Reckless Heart

by Madeline Baker

  Both men were weary now and bleeding profusely from a multitude of minor wounds. The end, when it came, came quickly, as Laughing Wolf charged Shadow in a desperate lunge.

  To my horror, Shadow made no move to avoid Laughing Wolf’s charge except to turn sideways as Laughing Wolf’s knife came down, sinking to the hilt high in Shadow’s left shoulder. Too late, Laughing Wolf realized his mistake, but before he could withdraw his knife and strike again, Shadow’s blade had ripped into his belly.

  Laughing Wolf cried out in pain and frustrated rage as Shadow twisted the knife upward. Then, hands pressed over the gaping wound in his belly, the warrior fell to the ground, dead.

  Shadow came slowly toward me, his face dark with pain. Kneeling beside me, he freed my hands and legs and removed the gag from my mouth.

  “Are you all right?” he rasped.

  “Yes,” I answered, all thought of my own fear and pain forgotten as I removed my headband and pressed it against Shadow’s bleeding shoulder. “Hurry, let’s get back to the lodge. You’re badly hurt.”

  He did not argue. I dressed quickly, and we started back to the camp, Shadow leaning against me for support.

  When Shadow was safely inside Black Owl’s lodge, I summoned Elk Dreamer, then stood with Fawn and New Leaf while the aged medicine man dressed Shadow’s wound and purified the lodge against evil spirits.

  “Why?” I asked later. “Why did Laughing Wolf want to kill me? I never did anything to him.”

  “There will always be white men who hate Indians,” Shadow said matter-of-factly. “And red men who will hate whites. Other than that, I have no answer for you.”

  “I can’t help being white,” I muttered.

  “Do not dwell on it, Hannah. It is over and best forgotten.”

  It was late the next night when we learned the reason for Laughing Wolf’s attack. Some weeks earlier, his wife had been captured and tortured by three white men. He had brooded over her death ever since, haunted by vivid images of her mutilated body. In desperation, he had gone to the medicine man of his tribe and been advised that only by capturing and torturing a white woman would he be free of his bad dreams.

  “His family is deeply ashamed that he chose to take his vengeance on you,” Shadow said. “For as my woman, you are one of us and not to be harmed.”

  “You must tell them I bear them no ill will,” I said, feeling suddenly sorry for Laughing Wolf. “Tell them I understand what it is like to lose loved ones.”

  “You have a good spirit, Hannah,” Shadow said, caressing my cheek. “Your words will help to ease their shame.”

  Somehow, knowing why Laughing Wolf had attacked me made it seem less frightening.

  There were many war councils in the days that followed. Some lasted far into the night, for each warrior was permitted to speak his mind. In mid-May runners brought word that Three Stars had arrived and was camped up on the Tongue River, apparently unaware of the fact that the Indians knew of his presence. The scouts opined that Crook planned a surprise attack on the village early the following morning.

  With that in mind, Crazy Horse decided to carry the battle to Crook. I begged Shadow not to go, but of course he went anyway. A warrior did not remain at home because his woman was afraid he might be killed.

  I bit back my tears as he walked out of the lodge and swung aboard Red Wind’s bare back. Shadow was clad only in clout and moccasins, as were the other warriors. I had puzzled over their scanty attire until Shadow remarked that if a man was wounded, it was better if the bullet or arrow passed cleanly through flesh rather than take bits of cloth with it. The familiar lone eagle feather was missing from his hair that morning, and in its place he wore a magnificent warbonnet that trailed halfway down his back. Each feather represented an enemy killed, a coup counted, or a brave deed, and I marveled that he had accumulated so many. His face and chest were streaked with broad slashes of scarlet.

  Shadow sat staring down at me for several moments before he wheeled the big stud around and rode off to join the other warriors.

  I stared in surprise as Laughing Turtle rode by mounted on a frisky paint pony. He was far too old for battle and yet there he was, resplendent in a deerskin clout and feathered bonnet twice as long as Shadow’s.

  He carried no weapons, only a coup stick trimmed in black. Curious, I sought New Leaf for an explanation.

