It was the first of May when we reached the Sioux camp located at the Big Bend of the Rosebud River. How can I describe it? It stretched for miles and miles—a panorama of lodges and milling horse herds and Indians of all sizes and ages and colors, from pale copper to dark bronze. And even as we arrived, others were coming in. Minnecon-jou, Sans Arc, Arapahoe, Blackfoot Sioux, Hunkpapa, Santee, Oglala, other bands of Cheyenne. The word of Sitting Bull had gone out to all the tribes: “It is war. Come to the Rosebud.”
And they came in droves!
Shadow’s tribe pitched their lodges alongside a contingent of Arapahoe, and the warriors were soon caught up in the general air of excitement and anticipation that permeated the valley. If the whites wanted war, they would get war. Everywhere I looked I saw men working on their weapons, either repairing old ones or fashioning new ones, sharpening lance tips and arrowheads. War ponies stood ready outside each warrior’s lodge, pintos, grays, blacks, chestnuts, bays, duns, roans, buckskins. I remarked on the absence of white or cream-colored horses, and Shadow explained they were rarely used by warriors because they made too good a target at night and were too easily spotted from a distance.
For the first time since we had joined up with Shadow’s people, I felt alien. Around me were thousands of Indians, all with but one thought in mind: Kill the white eyes! Drive them from the land! They spoke of victory as if it had already been accomplished. As I puzzled over their optimism, I learned that at the last Sun Dance Sitting Bull, the great Hunkpapa medicine man, had made a flesh offering of a hundred pieces of his skin to Wakan Tanka and in return had received a vision in which hundreds of American horse soldiers fell dead at his feet.
Later that day I saw Sitting Bull, known as Tatanka Yotanka among his own people. I learned he had once been called Jumping Badger, but after showing great courage in a raid against the Crows when he was but a boy of fourteen, he had been given his father’s name. Though Sitting Bull was no longer an active warrior, he was still the leader of the Hunkpapa, revered and respected by all the Sioux tribes. He had a typical Indian face—broad and flat with narrow eyes, a wide thin mouth, and a large nose. I did not find him particularly impressive, until I heard him speak. He was a great orator.
That same day I saw Crazy Horse, the esteemed war chief of the Oglala Bad Face. Here was a man! Slender of face and frame and of medium height, he was yet a commanding figure and, except for Shadow, easily the most handsome man I had ever seen. There was an air of quiet dignity about Crazy Horse that demanded respect, and he was held in high regard by every tribe on the Plains. Of all the chiefs present—and there were many, including Gall, who seemed to be third in command—none received quite the same degree of hero worship as Crazy Horse.
Days passed and Indians continued to pour into the war camp until it looked as if every Indian from the Atlantic to the Pacific was gathered along the banks of the Rosebud River.
It was during one of those warm summer days that Shadow came to me, a grave look in his deep black eyes.
“What is it?” I asked anxiously. “Is something wrong?”
“Yes,” he said. “Very wrong.”
“What’s wrong?” I asked hoarsely. A dozen dreadful thoughts crowded my mind. The soldiers had found us. Someone had died. He didn’t love me anymore…
“We have not been properly married, Hannah,” Shadow said. “I want you to be my wife. Will you marry me according to Cheyenne custom?”
Relief washed over me in great waves. “Marry you,” I breathed. “Oh, yes, yes, yes!”
As we kissed, I felt as if a two-ton rock had been lifted from my shoulders. I had thought of Shadow as my husband ever since the day he carried me away from the trading post, and yet I had longed for a ceremony of some kind to bind us together. Deep down, I had felt guilty because we were living together out of wedlock.
“I have spoken to Elk Dreamer,” Shadow said, his voice warm against my ear. “He has agreed to perform the ceremony, if it is all right with you. It will not be the usual wedding ceremony, since we have been living together for a long time. But it will show everyone that you are mine, and a part of my family.”
