Reckless Heart

by Madeline Baker

  Smith paid Stewart with a sickly smile. Tossing the whip to the bartender, he stormed into the saloon to mourn his depleted bankroll.

  Clyde Stewart was grinning with satisfaction as he cut Shadow free. The Injun’s back was pretty messed up, he mused. Not so bad he would have to stay in bed, or miss the next show, but he’d be sleeping on his belly for some time to come. But what the hell—he was strong and healthy and would soon heal. And in the meantime, they were a thousand dollars richer.

  A polite cough drew Stewart’s attention, and he glanced over his shoulder to find the padre standing at his elbow.

  “If you’ll permit me, I have some herbs and bandages at the parish house,” Father Senteno offered.

  “Forget it, Padre. I’ll take care of him.”

  “Yes, you’re doing a good job of that,” the priest retorted with uncharitable sarcasm. “Of course, if infection sets in, you won’t have to care for him much longer.”

  Stewart’s brow furrowed as he considered the priest’s words. “Say, Padre, on second thought, maybe I could use a little help.”

  Remembering, Shadow sighed. Thanks to the little man’s excellent medical attention, his back had healed beautifully, though he still bore the scars of the whip. Since then, Stewart had treated him pretty decently, all things considered. But that didn’t make captivity any easier to bear.

  At last the show was over, and he was alone in the tent, his leg iron securely locked to one of the heavy, iron-rimmed wheels. Stretched out on his back on a pile of straw, he lay motionless, his thoughts bleak. There had to be a way out, he mused bitterly, and if he hadn’t found it yet, it wasn’t for lack of trying.

  Again and again he had tried to escape. Of necessity, all his attempts had been made during performances, since that was the only time Rudy wasn’t breathing down the back of his neck, the only time he was free of the restricting leg iron. And even then his hands were shackled and the Swede’s long gun was leveled at his gut, tracking his every move.

  Nevertheless, he had made a dozen, ill-fated bids for freedom, gambling that Rudy would not shoot to kill. The first time he’d tried to run, he’d made it out of the tent, only to be apprehended by a policeman who happened to be patrolling the midway at the time. Another night, McCall roped him from the stage. More than once, men in the audience had cheerfully blocked his path.

  He had tried again just last week. Would have made it but for some fool dude in a white suit and spats who tripped him just before he made it through the doorway.

  Enraged by his repeated attempts to escape, Stewart had threatened to hamstring him the next time he bolted from the stage. But all the threats in the world would not stop him. He would try again and again and again, until he gained his freedom or perished in the attempt.

  He scowled into the darkness. He had been Stewart’s meal ticket for the better part of three months, he thought bitterly, though it seemed longer. Much longer.

  The sound of someone crawling under the heavy canvas reached his ears. Curious, he swung his head toward the noise and frowned as a young girl slipped under the back of the tent. Dusting off her long blue skirt, she stood still for several moments, letting her eyes adjust to the tent’s gloomy interior.

  She was about sixteen, with long brown hair and light eyes. Her mouth was wide and red, and her figure was well-rounded and pleasing to the eye.

  Spying Shadow lying under the wagon, she took a tentative step forward. “Hello, there,” she said nervously. “My friends and I were at the show tonight.” She took another step toward the wagon. “They dared me to sneak in here.”

  Shadow stared at her quizzically as she closed the distance between them.

  “I’m supposed to bring them a feather from that thing to prove I was here,” she explained, pointing at the warbonnet hanging from a nail on the side of the wagon.

  There was a faint rustle and a clatter of chains as Two Hawks Flying rolled to his feet. His sudden movement startled the girl, and she took a hasty step backward.

  “You scared me!” she accused, then giggled when she saw he was chained to the wagon and could not reach her. “My!” she exclaimed. “You’re even bigger than I thought.”

  The faintest trace of amusement flickered in Shadow’s dark eyes as he turned and plucked one of the snowy white feathers from the warbonnet. Twirling it between his thumb and forefinger, he held it out to the girl, daring her to come closer.

