I glanced up into the hills surrounding our valley and saw nothing. What had Shadow seen?
"Are you ready, Hannah?"
Shadow had come up behind me, his moccasined feet making no sound on the soft grass.
"Yes."
With a nod, Shadow swung effortlessly aboard his spotted stallion. Bending from the waist, he reached down and lifted Heecha up behind him. I felt a shiver of apprehension race along my spine as I stared at the paint streaked across Shadow's face and chest. Sometimes, I forgot how savage he could be. Living in our little valley, I had seen only his gentle sidethe loving husband, the caring father, the good friend. Now, staring up at him, I saw Two Hawks Flying, the Cheyenne warrior. A single eagle feather was tied in his long black hair; fringed leggings, deerskin clout and moccasins were all he wore. The red paint streaked on his chest reminded me of blood . . .
I felt an ache in my heart as I watched Shadow ride to where the Apache warriors were gathered. If there was a fight, I knew Shadow would be in the thick of it. And Heecha with him.
Flower Woman came to ride beside me. Nachi rode behind her, his chubby arms tight around her waist. Mary rode in front of me, her doll clasped to her side.
Single file, we rode out of the valley, heading south, toward Mexico. A handful of scouts rode ahead, Geronimo and the rest of his warriors rode behind us.
We had not gone far when gunshots sounded behind us. Instantly, the scouts riding point came racing past us. I fought down a rising tide of panic as my horse lined out in a dead run. Mary began to cry and I held her against my breast, shielding her tiny body with my own.
We ran for what seemed like miles, until our horses were lathered with sweat and then, to my horror, I heard gunshots from somewhere up ahead. I jerked back on my horse's reins as soldiers streamed out of a stand of trees. Fearing for Mary's life, I guided my horse toward a thicket and stayed there, hidden from view, while the fighting raged all around me. I had lost track of Flower Woman. Now, as I tried to soothe Mary, I prayed that my friend had also found a place to hide, that Shadow and Calf Running would not be killed, that we would be able to return to the valley.
The Apaches were badly outnumbered, yet they fought valiantly. The air was filled with the sound of their ferocious war cries. Dust swirled around the combatants, adding an unreal quality to the scene of death and destruction. I searched through the wild melee for Shadow and Calf Running, felt my throat tighten as I saw Shadow and a burly soldier grappling over a long-bladed knife.
The rest of the battle faded away as I watched Shadow wrest his knife from the soldier's grasp. My husband's face, streaked with crimson paint, was awful to see. I did not often think of Shadow as an Indian. He was my husband, the father of my children, the man I loved. The color of his skin had never been a problem. I knew what he was, what he believed in, and loved him the more for it. But sometimes, as now, his Indian heritage was brought vividly to mind.
Eyes blazing with hatred, mouth open in a feral snarl, Shadow plunged the knife into the soldier's neck. Blood spurted from the man's severed jugular vein, spraying over Shadow's hands and arms. Raising his fist over his head, Shadow voiced the Cheyenne cry of victory.
Sickened by the sight of so much blood, I turned away, suddenly conscious of an abrupt quiet. The battle was over. The Indians had surrendered.
Shadow came to me while the soldiers were rounding up the Apaches and looking after the wounded.
''What happened?" I asked, trying not to notice the blood drying on Shadow's hands and arms.
"Crook has captured Geronimo. They are taking us to San Carlos."
"San Carlos! But we're not Apaches. Won't they let us go?"
Shadow glanced at the blood staining his hand. "I do not think so," he muttered ruefully.
"Where is Flower Woman?"
"Dead." There was a world of sorrow behind the single, softly-spoken word.
"And Nachi?"
"Dead." Shadow's dark eyes glittered with hatred as he glared at the soldiers milling about in the distance.
"Does Calf Running know?"
"Yes. He has vowed to kill the man responsible."
Tears pricked my eyes, but I could not cry here, not in front of our enemies. Biting down hard on my lower lip, I forced myself to stare straight ahead, but all the while I was seeing Calf Running and Flower Woman walking hand in hand beside the river while Nachi skipped alongside. How happy they had been! I remembered the day Flower Woman's child had been born. I had been the first to see the child, the first to hold him. And now he was dead, his bright black eyes forever closed, his happy laughter forever stilled.