The next evening, just after sunset, Shadow and I stood together before Elk Dreamer, surrounded by all the Cheyenne people. I wore a doeskin dress that had been bleached white and tanned to a softness like velvet. It had been a gift from Fawn, and was, in fact, the dress she had worn when she married Black Owl. Foot-long fringe dangled from the sleeves, hundreds of tiny blue beads decorated the bodice. New Leaf had stayed up the night before to make me a pair of moccasins. They were beautiful, as intricately designed and crafted as any evening slippers I had ever seen. My hair fell free about my shoulders, adorned with a single white rose.
Shadow stood straight and tall beside me, looking more handsome than I had ever seen him. He wore a white buckskin shirt that was open at the throat, white leggings heavy with fringe, and white moccasins. A single white eagle feather was tied in his waist-length black hair.
Elk Dreamer raised his right hand for silence. “This is a special day for our people,” he began. “One of our warriors has chosen a woman to share his life. Though she is not of our blood, her heart is good for our people. From this day forward, she will be one of us.” Pausing, Elk Dreamer drew his knife. Taking Shadow’s right hand, he made a shallow cut in his palm, and then did the same to my right hand. Caught up in the beauty of the moment, I did not feel the pain.
Taking our hands in his, Elk Dreamer pressed them together, palm to palm. “Now their blood is mixing, and they are one. From this time forward, all pain will be divided, all joy will be doubled.” Elk Dreamer smiled at us as he released our hands. “Go now, my children, and may the Great Spirit bless you with many sons and daughters.”
I felt my cheeks grow hot as Shadow took my hand and led me away from the crowd. Black Owl, Fawn, and New Leaf had found other quarters for the night so Shadow and I could have the lodge to ourselves.
I felt suddenly shy as Shadow dropped the lodge flap into place, shutting out the rest of the world.
“Hannah…”
His voice, so full of love, made my heart race with longing. Married, I thought. Married, at last. I was trembling as he came toward me.
His hands gently untied the lacings that held the front of my dress closed, and then he was caressing my breasts. There was fire in his touch, and we were suddenly clumsy in our haste to be together.
Shadow’s voice whispered in my ear, speaking words of love in English and Cheyenne, and I responded to his touch and his voice as never before, giving all I had to give, and receiving that and more in return.
I knew a deep sense of contentment as Shadow possessed me that night. I was his, really his, forever. And he was mine. I would not have thought our love could grow any sweeter, but that simple ceremony in the wilds of the Dakota plains took something already wonderful and made it perfect.
Chapter Eleven
Living with the Indians, being one of them, I soon learned the women didn’t spend all their time cooking and sewing and tanning smelly hides. The Cheyenne women loved to play games, and they often met beside the river to toss a ball back and forth or play tag. A popular game was played with dice made from bones or beaver teeth. Points were scored according to what design came up on the dice, and counting sticks were used to keep score. The Cheyenne women loved to gamble almost as much as the men, and they wagered ribbons or beaded chokers or blankets. Games, like almost every other aspect of Plains life, were accompanied by songs. Sometimes the songs had no words or meaning but were simply feelings put to music. I was amazed at the number and variety of songs employed by the Indians; there were ceremonial songs, war songs, powwow songs, lullabies, romantic melodies, love songs, prayer songs, and funeral dirges.
Fawn was an excellent gambler. For a girl who so freely vented her emotions, she had a wonderful poker face. Another popular game was an Indian version of “button, button, who’s got the button?” The women played this
game with two small stones—one marked, one plain. One player concealed the stones in her hands, the other player tried to guess which hand held the unmarked stone. Fawn was marvelous at this game.
Running contests were also a favorite with the women and girls. Fawn was fleet of foot, and she won more races than she lost. I was too shy to join in the games and races at first, but Fawn and New Leaf kept after me until I finally agreed to enter one. I knew I didn’t have a chance of winning, since Fawn was in the race, too.
Several of the men were present that day, Shadow and Black Owl among them. Black Owl bet Shadow that Fawn would win and put up a fine bay mare against one of Red Wind’s colts.
