but I just couldn’t bring myself to say yes. Much as I liked David, much as I enjoyed his company and his unfailing ability to make me laugh, I didn’t love him and never would.

  “I can’t, David,” I said sadly. “I’m sorry, but I just can’t.”

  “Hey, don’t look so glum about it,” David respond
ed cheerfully. “I’m the one who’s being rejected, not you.”

  “Oh, David, can’t you ever be serious?”

  “Don’t know—never tried.”

  “I’m glad. Can we still be friends?”

  “Couldn’t we be kissing cousins instead?” he queried impishly, and I laughed as he claimed a kiss.

  The better I got to know David, the sorrier I was that I couldn’t love him, for we were well-suited for each other in both age and temperament. I began to think that should he propose again, I might accept, for I was terribly lonely for someone to love. And perhaps it was wiser to marry a man you didn’t love after all. Perhaps, in the long run, it was better never to love at all, for only those you loved could hurt you. And I was determined never to be hurt again.

  I thought often of Shadow, though I had forgotten his predictions of war. The troubles of last year seemed far away. Everyone in the valley was busy. The men spent their days planting and plowing, while the women were all happily engaged in preparing for Lucinda’s wedding. Mother was altering Mrs. Bailey’s wedding gown for Lucinda, and one day I slipped it on, curious to see how I’d look as a bride.

  Staring at my reflection in the big mirror downstairs, I pinned the veil in place and imagined myself standing before the preacher with Shadow at my side.

  “Beautiful! Just beautiful!” came a voice behind me. Startled out of my daydream, I turned to find David smiling at me.

  “You’ll make a lovely bride one day,” he said huskily. “I hope whoever you marry will realize what a prize he’s getting.”

  “Oh, David,” I murmured, blushing before the frank admiration in his eyes.

  He might have tried to kiss me then, and I might have let him, if Mother had not come in looking for Pa.

  Later that day Jed Tabor, Saul Green, and Elias Walt rode into the trading post, bragging about how they had captured a couple of Indian kids skulking around the Tabor place.

  “They won’t be stealin’ no more of my stock!” Jed Tabor boasted. “No, sir!”

  “Nor anyone else’s,” Saul Green added, slapping his thigh with delight.

  “How’s that?” Pa asked suspiciously.

  “Cause we strung ‘em up, that’s why!” Elias Walt chortled and burst out laughing like he’d just told the year’s best joke.

  “Strung ‘em up!” Pa growled. “I thought you said they were just kids.”

  “Nits make lice,” Jed Tabor said curtly. “If we kill the bastards while they’re young, we won’t have to fight ‘em later.”

  “You’re a fool, Jed,” Pa muttered. “You’re all fools.”

  “You turning into an Injun lover, Sam?” Elias Walt asked gruffly.

  “Don’t be a bigger fool than you already are,” Pa warned sharply. “I got no love for the Indians, but I’ve got no desire to fight them, either, and if what you boys have done today doesn’t start an all-out Injun war, we’ll be damn lucky!”

  After that, it seemed we heard stories of raids and killings every day. Some German settlers located at the south end of the valley were massacred. A Sioux village was attacked by the Army, with heavy casualties on both sides. A wagon train was wiped out by a mixed band of Sioux and Cheyenne. The Walkers, upset by the increased Indian activity, pulled up stakes and left for Oregon. They never made it.

  Near the end of April the Indian raids came to an abrupt halt, and when a whole week went by without a single incident, David and I rode up into the hills behind the trading post for a picnic. It was good to be out in the open, out of the stockade walls. Below us, the valley lay bathed in golden sunlight. The river made a narrow swath of blue against the valley floor. A thin thread of blue-gray smoke spiraled from the chimney of the trading post.

  Lifting my eyes, I gazed into the distance, the sandwich in my hand forgotten. Far away, beyond the mountains, lay Custer and Joshua and Fort Lincoln. And Shadow. Why did his memory still have the power to hurt me? Why didn’t time erase his image from my mind? All I had to do was close my eyes and Shadow’s swarthy countenance appeared, every detail in sharp focus, undimmed by time or distance.

  David was a nice-looking young man. He had thick sandy-brown hair, kindly brown eyes, and a warm, loving smile. He was bright and clever, he was generous and good-natured. Why couldn’t I love him? Why did I continue to long for a man who put loyalty to his people before his love for me? Oh, how I longed for Shadow to hold me and love me. Why didn’t David’s kisses make my heart sing with joy? Why didn’t the touch of his hands fill my soul with sweet agony?

  Shadow. Long black hair, skin like rich copper, eyes black as a midnight sky. Why couldn’t I forget him and marry David, who loved me and wanted me?

  With a sigh, I put my sandwich back in the picnic basket and faced David. “I’m not very good company today, am I?”