"Heecha!" Panic tore through my breast as I realized I had not seen my own son since the battle began.
"Hannah, be still. He is all right."
"Where is he?"
"Riding with 'Three Stars.' "
"With Crook?"
"The man saved his life. Heecha fell off my horse while I was fighting with one of the bluecoats. Crook rode by and carried him to safety."
"Thank God," I murmured, drawing Mary close. At least my children were safe and well.
In a short time, the dead were buried, the wounded had been cared for, and we began the long trek to San Carlos.
That night, after putting Mary and Heecha to bed, I met General George Crook. He was a man to inspire both fear and confidence. I could see why the Apache called him the Gray Fox, for his hair, eyes and beard were gray. I liked him immediately, for he seemed a kind and caring man. He spoke well of Heecha's courage during the battle.
"And you, ma'am?" Crook inquired politely. "Are you a captive?"
"No. My husband is Two Hawks Flying, of the Cheyenne."
"Cheyenne?" Crook glanced thoughtfully at Shadow sitting quietly beside me. "I thought you were a bit tall for an Apache," Crook remarked to Shadow. "How come you to be riding with Geronimo and his broncos?"
"They came to us," Shadow replied curtly.
Crook nodded. "Well, I'm afraid you'll have to go to San Carlos with the others for now. I imagine, in time, you'll be shipped to Pine Ridge or Red Cloud."
Shadow's face betrayed no sign of emotion, but I could feel the anger rising within him. I knew he would not go willingly to a reservation, any reservation.
"And you, ma'am, do you have relatives hereabouts?"
"No."
"Back east, perhaps?"
"No."
"I see." Crook stroked his beard thoughtfully. "I can take you to Fort Thomas with me, if you like."
"I prefer to stay with my husband."
Crook looked doubtful, but before he could say anything, there was an outraged cry from across the camp as Calf Running sprang at one of the soldiers, his good hand reaching for the man's throat. I knew without being told that the soldier was the person responsible for Flower Woman's death, and Nachi's, too.
A gunshot rang out, echoing in the stillness of the night, and Calf Running went suddenly limp as a dark red stain blossomed across his back.
Instantly, Shadow was on his feet, a shrill war cry issuing from his lips as he hurled himself at the trooper who had shot Calf Running in the back. Shadow's hands went around the soldier's throat, his momentum carrying both men to the ground. Shadow's eyes were narrowed with fury as his strong brown fingers tightened around the white man's neck, slowly choking the life from his body.
I screamed as a soldier wearing the stripes of a sergeant pulled his sidearm and fired at my husband. Shadow turned when he heard my frightened cry and the bullet meant for his back grazed his rib-cage instead. Two other troopers sprang forward, grabbing Shadow's arms, pulling him away from the unconscious man on the ground.
"Bind him!"
The words, harshly spoken, were Crook's. "How's Fenton?"
"He's coming around, sir," answered one of the troopers.
"Have the sawbones take a look at him. Sergeant Higgins, I want two men standing guard over Geronimo and this Cheyenne at all times. Rogers, pick a detail to watch the horses.
"
When Crook had finished issuing his orders, I asked if I might tend Shadow's wound. Crook agreed with a curt nod of his head, warning me not to try to free Shadow's hands or feet or sneak him a weapon.
I obtained a clean cloth, salve, and bandages from the Army doctor and then went to see Shadow. Kneeling beside him, I saw he was wearing what I called his Indian face, that peculiar expressionless mask that hid his feelings as effectively as a shroud. An armed soldier stood behind him, rifle at the ready.
Wordlessly, I began to wipe away the blood smeared across Shadow's ribs. I knew the wound was painful, but he never flinched, not when I wiped away the blood, not when I applied the thick yellow salve, not when I wound the bandage around his middle.
