Reckless Heart

by Madeline Baker

  “No.”

  Shadow’s eyes danced merrily. “You have started something,” he mused, glancing at the bulge swelling under his clout, “and now you must finish it.”

  “Then you come to me.”

  “Hannah.”

  Smiling seductively, I began to undress, until I stood naked before him. The sun was warm on my skin, but not as hot as the desire in Shadow’s eyes.

  With a wordless cry, he bounded to his feet, grabbed me around the waist and fell to the ground, carrying me with him.

  We wrestled playfully beneath the bright blue sky, and then, like wild things, we made love there in the tall grass. I rejoiced in Shadow’s touch, purring like a kitten as his powerful hands gently stroked my eager flesh. I murmured his name as our two bodies became one, and we soared high above the earth in heavenly ecstasy, everything else forgotten in the magic of our love.

  It was much later, after a quick breakfast of venison and berries, that we broke camp. While I smothered the fire, Shadow wrapped the remaining choice cuts of meat in the deer hide and draped it over Red Wind’s withers.

  That done, he swung aboard the horse, sheathed his rifle, gave me a hand up, and we were on our way.

  It was an eerie feeling, riding over the vast rolling plains, just the two of us. We might have been Adam and Eve in the Garden of Eden, for the only other living creatures we saw were animals—buffalo and deer and once, far in the distance, a grizzly scratching itself against a tree. We never lacked for food or water, for Shadow knew every waterhole and was a skilled hunter with rifle or bow.

  The morning of the fourth day I spied what appeared to be a long black snake undulating across the plains. As we drew nearer, I saw that it was a tribe of Indians on the move.

  “The Tsi-tsi-tsis,” Shadow exclaimed, urging Red Wind into a lope.

  Tsi-tsi-tsis, I had learned, meant “those related to us—our people”. The Dakotas called Shadow’s people the Sha-Ye-Nas, meaning people of alien speech. It was the Dakota name the whites picked up, pronouncing it Cheyenne.

  An Indian village on the move was a colorful sight. The warriors rode at the head of the column. Dressed in their finest robes and feathers and mounted on their best ponies, they were a magnificently wild, proud, and fearsome sight.

  Young braves dashed up and down the line, hanging precariously over the necks of their fleet ponies as they showed off for the maidens.

  The pack animals and travois ponies came next, laden with camp gear, lodge covers and poles, blankets, cooking utensils, extra weapons, robes, dried meat and pemmican, and whatever else the Indians owned. Children and squaws walked among the animals, while the very young and the very old shared seats on the travois ponies.

  And behind all this came the Indian pony herd, which must have numbered in the thousands, churning up great clouds of dust and noise as they squealed and kicked, lashing out at the dogs that ran barking and snapping between their legs.

  I had never seen so many animals and Indians in one place at one time, and it was a sight I never forgot. They were a wild, free people, and I knew, intuitively, that they would never be happy tucked away on a reservation, that the Army would never subdue them without a fight.

  I recognized Shadow’s father, Black Owl, riding at the head of the long, winding column. He was mounted on a flashy spotted stallion. Red Wind snorted and laid his ears back as Shadow drew rein alongside Black Owl’s mount, and for a taut moment I thought the two studs would fight, but soft commands from their riders brought both animals quickly under control.

  Black Owl smiled fondly at Shadow, and they clasped hands. After exchanging a few words with his father, Shadow dropped back to where the women were, and the next thing I knew I was walking between Fawn and New Leaf, trying to choke back my indignation at being forced to walk while Shadow rode in comfort with the warriors.

  I had much to learn!

  That night I discovered that the squaws did not eat until after the warriors were satisfied, and that they were expected to keep silent if their husbands were entertaining guests. I also learned that the women always prepared more food than was necessary, and that it was considered an insult to refuse an invitation to sit down and eat.

  Indeed, I learned a good many things in the days that followed, primarily that Shadow had told me the truth when he said the women did all the menial tasks. Menial tasks included gathering the wood, washing everything that needed washing, including his war horse, cooking, sewing, mending, erecting and dismantling the lodge, tanning hides, drawing water, raising the children, butchering the meat, and a dozen other, equally distasteful chores.