  “Well, now that you mention it, I have had more sociable companions,” David allowed. “But none as pretty. You know, Hannah, it might help if you talked about it.”

  “There’s nothing to talk about,” I said, shaking my head. “Really.”

  And there wasn’t. Shadow was gone, and all my tears would not bring him back. In the meantime, I had a man who loved me and wanted to marry me, and I knew that I would be a darn fool to let him get away.

  I was about to tell David I would marry him if he still wanted me when a faraway speck of movement caught my eye. In minutes, the speck became a long dark line snaking along the crest of the next hill. Before my mind could accept what my eyes were seeing, David grabbed me around the waist and thrust me onto Nellie’s back.

  “Ride, Hannah!” he shouted, swinging aboard his own mount. “Ride hard!”

  I kicked Nellie and she broke into a shambling trot, and then into a gallop as David lashed her rump with his quirt. Behind us, a shrill undulating war whoop rang out as the ever-nearing war party gave chase.

  The sound of that horrendous, bloodcurdling cry spooked my old mare, and she lined out in a dead run, her ears flat. Neck and neck, David and I flew down the hill toward the trading post. Each time Nellie began to lag behind, I dug my heels into her ribs, praying she wouldn’t stumble or step into a hole.

  Never had home seemed so far away. Glancing over my shoulder, I saw that the Indians were gaining on us. Their faces, streaked with paint, were hideous and unreal, like something from a nightmare.

  We were almost home when Nellie stumbled. My heart dropped into my stomach as I sawed on the reins. I cried, “Oh, God, help me!” then sobbed with relief as Nellie scrambled to her feet and began running again.

  Her gray coat was yellow with foamy lather, her heart pumping like a bellows, when we finally reached the safety of the stockade walls.

  “Indians!” David hollered. Leaping from his horse, he closed the heavy gates and dropped the cross-bar in place.

  Pa and Hobie Brown burst out of the house, checking their weapons as they ran. Hobie’s boys were right behind him. Pa threw David a rifle and a box of shells, and the men clamored up the ladder to the catwalk that ran around the fortress walls. I heard Pa holler, “Make every shot count!” as the men spread out.

  I led Nellie and David’s gelding into the corral and turned them loose, then raced into the house and grabbed a rifle from the rack. Picking up a box of .44 cartridges, I scooted up the ladder and took a place beside Pa.

  “Get on down from here,” Pa said curtly. “Go back to the house and stay with your mother.”

  “Mother’s coining, too,” I said. “Look.”

  Pa frowned as he saw Mother climbing the ladder, laden with a rifle, bandages, and three canteens of water.

  “Dammit, Mary, this ain’t no place for you or Hannah,” Pa scolded, but Mother silenced him with a wave of her hand.

  “Don’t be silly, Sam Kincaid,” she scolded right back. “This is our home, too, and we aim to fight right here beside you.”

  Pa got that stubborn look in his eye, but there was no time for further argument. The Indians reached the stockade in a rush of no
ise and dust and the battle was on. We were outnumbered ten to one, but we had the high ground, so to speak, and the protection of the stockade’s stout wooden walls. The Indians, not armed with guns, unleashed their deadly arrows as rapidly as we levered our rifles. For what seemed an eternity there was nothing in all the world but the feathered hum of bowstrings, the hiss of arrows, and the echoing roar of our rifles.

  Dust and powdersmoke choked the air, clogging my nose and throat, making my eyes water. I fired the rifle until the barrel grew hot in my hands, feeling sick to my stomach each time one of my shots struck home. And even as I fired into the Indian ranks, I prayed with all my heart that Shadow was not down there—that none of the feathered, screaming, paint-streaked warriors was the man I loved.

  Funny—I knew Shadow was an Indian, knew he lived and behaved the same as the rest of his tribe, and yet I could not imagine him painted for war. I could not visualize his handsome face twisted with implacable hatred, his dark eyes wild with the lust for blood, his mouth drawn back in a savage grin.

  And yet I knew he had killed a man. A Pawnee. He had said as much, and the feather in his hair gave credence to his words.

  There was a brief lull in the battle as the Indians pulled out of range to regroup, and I found myself searching their ranks for a tall warrior astride a roan stallion. Abruptly, I tore my eyes away. If he was down there, I didn’t want to know.

  I glanced around the catwalk, grinning as I saw my mother wiping dust and perspiration from her face. I had never seen her with her face dirty before or her hair uncombed.

  Beside me, Pa was staring hard at the brave nearest the stockade wall and when I asked him what was wrong, he said, “That’s Jed Tabor’s palomino mare. I’d recognize her anywhere.”

  “Looks like it,” I agreed. So the Tabors had been hit, too. There was always a chance, of course, that the Indian had stolen the horse from the Tabor corral, but I knew it was a mighty slim chance and that, more likely, Jed Tabor and his family were dead.