I looked at my husband as I tied off the bandage, willing him to acknowledge my presence, willing him to feel my love, but he refused to meet my eyes. Instead, he stared, unblinking, into the distance. Briefly, I touched his shoulder. Then, head high, I went to sit beside our children. Mary was still sleeping peacefully, her doll tucked under one arm, but Heecha was awake.
"Nahkoa, why is my father tied up. like that?" my son asked, a puzzled expression furrowing his brow.
"Because the soldiers are afraid of him," I said, wondering how best to explain what had happened to Heecha.
"They know your father is a mighty warrior chief like Geronimo."
Heecha smiled proudly. He could understand that.
The rest of the journey to San Carlos passed uneventfully. Shadow was silent and withdrawn, reminding me of another time, long ago, when he had been a prisoner of the Army. I remembered those days as we traveled mile after mile. Shadow and I had taken refuge in a cave high on a hill when a troop of the Seventh Cavalry found us. I had been in labor with our first child that day and very frightened, not only of the soldiers, but of delivering my baby in the wildnerness with no doctor to help me, no woman to assist me. Filled with doubts and fears, I had started to cry . . .
Shadow whispered my name as he took me into his arms. Oh, the strength and comfort in his embrace, the magical solace I found as he held me, gently rocking me back and forth as if I were a child.
Outside, a light rain began to fall. It was soon over, and the world was deathly still, as if every living creature were holding its breath. And then, from somewhere in the distance, a horse whinnied. Quick as a cat, Shadow was at the mouth of the cave.
"Major Kelly's scouts have found us, haven't they?" I asked.
"It is not Kelly."
"Not Kelly. Who, then?"
"It is the Seventh," Shadow answered quietly, and then he laughed. "I suspect they have come to get even for Custer. I knew they would never forgive us for that."
"Shadow, you've got to get out of here!" I cried, frantic for his safety. "Go now, before it's too late."
"It is already too late," he replied tonelessly.
Rising, he removed his buckskin shirt. Then, while I watched, he began to paint his face and chest for war. My pains were temporarily forgotten as I watched him apply vermilion paint to his torso, the broad zigzag slashes like ribbons of blood across his flesh. Smaller, similar slashes marked his cheeks.
That done, he reached for his war-bonnet. And Shadow, the man, became Two Hawks Flying, the warrior. I knew he was going out to meet the soldiers, that he intended to die fighting like the proud Cheyenne warrior he was, with a weapon in his hand and a last prayer to Man Above on his lips. And though I knew he didn't have a chance in a million if he went out of the cave armed and ready to fight, and though I knew he would surrender if I but asked him to, I could not voice the words.
When he was ready, he took my hand in his, and I felt my heart swell with love for the tall, handsome man kneeling at my side.
"I love you, Hannah," he said quietly. "See that our son grows brave and strong. Never let him forget that he carries the blood of many great Cheyenne warriors in his veins."
"I won't," I promised, choking back a sob as he left the cave without a backward glance.
I heard him call Red Wind, and in my mind's eye I saw Shadow swing aboard the tall stallion with the effortless grace I had always admired. And suddenly I knew I had to see him one last time.
Teeth clenched, I struggled to my knees and crawled to the entrance of the cave. I had to stop twice as pains doubled me in half, but I went determinedly forward. I was breathing hard when I reached the mouth of the cave . . . Lead whined into the hillside around Shadow, gouging great chunks of dirt from the earth, and my mind screamed for him to run, to hide. But he might have been a statue carved from stone.
And then the soldiers were too close to miss. I saw one of them line his sights on Shadow's chest and I screamed, "Josh, no!" and stumbled out of the cave.
And then I was falling head over heels down the icy hillside. A terrible pain stabbed through me, followed by a rush of warm water, and I screamed Shadow's name as I felt myself being torn in half. And then I was falling again, falling into a deep black void . . .
I shook my head, clearing the images from my mind. The next few weeks had been awful. I mourned for my stillborn child, buried while I was delirious. I ached inside for Shadow, who was under heavy guard, his arms and legs tightly bound as they were now, his face an impassive mask.