  With some trepidation, she stepped forward and accepted the feather and smiled her thanks. For a moment they stood facing each other, then she reached out an inquisitive hand and touched his naked shoulder. Bolder now, she let her hand slide down his arm, caressing the thick muscles that swelled beneath her fingers.

  “I wonder if Indians kiss?” she mused aloud, and foolishly closed her eyes, imagining herself caught up in the warrior’s strong arms and carried forcibly away to his wickiup where she would be compelled to submit to his savage embrace.

  Her eyes flew open as fantasy became reality and she found herself imprisoned in his arms—arms as solid and unyielding as steel bands. Fear’s icy hand throttled the scream that rose in her throat. She trembled with terror as his dark head descended over her own, blotting everything from her vision but the desire smoldering in his eyes. All the awful stories she had ever heard, all the atrocities Indians reportedly inflicted on white women tumbled through her mind, making her heart pound and her knees weak.

  Expecting to be brutally assaulted, she was taken aback when, ever so gently, he kissed her. His mouth was warm as it traveled from her lips to her cheek to the pale curve of her throat, awaking passions that lay dormant within her.

  He had not had a woman for longer than he cared to remember, and he thought fleetingly of pulling her under the wagon and satisfying the hunger her nearness had triggered. But she was little more than a child and he could not bring himself to take her and so, reluctantly, he released her.

  The girl swayed against him, face upturned, ripe red mouth tacitly asking for more, and he willingly obliged her.

  “Wow, you’re really something,” she murmured breathlessly. “None of the boys at home kiss like that.”

  For the first time in months Two Hawks Flying laughed. Still grinning, he pulled the warbonnet from its hook and handed it to the girl.

  “Here,” he said softly. “You deserve the whole damn thing!”

  Chapter Nineteen

  I was all alone atop a high mountain. All around me the world was dark and cold and I was afraid. Shivering, frightened of the unfriendly darkness that shrouded me, I fell to my knees, buried my face in my hands, and began to cry. There was an emptiness inside me, a growing ache that took the joy and color from life and made all the world sad and gray.

  Suddenly a familiar voice called my name. Could it be…? Not daring a hope, I raised my head and brushed the tears from my eyes. And he was there. Tall and dark, eyes black as midnight, he stood before me, arms outstretched. Crying with joy, I hurled myself into his arms, and as I did, the darkness melted away, taking with it all the sorrow and fear that had made life unbearable. Happiness as I had never known filled my breast.

  “Shadow!” I cried, and awoke with his name on my lips. “Shadow,” I whispered, and heaved a great sigh of disappointment as I realized it had all been a dream.

  Beside me, Joshua was snoring softly. Not wanting to wake him, I eased out of bed, slipped on my robe, and padded barefoot into the parlor. Taking a chair by the window, I felt the tears come as I stared out into the darkness. Strange, how quickly the days had passed when Shadow had been with me. Now they dragged, and it seemed like five years had passed since I last saw him, instead of only five months.

  Sighing, I leaned back and closed my eyes. I had thought to make the best of my marriage to Josh. We had made a bargain, Josh and I, and I had fully intended to keep my part. But try as I might, I could not make myself love Joshua. I didn’t even like him anymore. He was hard and cold, and his implacable hatred for Indians ta
rnished his feelings for everything else. I had seen that poisonous hatred in action more than once, and it left me with a cold lump in the pit of my stomach. Just last week he had hung three Apaches caught stealing a stray calf.

  The cow thieves were only boys, the oldest not more than fourteen or fifteen. Just skinny, scared kids driven by hunger. I had watched my husband’s face as he gave the order that sent three young boys to their deaths. I saw him smile, pleased, each time the trap door was sprung.

  The only bright spot in our marriage was the baby I carried under my heart. I think we were both hoping the child would work a miracle and create a bond of love between us. Personally, I knew such a hope was futile, but I had to cling to something, for there was a terrible tension between us, a strained, bitter feeling of failure that grew harder and harder to bear as the days went by.