  “He has set his face toward death,” she explained, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. “His wives and children are dead, his body filled with pain, and so he has decided to go out to meet death as a warrior. He is a brave man. It is fitting that he die as a warrior.”

  Minutes later Crazy Horse rode into view. Dressed all in black and mounted on a sleek black stallion, the Sioux war chief took his place at the head of the war party. Raising his rifle high overhead, he shouted,

  “Hopo! Let’s go!”

  An answering cry rose from the assembled warriors and then, amid scattered war cries and a cloud of yellow dust, they were gone.

  The day passed slowly. I could not eat or sleep or think. I could only sit staring northward, wondering. Had the battle started? Were the Indians winning? Did I want them to win? Was Shadow all right? Around me, squaws carried on as usual, busily engaged in their endless tasks, but I noticed their talk was low and reserved, their normally cheerful voices subdued.

  Warriors too old for battle sat in the sun, thrilling the young boys with old war stories, stoking the fires of their hatred with tales of white treachery, like the massacre at Sand Creek. There was fire in their eyes as they told how Colonel John Chivington, a former Methodist minister turned soldier, had cut a bloody path through a peaceful Cheyenne village back in 1864. Ignoring both the stars and stripes and the white flag flying over Chief Black Kettle’s lodge, Chivington and his men laid waste to the village, butchering five hundred Indian men, women, and children, including Chief White Antelope.

  They talked of Custer, and their voices crackled with emotion as they related how Custer and eight hundred soldiers massacred a sleeping village of Cheyenne at the Washita while the company band played “Garry Owens,” and how, after he killed the Indians, Custer ordered all the lodges burned and slaughtered nine hundred Indian ponies. Black Kettle, who had escaped death at Sand Creek, was not so lucky at the Washita.

  “Hear and remember,” said an old warrior. “The white man is not to be trusted. He speaks with a double tongue. His words are like a two-edged blade, and his heart is not good. He will offer you peace with one hand and cut you to pieces with the other.”

  Just after dusk a sweat-stained scout rode into camp on a lathered pony. Crook had been defeated! Gall and Crazy Horse and Two Hawks Flying had led the Sioux and Cheyenne to victory.

  There was immediate rejoicing in the camp. The warriors were on their way home. This announcement stirred the squaws into brisk activity. Fires were freshened. Unwary dogs found their way into cook pots mounted on tripods. Boiled puppy was an Indian favorite. Great haunches of venison and choice slabs of buffalo hump and tongue were brought out and hung on spits over low fires. Soon the whole valley was redolent with the aroma of woodsmoke and roasting meat.

  With my fears for Shadow’s safety allayed, I was suddenly famished and filled with nervous energy. Eager for something to do, I went to help New Leaf prepare dinner. I was stirring a big pot of venison stew flavored with sage and wild onions when the victorious war party rode into camp, shouting exultantly as they waved their rifles and lances high in the air. Eager to see Shadow, I ran with the rest of the women to greet the men, trying not to notice the fresh scalps dangling from the manes and tails of the Indian ponies or hanging from the belts of the warriors.

  Shadow saw me standing a little apart from the other women, and he rode toward me. As he drew near, I let my eyes travel over him. Though he was covered with sweat and grime, he seemed to be unhurt, and I breathed a sigh of relief as he slid to the ground and took me in his arms.

  “Hannah…”

>   “Oh, Shadow, I was so worried, so afraid.”

  “I am unhurt.”

  “I know. But you might have been killed.”

  Shadow took my chin in his hand and lifted my face to meet his. “You must not worry every time I ride to battle,” he said gravely. “It is a thing you must accept. Our lives are in the hands of the Great Spirit, and all your tears and foolish womanly worries will not change what is to be.”

  “I cannot help worrying,” I retorted. “I cannot help being afraid that you’ll be killed, and I’ll be left alone.”

  “You will not be alone. My father will care for you if anything happens to me. My people will not abandon you if I am killed. You are one of us now and always will be.”

  “I know. But I could not bear to live without you. Please don’t fight the next time.”

  “I am a warrior. Do not ask me to be less than what I am.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said, ashamed. “Forgive me.”

  “There is nothing to forgive.”