  Though Shadow and I had not been formally wed according to Cheyenne custom, it was assumed that I was his woman. As such, I was expected to do all the things a squaw did for her man—which was practically everything! And what did the warriors do while the women were breaking their backs? Why, they spent their time parading around in their finest feathers, smoking, visiting, and gambling.

  Daily, small hunting parties rode away from the main body of the caravan to locate meat for the tribe. It was the only work I saw the warriors do, and I wondered if the other women resented the apparently carefree life of the men as much as I did.

  By the end of the second day, my feet were swollen and sore. New Leaf, Black Owl’s first wife, gave me a pair of her moccasins. They were ever so much easier to walk in than my own shoes, and so much more comfortable that I vowed then and there never to wear shoes again. Fawn was also generous. Seeing how awkward and cumbersome my long skirt and petticoats were, she gave me a lovely doeskin dress beaded and fringed in the manner of the Cheyenne. It, too, was a great improvement over what I was accustomed to wearing, though I felt somewhat naked without my petticoats and chemise.

  Dressed in my new Indian garb, and with my long hair hanging in twin braids down my back, I began to feel as though I’d been born in a lodge myself!

  Speaking of lodges, since Shadow and I had neither skins nor poles with which to make one of our own, we moved in with his father. Black Owl and his wives treated me with unfailing kindness and respect, and I soon grew to love them dearly. Black Owl’s wives were years apart in both age and temperament.

  New Leaf was about forty, with a wide, expressive face and a tendency toward plumpness. I assumed she and Black Owl had been married for years and years and was surprised to learn they’d been married less than five years. In that time, she had borne him two sons. Both had died before they learned to walk. Her eyes were always sad, even when she smiled. New Leaf was quiet and soft-spoken, but she had a quick mind. Often, late at night when Fawn was asleep and the lodge quiet, I overheard Black Owl discussing tribal affairs with her.

  Fawn was quite young, no more than sixteen or seventeen. Much too young, I thought, to be married to a man close to fifty! She had married Black Owl only a month ago and seemed quite pleased with her husband, even though she had to share him with New Leaf, which I thought was not only shocking but downright immoral. However, after I’d been with the Cheyenne awhile, I noticed several of the warriors had more than one wife. Plenty Beaver had three. Elk Dreamer, the decrepit old medicine man, had four!

  Being close in age, Fawn and I soon became good friends. She was a changeable creature, her moods shifting rapidly from merriment to anger. I often saw Black Owl scowl at her, as if he were trying to decide whether to scold her or hug her. When Fawn and I were better acquainted, I asked her if she really liked being a second wife.

  “Why should I not like it?” she asked. “Black Owl is a brave warrior and a good hunter. We always have meat in our lodge. And the work is not so hard when there are two to do it.”

  Well, sharing the work seemed like a good idea—I hadn’t thought of that—but sharing your husband? I thought that was going too far, but of course I didn’t say so. After all, it was none of my business.

  When I’d matured enough to put my prejudices aside, I realized there was nothing sordid about a warrior having two wives. It
was, in fact, a practical solution to a major problem. Women far outnumbered the men, and a warrior often married an old squaw or a widow merely to provide her with food and shelter and protection.

  Living five in a lodge offered very little privacy, and I was deeply touched when Shadow’s family purposefully stayed out of their home an hour or so each day so that Shadow and I might have some time alone. How I cherished those moments we shared under the buffalo robes—kissing and touching until I knew every inch of Shadow’s powerful, lean body as well as I knew my own. What joy, what bliss—to lie in his arms, to feel his mouth on mine, to know he loved me as I loved him.

  As we traveled, I frequently caught one of the maidens staring at me. She was a lovely young thing, tall and slender, with thick black hair that fell to her waist and luminous black eyes. When I smiled at her, thinking perhaps she wanted to be friends, she scowled and turned away. Puzzled by her attitude, I asked Fawn who she was.

  “Oh, that’s Bright Star,” Fawn said airily. “Two Hawks Flying used to play his flute outside her lodge. Everyone expected them to marry, but he suddenly lost interest in her and began spending much time away from the village.”

