I never joined in these discussions or in any others that involved Indians. My love for Shadow and my affection for the Cheyenne made me an alien among my own people.
As the days went on, I grew increasingly grateful for my friendship with Doctor Mitchell. We had gotten well acquainted during my stay in the hospital, and I began to seek his company more and more. He was the one person I could talk to about Shadow without fear of reproof, the one person I could be totally honest with. Early in our relationship he had asked me, bluntly, how I could love an Indian when Indians had killed my family and friends. In reply, I had explained how Shadow had saved me when the Sioux attacked the trading post, and how, from that night on, Shadow was not an Indian and I was not a white. We were simply two people in love.
Doctor Mitchell had smiled at my answer and then remarked, “Of course. That’s the only way it could work.”
After Josh and I were married, I invited Ed Mitchell to dinner often. He was never at a loss for words and his presence at our table brightened many a strained evening.
I grew increasingly lonely for Fawn and New Leaf as the days passed, wondering often if Fawn had ever regained her health. I missed the laughter of the Cheyenne women and the warm closeness we had shared while working side by side.
There were women at the fort, of course. Five of them besides myself. Outstanding among these was Margaret Crawford, the colonel’s wife. She was a tall, angular woman, with graying brown hair and sharp brown eyes, every bit as cool and self-assured as her husband. Margaret Crawford had been an Army wife for twenty years and she had definite opinions about every phase of Army life, which she aired freely and often.
Mabel Brinkerman was the sutler’s wife. She was about my age, with delicate skin, a mane of black hair, and mischievous brown eyes. She openly adored her husband, Tom, and frequently said so.
Sylvia Wallace was married to Jake Wallace, the chief of the Army scouts. She was a timid, mousy creature, hardly the type you’d expect to be married to a hardy frontiersman.
Emily Morton was married to the colonel’s aide. She rarely had two words to say for herself and dutifully agreed with the colonel’s wife on everything.
Stella MacDonald was married to Sergeant Major Carl MacDonald. Their marriage was not a happy one, and I had the distinct impression that if a stray arrow found its way into Carl’s rotund flesh Stella would not grieve hard or long. She hated everything about the West—the heat, the Apaches, the scorpions, the snakes, the dust—and she complained long and loud about them all.
As the colonel’s wife, Margaret Crawford felt it was her duty to invite the ladies to her home once a week. Sometimes we played cards. More often we quilted, or rolled bandages for the hospital. I would have preferred to avoid these little get-togethers but Josh insisted I attend. I did not feel comfortable at these gatherings. The good ladies of the fort were nice enough, I suppose, but in their eyes I could see a hundred questions they dared not ask. They thought it scandalous that I had willingly lived with an Indian, and even worse that I had done so without the blessings of the church or benefit of clergy. But what shocked them right down to their socks was the fact that I had crossed half the country with seventy warriors. I could look into their eyes and see them wondering if I had slept with all seventy!
The subject of Indians came up at our weekly get-togethers as often as it did everywhere else, which was practically every minute of every day. Geronimo and his bronco Apaches were raising hell on both sides of the border, and the women constantly lamented the fact that the West wouldn’t be a fit place to live until the Indians were completely subdued. It galled me to hear them talk about the Apache as if they were less than human and infuriated me even more when Mrs. Crawford said they should all be exterminated, as if they were bugs or spiders, fit only to be crushed under the heels of white men. Sometimes I thought I’d scream if I had to listen to Mabel Brinkerman tell how her brother had been burned alive by the Comanche in Texas, or sit through another accounting of how scared Sylvia Wallace had been to cross the plains to join her husband here at the fort.
“Why, those Indians are just like mad dogs,” Sylvia said breathlessly. “Biting and snapping at anything that moves!”
“Yes,” Margaret Crawford readily agreed. “And ungrateful dogs at that. Why don’t they stay on the reservation where they belong? My goodness, we give them food and clothing and blankets. What more do they want?”