  Unmindful of watching eyes, I laid my head against Shadow’s chest and wept. I wanted him to give in to my wishes, to stay home from the next battle, and yet, perversely, I was glad that he refused, glad that he would not give in to my fears. Oh, but it was hard, sometimes, to love a man! But how wonderful to love a man like Shadow.

  There was a victory celebration that night that lasted until dawn. I wore the dress I had been married in and basked in the love I read in my husband’s eyes.

  Crazy Horse praised his warriors, saying they were the best fighting men in all the land. And with a victory like the one they had seen this day, who could doubt it?

  Sitting Bull spoke also, his words deep and powerful as he promised another victory in the days ahead. For there could be no doubt that soon, very soon, Custer would come.

  There was singing and dancing and feasting that night. The Indian voices filled the air as they sang of victory and brave deeds. I danced with the women and then with Shadow in the married people’s dance, and it seemed we danced on air.

  Later, there were rousing tales of the battle itself, of coup counted and enemies slain. One of the warriors related how Two Hawks Flying had saved Short Elk’s life by riding into the midst of the enemy ranks and slaying three blue-coats with his bow before hauling Short Elk up behind him and carrying him to safety. One of the most stirring exploits was told by Chief Comes-In-Sight, of the Cheyenne. In word and sign and dance he told how he had repeatedly charged the soldiers, counting many coup on the enemy, until his horse was shot down.

  “I was preparing my death song,” he said, “when I saw my sister, Buffalo Calf Road Woman, riding down the hill. With great courage, she rode straight toward the soldiers, ignoring the bullets whining about her like angry hornets. ‘Ho, brother, it is a good day to die!’ she cried, and when she slowed her lathered mount, I vaulted up behind her and we rode to safety. Hear me, warriors, with women like this to bear our children, we have nothing to fear!”

  A great cheer went up from the women, and when the shouts of acclaim died away, Fawn told me Buffalo Calf Road Woman had earned the right to wear an eagle feather in her hair as a symbol of her courage. It was a great honor, Fawn said, that few women ever achieve.

  There were proud words spoken for Laughing Turtle, too, for he had died bravely in battle, counting many coup before he was struck down.

  I, too, was caught up in the fevered excitement of victory, though my happiness was due solely to the fact that Shadow had come through the battle alive and unscathed. Later that night, when the camp was quiet, some of my joy ebbed as I realized there would likely be many other battles. For the first time I let myself think of the men, red and white, who lay dead on the field of battle. I thought of John Sanders, of the Tabors and the Walkers, of Hobie Brown and his family, of my own dear parents. All dead because the Indians and the whites could not live together in peace. It was sad, I thought, that there wasn’t room for everyone when there was so much land.

  In the morning I learned that Sitting Bull had pulled up stakes and left for the Greasy Grass and that General George Crook had quit the Rosebud. Once again the Indians struck their lodges. A holiday air prevailed as we journeyed toward the rendezvous with Sitting Bull. Runners brought word that “Yellow Hair” Custer, General Alfred “Star” Terry, and Colonel John “Red Nose” Gibbon were moving against us, but the Indians were almost unconcerned. “We beat them at the Rosebud,” the warriors boasted, “and we will beat them again.”

  We traveled at a leisurely pace. The grass was high enough, in some places, to brush the bottom of a tall pony’s belly. Cottonwoods and willows, bright with new growth, flanked the waterholes. Birch, aspen, and oak grew heavy on the hillsides. And far in the distance were the beautiful Big Horn Mountains of Montana.

  Once, looking back over the long caravan, I was reminded of the children of Israel fleeing Egypt. Like the Israelites, the Indian horde was carrying everything it owned, and the column must have been seven or eight miles long, a noisy, dusty parade of men, women, children, dogs, and horses. I could not begin to guess how many Indians there were, but Shadow estimated at least eight thousand, probably more. Of that number, roughly four thousand were warriors of fighting age.

  It was nearing the end of June when we arrived at the war camp. New Leaf and Fawn immediately began setting up the lodge while I prepared the afternoon meal. We had eaten both lunch and dinner before the last stragglers reached the village.