  I felt my cheeks flush as Fawn threw me a knowing look. Mumbling some inane excuse, I dropped back to walk with New Leaf. I experienced a curious stab of jealousy as I thought of Shadow courting Bright Star. I wondered if she had invited him inside her blanket and if he had held her close.

  Curious as to our destination, I asked New Leaf where we were going and learned that the Cheyenne were headed for the Rosebud River to join their Sioux allies led by Sitting Bull and Crazy Horse. We passed through miles and miles of beautiful country along the way, and I began to understand why the whites coveted this land, and why the Plains Indians were so determined to hold on to it. The grass was tall and thick, waving ahead of us in an endless sea. Scattered stands of timber bordered crystal clear rivers and cascading waterfalls. There were groves of cottonwoods and box elders, chokecherries and wild plums. Game abounded. We saw white-tail deer and antelope, bears, wolves, rabbits, foxes, coyotes, eagles, elks, hawks, and more. I marveled at a great herd of shaggy brown buffalo that covered the prairie like an enormous furry blanket. Shadow remarked, bitterly, that the really big herds were gone, slaughtered by the whites. He told me how, years ago, the northern herd had been so big it took a warrior three hours just to ride around it. I found that hard to believe, yet I could tell by his expression and tone of voice that he was telling me the truth, and I began to understand why the Indians hated the white man.

  I learned a lot about the Cheyenne on that journey. I learned, for instance, that Cheyenne children were taught from infancy not to cry, lest, in time of war, their childish wails alert the enemy. To my amazement, I found that Indian children were rarely spanked or reprimanded and that most lessons were taught the hard way—by experience. Boys, especially, were indulged, and their childish pranks were either ignored or viewed with amusement.

  When I mentioned this to Shadow, he shrugged and said, “The life of a warrior is often short. Sometimes he is killed in his first battle. My people understand this, and as long as the young boys adhere to tribal laws and do not offend their elders, they are allowed to do pretty much as they please until they are fourteen. Then they must begin to take on the responsibilities of being a man and a warrior.”

  I discovered, with some surprise, that when a Cheyenne girl had her first menstrual period it was cause for rejoicing. The girl’s mother told the father, and the father spread the word throughout the tribe, often giving away a favorite horse to celebrate the fact that his daughter was now of marriageable age. A special ceremony accompanied a girl’s first period. During this ceremony, she was bathed and then painted red. For a time, she would sit quietly before a fire in her lodge while sweet grass and white sage and cedar needles burned in the firepit to purify her body. Then, wrapped in a fine robe, she was taken to the menstrual hut where she remained in the company of her grandmother for four days, receiving instructions about her future role as a Cheyenne woman. I learned that from then on she would be thus isolated for four days whenever her time came. It was the only Cheyenne custom I disliked.

  I was also amazed to learn that Shadow’s father, Black Owl, who was considered to be the head chief of the tribe, had no real power or authority over the Indians. The people would follow him only as long as he led them wisely. If he spoke for peace, and others wanted war, those in favor of war chose a leader and went out to fight. If a warrior wanted to steal some horses from the Crows, he would announce his intent, and any warrior who wanted to go along was free to go. If a man didn’t feel like fighting that day, he stayed home and no one thought the less of him.

  The most comforting discovery I made was that, red or white, male or female, people were pretty much the same. Every nation was composed of good people, and those not quite so good, and the Cheyenne were no exception. There were Indians who were outgoing and friendly, and others who were reserved and always a little aloof, even among their own relatives. There were some I liked immediately, and some I thoroughly disliked. There were shy ones and braggarts, those who were unfailingly kind, and those who seemed a little lacking in charity. And there were a few who stood out for one reason or another—like Plenty Beaver, who drank too much. And Snow Flower, who was a shrew. Or Black Lance, a handsome warrior, but one so lazy the tribe took to calling him Always Lying Down.

  And then there was Three Ponies. Three Ponies was a chronic gambler. One night he lost everything he owned, including his lodge, to Beaver Tail. When Three Ponies’ wife heard about it, she threw him out—lock, stock, and barrel—screeching at the top of her lungs that Beaver Tail could have Three Ponies, too, but that the lodge was hers, not her husband’s, and could not be gambled away. Three Ponies was properly contrite the next morning but his wife refused to take him back. As was her right, she burned her lodge and went to live with her sister and brother-in-law.