  I thought often of Shadow. How I envied him his freedom. I had never realized how much I’d grown to love the Indian way of life until I found myself confined to four walls again. Somehow, I felt like I was smothering. I could understand now why Shadow’s people had fought so hard to stay free. I, too, longed to ride the high plains again, to be on a curly buffalo robe inside the snug cocoon of a hide lodge. I longed to follow the buffalo, to see them moving across the vast sea of grass, to hear the thunder of their passing. I was homesick for the smell of wood smoke and roasting meat, for the warm friendliness of the Cheyenne people, for the sight of pinto ponies grazing in the tall grass. Often I thought of Black Owl and Fawn and New Leaf, of Elk Dreamer and Tall Horse and Calf Running. And of a tiny grave beside a snow-covered hill.

  I did not like my new life—or my new clothes. Joshua had burned my doeskin dress and moccasins the day we were married and had bought me several colorful cotton frocks for everyday wear, as well as a lovely blue silk gown for parties. I knew I was being ungrateful, but I found my new clothes stifling, the corsets and voluminous petticoats were burdensome after the loose-fitting comfort of my Indian garb. And after wearing moccasins for nearly two years, high button shoes and stockings were a torment beyond belief.

  I was plagued by boredom. I spent long hours at the corral with Sunny. I brushed her so often, her chestnut coat shone like smooth satin, and her mane and tail were like silk. She was fat and sassy now, and I longed to ride her outside the fort, to see open spaces and rolling hills, to hear the song of the forest and the gentle whisper of rushing water, but riding outside the fort was forbidden.

  Sunny was my last link with Shadow, and I watched her prance around her corral, I remembered other happier days when I had ridden at Shadow’s side, content just to be near him. Content to suffer any hardship so long as I could feel the warmth of his love and the touch of his hands.

  Living with Shadow had never been easy, but it had been satisfying and exciting. And I had always had plenty of work to occupy my time. Now I had little to do once the house was clean and the day’s meals planned and prepared, and that took less than no time at all.

  In an effort to pass the time, I decided to redecorate Josh’s quarters. I ordered some paint from back East—light blue for our bedroom, yellow for the kitchen, pale green for the parlor. Josh wanted to have one of the enlisted men do the painting, but I refused help. I had to feel useful again. I needed to feel like I was accomplishing something worthwhile, so every day for a week I painted, until our little house looked new.

  When the painting was done, I began to sew new curtains for each room. Josh was pleased by my domestic efforts. He thought that I was blissfully happy and that I was sewing and cooking to please him, never dreaming that I worked myself to exhaustion in a vain effort to forget Shadow.

  Only by keeping busy could I shut his memory from my mind and pretend that I was where I wanted to be.

  When the curtains were made, I quilted a bedspread for our bed.

  In June, three Apache warriors were brought into the fort. I knew them all from the days when I had ridden the war trail with Shadow. Hands and feet securely shackled, they were hustled into the stockade.

  Knowing they would not eat Army food, I made a big pot of stew and carried it to the jail after Josh left on patrol.

  The soldier guarding the prisoners was reluctant to let me pass, but he was young and inexperienced, and I finally persuaded him to let me inside the cell by implying that I had Joshua’s permission.

  The three warriors glared at me, hate and distrust evident in their black eyes as I offered them each a bowl of stew, which they all refused.

  “Take it,” I said. “It will give you strength.”

  “Usen will give us strength,” the warrior called Gray Wolf retorted.

  “Usen cannot feed your empty bellies,” I said, offering him the bowl again. “Nor yours, Yellow Crow.”

  Yellow Crow regarded me with curious eyes. “How do you know my name?”

  “Do you not recognize me? I am the woman of Two Hawks Flying.”

  “How come you to be in this place?” Gray Wolf asked. “Are you a prisoner?”

  “No, I am not a prisoner,” I said, sighing. “Here, eat quickly.”

  At ease now, the warriors accepted the food, emptying their bowls several times.

  I was glad when Josh did not return to the fort that night. He would have been angry when he learned I had taken food to the prisoners, and I was in no mood for a fight.

  I took breakfast to the Indians in the morning. “Have you seen Calf Running?” I asked. “Or Tall Horse?”

  “Tall Horse is dead,” Yellow Crow said stonily. “We have not seen Calf Running since the time of new grass.”