Joshua Berdeen had been all kind concern in the next few days, hovering over me, making certain I was comfortable and warm, reminiscing about the good old days back in Bear Valley.
Josh had vowed he still loved me, that he wanted to take care of me. Shadow was going to hang, Josh had told me, as if the matter were of little importance. The Army wanted him out of the way once and for all. I had begged Josh to think of some way to save Shadow from hanging. And he had. He had promised to arrange for Shadow to escape from the stockade. All I had to do was become Mrs. Joshua Berdeen.
I could not believe Josh meant what he said, but he did, and in the end, I had married him. To have refused would have meant Shadow's death, and I could not allow that, not when I could stop it. My marriage to Joshua had been a failure from the beginning, but I had consoled myself with the knowledge that Shadow, at least, was alive and free. It was not until much later that I learned Josh had deceived me . . .
My reverie came to a halt as Crook brought the column to a stop for the night.
The next day we reached the San Carlos Reservation.
IV
The San Carlos Reservation, nicknamed Hell's Forty Acres, was the most dismal plot of ground I had ever seen. The land was flat and gravelly, dotted here and there by the drab buildings of the Agency. Cottonwood trees, shrunken and scrawny, marked the course of a shallow stream. Rain was infrequent in this part of the country; when it came, it was almost a miracle. Hot dusty winds swept across the flat ground, destroying vegetation. Temperatures soared in the summer110 degrees in the shade was considered a cool day. Flies and gnats and a host of other bugs swarmed in the air.
I saw hungry, dirty, frightened Indian children darting behind bushes or into their wickiups as we approached, and I held Mary closer to me. Surely we would not have to stay in this awful place; surely my daughter would not have to live like these poor children.
As I glanced around, I met the sullen, hopeless, suspicious gazes of grown men and women. Their black eyes grew bright with hate as they watched the soldiers ride up. Geronimo's chains were removed and he walked haughtily toward a brush-covered wickiup and ducked inside. Several warriors turned and followed him.
Shadow was also released. I went to stand beside him, uncertain of what we were going to do. Crook had gone to his headquarters at Fort Bowie, promising to try and get us transferred to another reservation.
Shadow's face reflected the horror of what he saw as he glanced around the reservation. Warriors sat cross-legged in the scant shade of their wickiups, a few women stood together holding a listless conversation. I shuddered at the thought of remaining in this terrible place. The Indians stared at us impassively, betraying no sign of curiosity or friendliness.
I cannot describe the misery of the next few days. No one spoke to us. We had little to eat, no shelter from the blazing sun. Mary cried constantly, begging to go home. Heecha stayed close to his father, his eyes frightened though he tried to put up a brave front.
Little by little, we heard about life at San Carlos. The government had some hazy idea that the Apaches should take up agriculture. I could only wonder how the men in Washington expected the Indians to farm when there was no irrigation, no tools, and no seed. The Indians might have raised cattle, but no cattle ever came. They refused to raise hogs because hogs ate snakes, and snakes were taboo.
The longer we stayed at San Carlos, the more I could understand why the Indians were so miserable. Day after day they were left with nothing to do, nothing to occupy their hands or minds. Geronimo, who was naturally suspicious and surly, grew more and more resentful of the conditions of his people. He began to drink heavily, consuming great quantities of tiswin, which was Apache beer brewed from corn.
The summer passed and fall was in the air. Shadow grew more and more despondent. Heecha grew thin. Mary was too listless to cry. Daily, I went to Agent Tiffany and begged him to let us leave the reservation. I never told Shadow that I was pleading with a white man for our release, knowing he would be furious.
Daily, Agent Tiffany said no.
Finally, in late autumn, word came from Crook that we were to be transferred to the Rosebud Reservation in the Dakotas. The good news was dampened by the fact that Shadow was to travel in the prison wagon under heavy guard, his feet shackled. One of the officers at Fort Bowie had recognized Shadow's name and informed Crook that the man known as Shadow was, in reality, the Cheyenne war chief known as Two Hawks Flying and was considered to be quite dangerous and should be treated accordingly.
Reckless Love Page 4