Reckless Heart

by Madeline Baker

  Following the battle, many of the bodies were scalped, many more were savagely mutilated by the Indian women, but the body of General George Armstrong Custer was left untouched. There was a great deal of speculation about this. Some said Custer killed himself, an act considered cowardly by the Indians, and that they refused to touch his body because of it. But I believe, with others, that despite his other faults, Custer fought bravely to the end and that the Indians left him his scalp as a token of their respect.

  Captain Frederick Benteen and Major Marcus Reno, the two officers left in command of the remainder of Custer’s split forces, also engaged in heavy fighting that day. Between them, they suffered severe losses, though nothing as utterly devastating as the fate that had befallen Custer and his men.

  It was a great day for the Indian. Sitting Bull’s prophecy had been fulfilled, and there was a rousing celebration in the Indian encampment that night. Drunk on victory, the warriors danced and sang and shouted praises to Tashunka Witko and Tatanka Yotanka. In later years, the whites would give Sitting Bull the credit for the Indian victory, but it was Crazy Horse who won the day, planned the attack and put it into action.

  While the Indians were celebrating the greatest victory they had ever known, the remnants of the Seventh, under Benteen and Reno, huddled on a bluff across from the Little Big Horn. Exhausted, plagued by a relentless thirst, the men of the Seventh dug in to await the charge they knew would come with the dawn.

  Shadow and I left the celebration early. Alone in the lodge, we lay close beneath the buffalo robes. I tried not to think of the morrow or dwell on the fact that Shadow might be killed, that this might be the last night I would spend in the warm circle of his arms and feel his mouth crushing mine.

  I knew the same thoughts were running through Shadow’s mind, and our lovemaking, which had started off as a gentle exchange of affection, became more and more intense, more fervent, until, at last, every other thought was burned from my mind.

  At dawn, the Indians launched several concentrated attacks against the beleaguered soldiers, but the troopers were well entrenched now, and the Indians gradually drew back as their casualties began to mount.

  By midafternoon, the fighting was over. Squaws began dismantling their lodges. Herd boys rounded up the loose ponies. The warriors fired the grass as they prepared to move on.

  I had not seen Shadow since he left that morning, and I began to wonder if he had been killed in the last charge against Reno’s men. I saw a similar fear mirrored in Black Owl’s eyes.

  And then Red Wind trotted into camp riderless, reins trailing. The stallion’s right flank was crusted with blood, and when Black Owl ascertained that the horse itself was not wounded, he swung aboard his own and rode off to search the battlefield for his son’s body. After a few minutes of useless pacing, I climbed aboard Red Wind and headed up the valley, hoping the big red horse would carry me to its master.

  And he did.

  I found Shadow standing atop a high bluff, pensive expression on his handsome face. Blood was leaking from a jagged gash in his right side, his leggings were covered with it. He did not seem aware of my presence as I drew rein beside him.

  Following his gaze, I saw the cold, unmoving forms of Custer’s men scattered below us. Stripped naked, they made an eerie sight in the dusky twilight. Many of the bodies had been scalped. Others had been mutilated with the Cheyenne cut-arm sign or the Sioux cut-throat sign. Ribbons of dried blood made dark stains against their pale, waxy flesh.

  A single horse grazed in the distance.

  Bits of green paper were scattered everywhere. Later, I learned it was the Cavalry payroll.

  “I wonder if we did the right thing,” Shadow murmured after awhile.

  When I looked puzzled, he said, “The soldiers will be out for revenge now.” He made a broad gesture that included the entire, blood-run battlefield. “We have outfought Three Stars and killed Yellow Hair and all his men. Before, the Army sought to kill us because it was their duty. But now…” Shadow shook his head. “Now I think they will ride against us with vengeance in their hearts. I fear they will not rest until they have destroyed us from the face of the earth.”

  His words, softly spoken, chilled me to the bone. Was he right? Had the Sioux and the Cheyenne and the others sealed their doom by defeating Custer? I did not know, and as I glanced at Shadow and saw the blood still trickling from his side, I did not care. I knew only that Shadow was wounded, and that if he died, I would want to die, too.