Elk Dreamer started the race, and Fawn bounded into the lead. I ran close on her heels, excited by the contest and eager to win for Shadow. I could hear the other girls behind me and the spectators hooting for their favorites, but I was more determined than ever to win. I kept my eyes on Fawn’s back, all my energy concentrated on passing her, and at the very end, I pulled ahead.
I had never expected to win, and I couldn’t help shouting for joy as I crossed the finish line first. Then, winded, I sank to the ground, one hand pressed against my aching side.
Fawn dropped down beside me, grinning hugely. “Congratulations, my sister,” she panted. “You run like a mountain lion.”
Shadow was beaming when we returned to the starting line. I fairly glowed as he put his arm around me and gave me a squeeze.
“I did not know my son had married the wind,” Black Owl said with a wry grin. “My ignorance has cost me a fine horse.”
“I was very lucky,” I said modestly, and then started to laugh.
“I think we will run again tomorrow,” Fawn said, grinning at me. “We will see how lucky you really are. I will wager my fine black shawl against the hide you are tanning that you cannot beat me twice.”
“Done,” I said, and we went off to prepare the evening meal.
The match race was set for the following morning, and practically the whole tribe was there for the big event. Fawn looked determined, and I was terribly nervous.
Again, Elk Dreamer started the race. As usual, Fawn bounded into the lead, but this time she stayed there, and all I ever saw was her back and a pair of swift brown legs. I ran as fast as I could, but I could not catch that will-o’-the-wisp, and she crossed the finish line a full two yards ahead of me.
I was happy in the days that followed. I was no longer an outsider, an alien, but one of the people and accepted as such. Now that I was also a wife, there was a stronger bond between Fawn and New Leaf and myself. When we were alone, the three of us often remarked on the strange ways of men. Sometimes they were like children, wanting to be spoiled and pampered, angry if they didn’t get their own way. I had noticed that about other men, but never about Shadow. He never acted childish or immature. Always, he was in command of himself. Never had I known anyone so self-assured, so certain of who he was and where he belonged. It gave him a kind of serenity that few men, or women, ever achieved.
I adored my husband. He was so kind to me, so unfailingly thoughtful of my wants and needs. Daily, I thanked God that I had found such a man.
Shadow came back from a war council late one night and told me that the battle promised by Sitting Bull was not far off. Two Yankonai scouts had brought word that Yellow Hair was coming from Fort Lincoln and that Three Stars Crook was riding north from Fort Fetterman, Wyoming. “Red Nose” Gibbon was on his way, too, having put together a sizeable column from the troops stationed at Forts Ellis and Shaw. And they were all headed our way. Hoping to catch the Indians between them, they were determined to wipe out Sitting Bull and Crazy Horse and their men and force the rest to surrender.
The news caused me great anxiety. Mention of Custer brought Joshua Berdeen to mind, for I knew he would be riding into battle with the Seventh. But mostly I worried about Shadow. And about myself. What would happen to me if Shadow were killed in battle? Would his family still view me as a daughter, or would I become the enemy, to be hated and destroyed?
These and other troublesome thoughts were in my mind one evening as I wandered down to the river in search of a secluded place to bathe.
It was the first time I had gone off by myself, but I felt safe knowing that only the Cheyenne and their allies were in the vicinity. No man, red or white, could possibly penetrate this far into the Bighorn Valley without being seen by one of the many sentries who patrolled the area.
Slipping out of my doeskin dress, I waded into the cool water. For a time I floated lazily on my back, staring up at the darkening sky. Shadow was at yet another war council, and I wondered what was being said and where it would all end. It seemed like all I had heard about for years was war, war, war, and I wondered if there would ever be peace on the plains and if Shadow and I would ever be able to settle down and raise a family.
With a sigh, I waded ashore for the soap I had left on the river bank. It was soap I had made myself. New Leaf had shown me how to find and mix the necessary ingredients. I had learned a great many things in the short time I had been with the Indians, and I was constantly amazed at their knowledge and resourcefulness.