“Perhaps they want their freedom,” I suggested quietly. “Perhaps they want their land back. And the buffalo. And the right to live and hunt in the old way.” I heard my voice rising as I went boldly on. “Perhaps they don’t want charity from the hands of their enemies. Perhaps they just want to be treated as human beings capable of taking care of themselves and making their own decisions!”
As I had never entered into any conversation concerning Indians before, or expressed any opinions or sentiments in their behalf, my outburst took the good ladies of the fort completely by surprise.
Mrs. Crawford could not have been more shocked if I had suddenly disrobed and thrown myself naked across her table.
“Human beings!” she exclaimed, aghast. “Mrs. Berdeen, do you know what you’re saying?”
“I think so,” I replied calmly. “After all, I did live with the Cheyenne for nearly two years.”
I was immediately sorry I had ever opened my mouth. Five pairs of eyes swung in my direction, and I felt exactly like a bug under a microscope as Margaret Crawford said, ever so sweetly, “Yes, I’d forgotten that. Tell me, my dear, what’s it like to live with savages?”
“I don’t know,” I replied in the same cloying tone. “I didn’t live with any savages. I lived with the Cheyenne, and for the most part I found them to be decent human beings, just like everybody else.”
“Come now, my dear. Everyone knows the Indians are totally uncivilized. Why, they’re nothing but barbarians, totally lacking in honor and human dignity.”
“Is that so!” I snapped, incensed by her patronizing tone. “I suppose you call the Camp Grant Massacre the act of a civilized people? And how about Sand Creek? Was Chivington acting like a civilized human being when he opened fire on all those helpless women and children? And as for our race being honorable, why we haven’t kept one treaty we’ve made with the Indians. Not one!”
An uncomfortable silence fell over the parlor. Mrs. Crawford’s face was crimson, not from embarrassment but from shock that the wife of a junior officer would dare speak to her in such a tone. I knew I had committed a terrible breach of post etiquette, and before anyone could speak, I mumbled a brief farewell and hurried out of the room and out of the house.
Later that day, Joshua caught hell from Colonel Crawford and that night I caught hell from Josh. Eyes blazing, my husband reminded me that I was no longer a squaw but a soldier’s wife and I was not to forget it again. Not only that, he told me in no uncertain terms that I was never again to defend the Indians, publicly or privately. Further, I was to apologize to the colonel’s wife for my outburst before the day was through, and then I was to forget I had ever even seen an Indian, let alone been so misguided as to live with one.
Forget, I thought. I would never forget. Not if I lived to be a hundred. Living with Shadow had never been easy but I would gladly have suffered the cold, fatigue, and gut-wrenching hunger all over again for one night in his arms.
Shadow, my heart, my life. Shadow, my strength, my love. Where was he now, when I needed him more than ever?
Chapter Twenty
Summer came and with it a wave of homesickness. Lying beneath the equipment wagon late at night, Two Hawks Flying dreamed of home and freedom, hungry for the sight of broad grassy plains and curly-haired buffalo, for the sight of friendly Indian faces and sleek pinto ponies. He yearned for the sound of rushing rivers and the wind sighing over the prairie. He longed to see majestic waterfalls cascading over snow-capped mountains. His mouth watered for the taste of roast buffalo hump and boudins.
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sp; But more than this he dreamed of revenge. Night after night, in a hundred ways, he killed the three men who held him in captivity. And always, invariably, he dreamed of Hannah. He remembered her merry laughter as they tumbled in the tall grass beside the river. Remembered the warm radiance of her smile, the sweet taste of her lips, and the good, clean smell that was hers alone. He remembered, too, how she had ridden the war trail at his side, never complaining. She had endured hunger, thirst, and bone-chilling cold and fatigue as stoically as any warrior. She had nursed the wounded, comforted the dying, and grieved for the dead. No Cheyenne squaw could have done more. Her image danced before him, now fresh and pink with the first blush of womanhood, then swollen with the bloom of new life she had carried beneath her heart. He recalled how eagerly she had molded her lovely golden body to his own, and a wild animal-like cry of outrage rumbled low in his throat as he thought of her lying in another man’s arms. And his hatred for Clyde Stewart and Barney McCall and Rudy dwindled to nothingness in the face of his hatred for Joshua Berdeen.