  “Shadow, you’re hurt.”

  “It is nothing,” he assured me. “Just a scratch.”

  I moved forward on Red Wind, and Shadow swung up behind me, grimacing with pain as he did so.

  New Leaf and Fawn had dismantled the lodge by the time we returned to camp. Black Owl rode up shortly thereafter, vastly relieved to see his son alive.

  It took me only a few minutes to bandage the nasty gash in Shadow’s side and then, without a backward glance, we rode out of the valley of the Greasy Grass toward the headwaters of the Little Bighorn.

  Chapter Twelve

  Following the battle at the Little Big Horn, the Indians scattered, each tribe going back to its own hunting grounds. Black Owl and his band returned to Bear Valley, and we spent the rest of the summer there.

  How peaceful it was, there in the broad, grassy valley. Shadow and I had our own lodge at last, pitched next to that of Black Owl. Often, in the afternoon, I sat outside with Fawn and New Leaf, enjoying their company as we basked in the sunlight. Never idle, we always had a task to occupy our hands, be it sewing or mending, fashioning new moccasins, or making tiny baby things for the child Fawn was expecting in late February. Fawn fairly glowed with excitement and anticipation. And Black Owl could not stop smiling, so pleased was he with the prospect of being a father again.

  Hunting was good in the valley that year, and we feasted on juicy red buffalo hump and venison. There were berries and wild plums, as well as wild onions and roots and nuts. I learned to make jerky and pemmican that year. I also learned which herbs were good for seasoning, which were good for medicinal purposes, and which ones were poisonous. Evenings, there were dances for young and old alike.

  Sometimes one of the ancient warriors would reminisce about the old days, before the Cheyenne acquired the horse. Things had been different then. Before the arrival of the horse—or the magic dog, as he was sometimes called—the dogs and women had to transport all the camp paraphernalia when the village moved. Warriors could only hunt within a limited range. But the acquisition of the horse changed all that, enabling warriors to range far and wide in search of game. Women were no longer forced to act as beasts of burden when the tribe sought greener pastures. Little wonder that the Cheyenne set such a store by their ponies!

  The days ran together, each one better than the last, as my love for Shadow grew and grew. Early one bright sunlit morning, I wandered down to the river in search of wild plums. Some distance from our camp I spied Red Wind grazing beneath a lacy cottonwood tree.

  Smiling, I tiptoed forward, careful to keep downwind of the stallion lest he ruin my surprise. Peering through a clump of berry bushes, I felt my breath catch in my throat, for there, standing naked on the shore, stood Shadow—his arms raised toward Heaven, his lips moving in prayer to Man Above. I could not catch all the words, but twice I heard him mention my name. It touched me deeply, knowing he was praying for me.

  He stood there for several minutes, and I thought I had never seen anything so beautiful as that tall copper-hued warrior engaged in prayer. Acutely conscious that I was intruding on something very private, I was about to leave when Shadow dropped his arms and dove into the water. He swam beautifully, his strokes long and smooth and powerful as he glided through the blue-green water.

  He swam briskly for several moments and then, moving to shallower water, he began to wash. I found it strangely exciting to watch Shadow bathe. His black hair, which hung almost to his waist, glistened in the sunlight; larg
e drops of water rolled down his chest, belly and legs, and I had a sudden urge to run my hands over his smooth flesh, to feel the powerful muscles in his arms ripple beneath my fingertips.

  Stepping from my hiding place, I walked toward Shadow. A million butterflies seemed to be fluttering in the pit of my stomach as I stepped out of my dress and joined Shadow in the water.

  His skin was warm and wetly sensuous as he took me in his arms and kissed me hungrily. It was the most primitive, exotic feeling, making love there in the cool water near the shore. Like sea nymphs, we came together, seeking the ecstasy that was now familiar and yet always new…

  It was a glorious summer. Often, Shadow and I rode to the river crossing to swim or just to be alone.