A faint breeze wafted across the land, and I washed quickly, not wanting to be alone away from the camp now that night had fallen. I was stepping from the water when I saw a dark form coming forward. At first I thought it was Shadow, and I started to call a greeting, then bit back the words as I saw that the man was too short and stocky to be the man I loved.
Fear struck at my heart, for no honorable man would accost a woman while she was bathing. Grabbing my dress, I ducked behind a bush, my pulse racing as my ears strained for the sound of his footsteps.
When I heard nothing, I told myself it was just a warrior looking for a place to relieve himself and not someone looking to do me harm. “I’ve got to get a hold on my imagination,” I mused, chuckling with relief. “I’ll be seeing flying elephants next!”
Weak with gratitude, I was about to step into my dress when rough hands grabbed me from behind, closing around my throat and mouth as the warrior dragged me away from the river toward a stand of trees some twenty yards away. All my struggles were in vain as he wrestled me to the ground. I winced with pain as his weight fell over me, grinding my naked flesh into the dirt.
When I tried to scream, he stuffed a dirty cloth into my mouth, then sat back on his haunches, a satisfied expression glittering in his eyes.
I recognized the warrior now. His name was Laughing Wolf, and I had seen him watching me ever since we arrived in the valley.
Certain he meant to rape me, I fought with all my might as he pulled a length of rawhide from his belt and began to lash my wrists and ankles together.
Subdued, I lay panting on the ground, my eyes wide with terror as he drew a knife from inside one knee-high moccasin and laid the blade against the base of my neck.
Laughing Wolf spoke to me then in a language I did not understand. But I understood the look in his wild black eyes, and I cringed with impotent fear and horror as he drew the blade between my breasts.
The knife did not cut very deep—only enough to draw blood, blood that felt very hot against my clammy flesh.
Still speaking to me, he drew the knife slowly downward across my belly. I shook my head violently, silently pleading with him to stop, but he only laughed a soundless laugh and raked the blade across my left thigh.
I was trembling convulsively now. Helpless tears rolled down my cheeks as the knife moved slowly over my quivering flesh, leaving tiny rivers of blood in its wake. He was going to kill me by inches. I knew that now, and there was nothing I could do.
I watched, mesmerized, as he placed the blade under my left breast, and gasped with pain and fear as, with agonizing slowness, he pulled the blade around my breast until it was outlined with blood.
And now Laughing Wolf paused, the blade raised high overhead. I stared at that blade in grim fascination. My blood dripped from the crude weapon, falling
in tiny scarlet droplets upon the ground. The wind stung the many cuts on my body, yet I knew the pain was insignificant compared to what was to come.
As Laughing Wolf slowly dropped his arm, I began to pound my head against the ground, hoping I could knock myself unconscious and so avoid the awful agony that was coming. Lights were dancing in front of my eyes when a wild animal-like cry rent the stillness. Glancing over my shoulder, I saw Shadow emerge from the darkness, his mouth open in a feral snarl of rage, a knife in his hand.
Laughing Wolf was scrambling to his feet when Shadow lunged at him, and the two warriors hit the earth with a dull thud. They rolled over and over, grappling wildly, before they sprang to their feet to stand facing each other. Warily, they began circling, their bodies slightly bent at the waist, knives thrust forward.
Suddenly they came together in a rush of metal against metal, and when they parted, both men were bleeding. Again and again they closed and parted, and each time there were new wounds.
Far off in the distance I could hear music and laughter as the Indians danced and sang around their campfires. But here, on this lonely stretch of ground, there was only the harsh ring of knife striking knife, and the labored breathing of the two men who were engaged in a battle to the death.
Shadow and Laughing Wolf were evenly matched in size and strength, and I thought the battle would last forever as, time and again, they sought for an opening in one another’s defenses and found none.
Reckless Heart Page 13