And so the days passed. Long lonely days, and each one the same as the last. Long lonely nights, and nothing but his own dismal thoughts to fill them, until the thought of another day in captivity was more than he could bear. He became increasingly hostile and surly as the weeks went by. Five times in as many days he tried to escape and failed. The sixth day, on stage, as a pasty-faced dude slapped bright yellow paint across his face, the anger burning inside him burst into flame. Yelping the Cheyenne war cry, he knocked the startled man aside and hurled himself at Stewart.
Pandemonium broke loose in the tent as the Indian’s shackled hands closed like steel jaws around the throat of the great white scout.
Moving with incredible speed for one so big, Rudy exploded out of the wings and clubbed Two Hawks Flying into submission while Barney McCall soothed the hysterical crowd.
Thereafter, the Indian’s hands were shackled behind his back before the first show and remained that way until the last show of the night was over.
And still he fought them, determined to cause Stewart and his two pals so much trouble they would either free him and find another meal ticket, or kill him. Obsessed with the need to be free, he did not care which course they chose, so long as it ended once and for all the misery of his captivity.
That summer, Hansen’s Traveling Tent Show toured New York, Pennsylvania, and Virginia. In each town, they raised their tents and sideshows, and people came from miles around to see the funny, the strange, the unusual. Clyde Stewart and his wild Indian were always the biggest draw in any town. There were Indians in the East, of course—Huron, Delaware, Shawnee, Cayuga, Iroquois, Onondaga, Seneca, Seminole. But they had been subdued long ago; they had either been expelled from then native homeland by the intrusion of the white man or restricted to cramped reservations where they were virtually forgotten. But here, live on stage, was a Cheyenne warrior who had actually participated in the Custer massacre. It was thrilling to see him standing on the stage, only a few feet away, clad in a skimpy clout and moccasins. Why, he was a piece of history!
For Two Hawks Flying, it was an endless nightmare. Sometimes he felt as if every white man in the world had gawked at him, eyes filled with curiosity or loathing or bitter contempt. Some spoke with peculiar accents, some had skins of yellow or black. He saw women dressed in calico and gingham, and women dressed in silks and satin and plumed hats. And yet, despite race or sex or position in life, they all stared at him as if he were something less than human.
In August, the show took a three-week vacation. They were in Philadelphia at the time. Stewart puzzled over what to do with Two Hawks Flying. They could not keep him in the hotel, nor did Stewart want to spend his vacation babysitting the Indian. There were saloons and whores that cried out for his attention, and Stewart fully intended to sample all the delights the city of brotherly love had to offer.
He was strolling casually through the town, pondering his problem, when he happened upon an old jail near the outskirts of town. It was a small square cell, the back wall was made of stone, the two side walls were made of iron bars, and the door was constructed of iron bars set in three-inch oak.
The local constable readily agreed to let Stewart house the Indian in the abandoned jail for the time needed, and Stewart grinned with satisfaction. His problem was solved.
Two Hawks Flying shuddered visibly as the heavy door slammed shut behind him. There were no furnishings of any kind in the cell. The floor was a slab of cement, the roof was tin, and the building was small—so very small. Three long strides carried him from one wall to the other.
It was the longest three weeks of his life. There was no privacy inside the cell. People came to stare at him at all hours of the day and night. Sometimes he woke in the morning to find a dozen kids staring at him, making jokes.
At night, men who were feeling the effects of a little too much liquor stood around the cage taunting him, boasting about how they would beat the devil out of his red hide if they could just get their hands on him.
Occasionally, women would pass by, careful not to get too close. They talked among themselves as if he were an animal who could not understand their words. It surprised him—the way supposedly well-bred white women speculated about his masculinity.
Stewart brought him a bucket to relieve himself in and a blanket to ward off the chill of the night. Rudy brought him three meals a day. Food was one thing Clyde Stewart did not skimp on, knowing no one would pay a dime to see a skinny, undernourished Indian who didn’t look strong enough or fit enough to have done the deeds he was accused of.