  Once, we rode to the trading post. Tears burned my eyes as we rode to the spot where my home had once stood. There was nothing left now, only an area of blackened ground where the house and barn had been.

  Standing there, I relived the awful day when the Indians had attacked our place. I saw David killed again and experienced anew the pain of my mother’s death. I heard my Pa’s voice, filled with emotion, as he urged me to go with Shadow.

  With a sob, I sank down to my knees and let the tears flow. Fragmented images danced across my mind’s eye. There was Orin, running for his life, a bear cub in his arms, while the mother bear chased him. There was Joshua, so blondly handsome, pleading with me to marry him, jealousy accusing me of loving Orin. There was my dear mother, a smile on her lips as she lovingly patted my shoulder. There was Pa, a bulwark of strength in times of sorrow, a happy grin and a hug during good times.

  One after the other, all the people I had once known paraded down the corridor of my memory. I saw David smiling at me, his eyes full of love as he made me laugh during that dismal winter when I thought I had lost Shadow forever.

  And there was Shadow as a young boy, his dark eyes arrogant and defiant, daring me to feel sorry for him because his mother was dead. How different my life would have turned out if I had not met him that day at Rabbit’s Head Rock so long ago.

  He stood beside me now while I laid my ghosts to rest. Impassively silent, he let me grieve, and then he took me in his arms. I sighed as I buried my face against his chest, grateful for the comfort of his arms and the love in his eyes.

  We never rode to that part of Bear Valley again.

  Secure in Shadow’s love, happy in the life we shared, I put all unpleasant memories behind me. I blotted the nightmare of the Custer massacre from my mind, too, and pretended nothing had changed.

  But it had.

  Custer had been the people’s hero and news of his death, and the manner of it, caused great consternation, especially in the East. Irate citizens demanded that the Army do something about the red menace once and for all. As Shadow had predicted, the Army moved against the Indians with a vengeance. Three Stars took the field again. Still deemed the best Indian fighter of them all despite his defeat at the Rosebud, he moved swiftly against the Cheyenne, talking the tribes into surrendering when possible, mercilessly riding them down when all else failed.

  Bear Coat Miles traveled to the Yellowstone to talk peace with Sitting Bull. The talks failed miserably; the last one ended in battle.

  Word came from Washington that no rations or clothing would be issued to the reservations until all the hostiles had surrendered.

  Sitting Bull and hundreds of Sioux fled to Canada.

  Crazy Horse was talking about going in.

  All the Cheyenne tribes, save for Black Owl’s little band, gave up and went to the reservation.

  The day of the Indian was over.

  We spent that fall running and fighting and hiding. Army patrols were everywhere, combing the plains for the last, scattered bands of Indians that refused to surrender. Fawn had a miscarriage and nearly died, causing Black Owl much grief.

  Late one afternoon the Army overtook us as we were crossing a nasty part of the Yellowstone River. The warriors quickly fell back, forming a defensive line between the Indians and the soldiers while the women and children hastened across the river and ran for cover in the trees beyond.

  Shadow had given me a horse, a dark chestnut mare, and I urged her into the water behind Fawn and New Leaf. We were halfway across when I saw Bright Star floating face down in the water. Holding my mare’s thick mane, I slipped out of the saddle. Grabbing Bright Star’s hair with my free hand, I urged Sunny toward the opposite bank. With an effort, I lifted the unconscious girl into the saddle, then, swinging up behind her, I ran for cover.

  We lost a dozen warriors that day and as many women and children. With the coming of night, we somehow managed to elude the soldiers.

  We spent the next day nursing our wounded. Bright Star had been shot in the back. New Leaf and I cared for her as best we could, but to no avail. Shadow sat with Bright Star until she died, his face blank, his thoughts obviously turned inward. I did not intrude on his grief, nor did I feel the slightest bit of jealousy when he wept over her body. She had been his childhood sweetheart, a part of his carefree youth. But for me, he might have married her.

  But we had little time to mourn our dead. I had never realized how awful it was to be hunted; I had never known such heart-pounding fear, not only for Shadow’s life, but for my own. Many of Black Owl’s people were killed, women and children as well as men. The soldiers were shooting anything that moved, and I had a recurring nightmare that, despite my red hair, I would be mistaken for an Indian and shot on sight.