  The children of the Cheyenne were adorable. The very young ones ran naked and carefree through the camp, playing the games children play the world over. The little girls played with dolls, the little boys played tag or wrestled in the dirt, growling like young puppies. The children stared at me with unabashed curiosity, fascinated by my long red hair and light eyes. Sometimes one or two would gather enough courage to give me a shy smile.

  Later, when they got to know me better, I always had two or three of them following me around, pestering me with questions about the white eyes.

  One little cherub, Rising Dawn, was my especial favorite. She loved to hear how I met Shadow at Rabbit’s Head Rock when I was a little girl about her age, and how I threw up all over him the day he ate that raw buffalo heart.

  Rising Dawn thought Shadow was the most wonderful warrior alive, and told me, in confidence, that she hoped to be his number two wife when she was old enough to marry—if it was all right with me.

  Sometimes, watching Rising Dawn and Shadow together, I would pretend that she was our daughter. There were many babies in camp, and I longed to have one of my own to love and cuddle.

  Rising Dawn was full of boundless energy. Some days she appeared at our lodge with the sun, eager to help me prepare Shadow’s morning meal. She helped me straighten the lodge and gather wood and look for berries and roots. I loved her company and her merry laughter as we made our way across the plains. New Leaf nicknamed her “the little wife” because she was always in our lodge helping with the work.

  I spent a lot of time studying the Indian boys in the days that followed, and as I watched them engage in their activities, I grew to understand Shadow a little better. Indian boys were given weapons at an early age. At first they shot at targets fastened to trees. Later, as they grew older and their skill increased, they were given bigger bows, and they went after rabbits and deer, then buffalo. And finally after man, the most dangerous game of all.

  Indian boys did not cry when they were hurt. They did not show grief when they wer
e sad, except in the privacy of their lodge or within the circle of family and close friends. A true warrior was brave and fearless. He spoke always with a straight tongue. He provided his lodge with meat, defended the tribe against all enemies, and showed unfailing respect to his elders.

  Dishonesty, adultery, murder, cowardice—these were looked upon with loathing and were severely punished. A woman who was unfaithful to her husband had her nose cut off—a permanent symbol of her infidelity.

  Pride came early to a Cheyenne male, pride of race, pride of family, pride in his physical prowess. The dead he held in reverence and respect, rarely, if ever, speaking their name.

  A warrior respected a man’s right to be different, too. The most startling example of this was manifested in a tall, slender Cheyenne man known as Bull Cow. Bull Cow was not a warrior. He dressed and acted like a woman, and Shadow said that was his right. There was no disgust in his voice when he spoke of Bull Cow—no derision, only a touch of pity.

  I had heard it said among the whites that the Indians never laughed and had no sense of humor. I found this to be totally untrue. The Cheyenne loved a good joke, whether on themselves or someone else. They loved stories, too, and often the whole village would gather around while one of the old men spun a fascinating tale. Sometimes they told stories of great warriors or great battles, sometimes they told the history of the Cheyenne nation, and sometimes they related how Maiyun had created the earth. No matter what the subject, I noticed both children and adults listening with awe.

  I learned that the Cheyenne religion was closely bound up in their daily lives. Man Above was the Supreme God, the creator of all life. The Indians believed that everything possessed its own spirit. Trees, animals, rocks, the tall grass, the rushing water, the earth itself—all were endowed with life and were thus revered. No animal was ever killed unless its meat was needed for food or its hide for clothing or shelter. Also, the Cheyenne believed that life was made up of circles—the earth, the sun, the moon—and that there was a center to the earth and that all things were in balance. Thus, they built their lodges in a circle and laid their villages out in circles. Some surmised that because the whites built square houses, they didn’t know where the center of the earth was, and that was why they were such peculiar people. The Cheyenne did not try to change their world but lived in harmony with it, content to live where the Great Spirit had placed them. Too bad, I thought ruefully, that my people did not feel the same way.