  “Have you seen Two Hawks Flying?”

  “No,” Gray Wolf answered. “We have heard nothing of him. Why are you not with him?”

  “It’s a long story,” I said, collecting their dishes. “There is no time to tell it now.”

  Pensive, I left the stockade and went to see Doctor Mitchell. I told him, convincingly, that I was having trouble sleeping, and he prescribed a mild sedative.

  Thanking him, I returned to the house, praying that Joshua would not return from his patrol that night. Apparently, Man Above heard my prayers.

  At dinnertime, I made my way to the stockade with a tray for the prisoners. I had also brought a cup of coffee for the guard, generously laced with brandy, and the sedative Doctor Mitchell had given me.

  The guard thanked me so profusely for the coffee, I felt a little guilty, but I could not sit idly by and see three of my friends hanged without trying to save them.

  When I left the stockade thirty minutes later, the guard was sleeping peacefully. His gun and the keys to the jail cell were in Gray Wolf’s capable hands.

  I slept little that night. In the morning, I felt a warm sense of peace and satisfaction when I heard the prisoners had escaped without a trace. Colonel Crawford was furious. Twice now, prisoners had escaped from the stockade. The guard on duty was stripped of his rank and given ten days at hard labor. I felt terribly guilty about that, but his punishment seemed a small thing compared to three lives.

  Josh returned to the fort that afternoon. He threw me a hard, probing look when he heard about the Indians and their escape, but for once he did not question me, and our reunion was relatively peaceful.

  Their patrol, which had started out as a routine check of the area, had flushed out a dozen young Apache and Comanche youths who had raided a small farm some fifty miles to the west. They had trailed the culprits for two days, found them hiding in a dry wash, and executed them on the spot.

  Josh was all aglow with the thrill of victory. He considered the deaths of the Indian boys quite a coup and talked about it all through dinner.

  That night, when he took me in his arms, I wondered if I would ever learn to enjoy his touch. He was my husband, legally and officially. Once, I had cared for him a great deal. Why couldn’t I respond to his caresses? Why did his touch leave me cold? Why, oh why, couldn’t I forget Shadow?

  As Joshua’s hands fondled my breasts, I wondered wher
e Shadow was now, and what he was doing. Had he found someone else to warm his blankets? Was he making some other woman his, possessing her even as Josh was now possessing me? The very thought filled me with pain.

  At least once a week Josh and I were invited to Colonel Crawford’s house for dinner. Naturally, we always accepted. There were usually several other officers present and they invariably began to talk about old campaigns. The battle of the Little Bighorn came up most often. Usually, Colonel Crawford started it by saying, “If only Custer hadn’t split his forces…”

  Which prompted Major Callaghan to remark, “If only Reno had had some experience fighting Indians…”

  Which led Lieutenant Broadhead to mutter, “If only George had waited for Terry and Gibbon.”

  And then the others would chime in.

  “If only Custer had listened to Varnum…”

  “If only Crook hadn’t been whipped at the Rosebud.”

  “If only Custer hadn’t been so cocksure of himself.”

  “If he hadn’t been so greedy for glory…”

  “If Grant had only kept Custer in Washington a little longer…”

  Certain names were repeated again and again whenever anybody talked of Custer. The Powder River. The Tongue. The Yellowstone. The Rosebud, named for the rose bushes that grew wild along its banks. Medicine Tail Coulee. Sundance Creek. The Crow’s Nest.

  Lonesome Charlie Reynolds. Mitch Bouyer. Varnum. Bloody Knife, the Arikara scout—the only friendly Indian who didn’t turn tail and run when the fighting started.

  The steamer, “Far West.” Captain Keogh’s horse, Comanche. The newspaper importer, Mark Kellog. Isaiah Dorman, the Negro interpreter.

  Names. Benteen, Reno, Crook, Gibbon, Terry, Weir, Tom Custer—and the general. Always the general.

  Why had Custer divided his regiment? Why had he refused to believe his own scouts when they told him there were thousands of Indians camped in the valley? Had he wantonly risked the lives of his men? Or had he really believed the Seventh was unbeatable?