It was humiliating to have to eat and sleep and urinate while white men and women stared at him like he was some kind of freak. The first two weeks it seemed as though there were always at least two or three dozen people standing around, pointing and laughing, trying to make him laugh or get angry. Only his iron control kept him from screaming with fury.
He had been locked in the tiny cell for about two and a half weeks when he lost his temper.
It was a Sunday, and a number of people had gathered around the cage. Most were dressed in their Sunday best, having just left church. One man, dressed in work clothes and smelling of sour whiskey, began to brag about how many Indians he had killed when he rode shotgun for the Deadwood stage line. He was, he boasted, a better shot than Buffalo Bill or Hickock or any of them so-called fancy gun artists.
Abruptly, the man’s topic turned from the number of Indians he had killed to the number of squaws he had lived with.
“Them Apache women,” he mused, “they’re mostly fat and ugly. The Comanche, too. But them Cheyenne women—now they’re something else. Handsome women, they are. Right handsome. But feisty.” He pointed to a long scar on his left cheek. “Cheyenne woman give me that. Come at me with a knife, she did. But hell, once I tamed her, she was a real pussy cat. Good beneath the buffalo robes, once you tame ‘em down a mite. Ain’t that right, Injun? Hell,” he said, grinning and strutting before the cage, “it might have been one of this here Red John’s relatives what gave me this scar!”
The crowd laughed, some in genuine amusement, some in embarrassment.
The white man stepped closer to the cage, his face almost touching the bars. “What do you think, redskin? Think it might have been one of your kin tried to kill ol’ Pete with that knife?”
“I think you are full of shit,” Two Hawks Flying retorted, and then, taking a step back, he grabbed the slop bucket from the corner and hurled the foul-smelling contents into the man’s face.
The crowd gasped and hurriedly backed away as the vile contents sailed through the bars. A few of the men snickered, and then there was a deadly silence as the urine-drenched Pete pulled a derringer out of his coat pocket.
“You dirty redskin bastard,” he hissed. “I’ll kill you for that!”
He was raising the deadly little gun when Barney McCall slammed into him, knocking him flat.
“What the hell’s going on here?”
McCall demanded, wresting the gun from the man’s grasp.
“That Injun of yours threw piss all over me!”
“Yeah,” Barney said, wrinkling his nose with distaste. “I can see that. And from what I heard, maybe you deserved it.”
“Why you…”
“Come on,” Barney cut in, his tone conciliatory, “let’s go over to the barber shop and get you a bath, and then I’ll stand you to a bottle at the Velvet Palace. What do you say?”
The man known as Pete started to shake his head, but the prospect of a bottle was too good to pass up. Pasting a grin on his face, he said, “Sure. Sounds good to me. But only if you’ll throw in a new set of clothes. These are purely mint.”
“You’ve got yourself a deal,” Barney said. Rising, he gave the man a hand up, and the two walked away down the street, talking and laughing like they were old friends.
The crowd drifted away after that, leaving Two Hawks Flying blessedly alone. With a sigh, he sank down on the floor and stared up at the bright blue sky. He wondered, absently, what punishment he would receive for his rash act. Whatever it was, it would be worth it. Stupid, loud-mouthed white man. He hated them all.
But no punishment was forthcoming, and four days later they left Philadelphia.
They were in a little West Virginia town when Barney voiced the opinion that the act needed a little something extra, a little touch of added color and excitement.
“Just one more stunt,” McCall said, thinking out loud. “Just one more gimmick, and we could raise the ante two bits a head.”
As always, the thought of more money put a gleam in Stewart’s hard blue eyes, and after careful consideration, he decided Two Hawks Flying should do more than merely stand on stage—perhaps do a rain dance, or better yet, a real Cheyenne war dance.
“Why not both?” Barney posed. “And maybe chant a couple of their heathen medicine songs, too.”
Reckless Heart Page 25