  Scouts rode in and out of camp continually, keeping an eye out for soldiers. Many councils were held, and the little boys were constantly wide-eyed as they spied on the great chiefs: Tatanka Yotanka, Hump, American Horse, Gall, Crazy Horse, Two Hawks Flying—these were names to stir the imagination and swell the heart.

  One afternoon Shadow and I went for a walk along the river. We had to walk quite a distance to find a place that was not populated by people, horses, or dogs. Hand in hand, we strolled along, happy to be together on such a lovely summer afternoon.

  We were laughing over the antics of a family of beavers when we heard a rustling in the brush behind us. Suddenly wary, Shadow thrust me behind him as he turned and drew his knife.

  Motioning for me to stay where I was, he padded noiselessly forward and peered cautiously into the shrubbery.

  Fearing attack by some enemy or predatory beast, I was puzzled when Shadow called me to him.

  “Look,” he whispered.

  Following his pointing finger, I stared into the thicket and uttered a soft cry of delight at what I saw, for there, not three feet away, lay a chestnut mare in the midst of delivering a late foal.

  Fascinated, I watched as two dainty feet slid into view, followed by a delicate nose and well-shaped head.

  Another few minutes and the foal was free of the mare and breathing on its own. The mare whickered to her baby, then, lurching to her feet, she began to lick its damp, spotted hide.

  We watched, smiling, as the little filly struggled to stand on long, wobbly legs and silently applauded as she nuzzled her dam’s side, sucking greedily at the mare’s swollen teats.

  “She’s darling, isn’t she?” I murmured. “So small, so perfect.”

  Shadow nodded, his midnight eyes as full of wonder as my own. “New life is always beautiful,” he said, squeezing my hand. “Perhaps, one day, we will create a little one of our own.”

  “It is my wish, too,” I said, and lifted my face for his kiss.

  We had been camped at the Greasy Grass for three or four days when word came by scout that Yellow Hair was coming! This announcement was met with high excitement. Crazy Horse immediately called for a council of war. All the chiefs of all the tribes attended this important meeting, including Shadow, who, I learned with some surprise, was the war chief for our band of Cheyenne.

  The Indian camp was strangely subdued that night. Warriors made last-minute preparations for battle, checking weapons and war horses. Some purified themselves in the sweat lodge, supplicating their i
ndividual gods for an Indian victory. Some warriors did not lie with their women prior to battle, believing that sexual intercourse drained the power from a man. Others spent long hours making love to their wives, hoping to leave a new life behind in case they were killed in battle.

  Shadow and I lay close that night, and as he made love to me, I prayed to all the gods, red and white, entreating them to watch over my man when he rode into battle.

  The next day, June 25, 1876, the warriors went out to meet Yellow Hair.

  The result of that battle is history. The Army’s original plan had been for Terry, Gibbon, and Custer to meet along the banks of the Yellowstone River. Terry would then go off with Gibbon to outflank the Indians on the north, while Custer and the Seventh would take up a position to the south of the Indian camp. At the proper time, the two forces would come together, hopefully crushing the Indians between them.

  But Custer was too recklessly impatient for battle to wait for Terry and Gibbon. There were honors to be won, medals to be garnered, and so he rode boldly toward the Greasy Grass—two days early.

  For reasons known only to himself, Custer split his forces into three squadrons and then, badly outnumbered, was massacred with the two hundred twenty-five men in his immediate command. Thousands of warriors swarmed like locusts down the valley of the Little Big Horn, pinning Custer and his troopers against the hills.

  In his haste to confront the hostiles, Custer had left several Gatling guns behind, and I can almost hear him cussing that decision as he and his squadron retreated up a rocky slope, losing men every step of the way. For once the Indians fought like the whites. All thought of counting coup or accumulating personal honors were forgotten as they stormed through Custer’s diminishing ranks like a giant red scythe, cutting down everything in its path. The battle, which began at four o’clock, lasted less than an hour. When it was over, every white man was dead.

  It was a sad day for the Custer family, for riding with the General that fateful afternoon were his brothers, Tom and Boston, his nephew, Armstrong Reed, and his brother-in-law, Lieutenant Calhoun.