  And perhaps they would kill me even if they knew I was white, for I was willingly living with hostile Indians. It was a sobering thought.

  As usual, Shadow knew what I was thinking, and late one night he asked me if I wanted to return to my own people.

  “Of course not,” I replied. “I want to be here—with you.”

  “Are you sure?” he asked quietly. His dark eyes searched mine for several moments, and in their depths I read his love and concern for my well-being. I knew he would take me to the nearest white settlement if I asked him to, I knew he would risk his own life to see me safely returned to my own people if that was my desire.

  “Are you sure?” he repeated when I did not answer. “The Army will not give up this time. They will chase us until we are all dead, or we surrender.”

  I knew he was right, and for a moment, as I gazed at the Indian lodge and its crude furnishings, I felt a stab of longing for civilization. It would be nice to be able to converse in my own tongue instead of the harsh guttural language of the Cheyenne. It would be good to see another white face, to be surrounded by my own people, to enjoy the creature comforts that were unknown to the Indians.

  My mouth watered for the taste of chocolate and cold milk and coffee. It would be heavenly to soak in a hot bathtub, to sleep on a bed with sheets, to eat at a table, to wear a dress that was not made of skins.

  Shadow’s eyes had never left my face, and as I met his gaze, I knew where I belonged. Shadow was my life, the only thing that mattered—now and always.

  “I want to stay here with you,” I said.

  “I hope you do not regret it,” he said softly, taking me in his arms.

  How tenderly he made love to me that night! Gently, carefully, as if I were a precious treasure that might shatter at his touch, he stroked and fondled my breasts and thighs. His kisses were butterfly soft as they rained down on my eyes and mouth, as gently, so gently, he made me his once again.

  I was glad when winter came at last. The temperature plummeted overnight. Thunder rolled across the heavens, and great bolts of lightning ripped the darkened skies. Leaden clouds hovered overhead, shutting out the sun by day and the moon by night. The rains came, pummeling the land with fury, turning the rich brown earth to mud and the rivers into great roiling waterways, white with froth. The wind howled down out of the mountains, stripping the last dead leaves from the trees.

  And then, at last, the snow came, forcing the army patrols to return to the snug security of their forts to wai
t out the bad weather.

  It was a long winter. Shadow and I spent the icy days and cheerless nights snuggled under the buffalo robes, making the most of the quiet time we had together, knowing the Army would again be in hot pursuit when the snow was gone and the roads were passable.

  Winter that year was not only long but extremely harsh. Many of our people had been forced to abandon their lodges, food, and clothing while fleeing the soldiers, and were therefore in desperate need. Those who were able shared what little they had with those who were less fortunate, but soon there was nothing left to share.

  Game was practically nonexistent, and soon there were no dogs left in camp. What remained of the horse herd dwindled daily as the weaker animals died of the cold or starvation or were killed for food.

  Among the Indians, as with everything else in Nature’s plan, the very old and the very young suffered the most. Every day a new scaffold rose against the sky as yet another soul was laid to rest. Soon there were more scaffolds than lodges standing in the valley.

  Rising Dawn died that winter.

  I wept as her father tenderly placed her blanket-wrapped body atop a small burial scaffold. Rising Dawn’s favorite doll was laid beside her. A small sack of pemmican was laid at her feet to give her nourishment on her journey to the land of the sky people. A young colt was killed and placed beneath her scaffold so she might ride in comfort to the home of her ancestors. A small container of water came next, so that she would not thirst.

  A long, keening wail rose on the wind as Rising Dawn’s mother and relatives voiced their grief.

  I felt bereft in the days that followed. Our lodge seemed empty without Rising Dawn’s merry laughter. Often, I turned to speak to her, only to realize anew that she was gone.

  Shadow and the other warriors foraged farther and farther afield in an effort to find game. On the day they returned to camp with a young doe, I saw women and children weep with joy. That night, we all slept with full bellies.