My heart grieved for Shadow. He was a proud man and I knew being in chains wounded his fierce pride. He did not resist when the chains were locked around his ankles. He stood tall and straight, his eyes heavy with disdain. Word that he was considered dangerous spread quickly and three men now stood guard around him while a fourth checked the irons on his feet.
One of the soldiers prodded Shadow in the back. ''Get in the wagon, redskin," the man ordered brusquely, and jabbed his rifle barrel into Shadow's back a second time.
Shadow whirled around, his black eyes filled with rage, and the soldier took a step backward, cowed by the anger in Shadow's eyes.
The other three soldiers chuckled, amused by the man's needless fear. After all, the Indian was in chains and the frightened trooper was holding a rifle. But then Shadow's dark eyes swept over the other soldiers and the laughter died in their throats. Unarmed and in chains, Two Hawks Flying was still a formidable presence.
Shadow's lips curled down in contempt as he climbed into the back of the prison wagon and sat down on the raw plank that served as a makeshift seat. Agent Tiffany said my children and I could ride in front, but we chose to ride in the back with Shadow.
The trip was uneventful. I was glad to be leaving San Carlos behind. Surely conditions at the Rosebud Reservation would be better. And even if they weren't, at least we would be among Shadow's people. I wondered what had become of his father, Black Elk, and of his wives, Fawn and New Leaf. I remembered how kind they had all been to me, how they had shared their lodge with us before Shadow and I had enough skins for a lodge of our own. I remembered Crazy Horse, the mighty war chief of the Oglala Bad Face Band. He had been one of the major leaders in the battle against Custer. He had been killed at the Red Cloud Agency in September of '77. The commander of Fort Robinson had tried to have the Sioux chief arrested and when Crazy Horse resisted, a soldier had thrust a bayonet into his side.
Shadow said little on the journey to Rosebud. Often, I saw him gazing at the familiar landscape, a melancholy expression on his handsome face. I knew he was dreaming of the old days when he had lived in these hills and valleys as a free man.
Heecha and Mary were confused and upset. Heecha did not understand why we had left the valley, or why his father was in chains. He said little, but his dark eyes mirrored his confusion. Mary clung to me, refusing to let me out of her sight for even a moment. Often, she woke crying in the night and it took hours to quiet her.
One morning the wagon passed near Bear Valley and my heart ached for those wonderful carefree days when I had been a young girl in love, with my whole life ahead of me.
At last, we reached the reservation. Shadow was freed of his shackles and we made our way toward the Indian lodges that were scattered at random. I looked at each person we passed, hoping to see a familiar face, and almost fainted dead away when I saw a big man dressed in buckskins coming toward us. A man who was not an Indian. A man with curly brown hair and a graying red moustache.
"Pa!" The word erupted from my throat in a hoarse cry of joy and disbelief.
My father stared at me for a long moment, his eyes riveted on my face. "Hannah!" he exclaimed jubilantly. "My God, is it really you?"
I nodded, and then we were in each other's arms, hugging as if we would never let go. Tears of happiness flooded my eyes and cascaded down my cheeks as I laid my head against my father's chest. All these years I had thought him dead and now he was here, very much alive. It was a miracle.
When we could finally tear ourselves apart, we took a long look at each other. I could not stop smiling as I studied my father. He had changed little since I had seen him last. He was still tall and broad, his shoulders as wide as a barn door. His hair, though graying, was still thick and curly. His sideburns were still long, his eyes remained a deep bright blue. And yet he was different, and I knew he was still grieving for my mother who had been dead for almost nine years, killed by the Sioux back in Bear Valley.
"Pa, you remember Shadow?" I said at last.
"Of course." Pa's voice was warm and friendly.
Quite a switch from the old days, I thought, surprised and pleased.
"I knew I could count on you to look after my girl," Pa said, offering Shadow his hand. "It's good to see you again."
Shadow looked at Pa's outstretched hand for several moments, obviously remembering the many quarrels they had had in the past. Then, with a nod, Shadow shook my father's hand.
"And who might these young'uns be?" Pa asked, smiling down at Heecha and Mary, who were standing quietly beside Shadow.
"This is Heecha," I said proudly. "And this is Mary."
"Mary." Pa choked on the name as he caught Mary into his arms and gave her a hug. There were tears in his eyes, when he looked at me, and I knew he was remembering my mother.
"Come along," Pa said gruffly. Pivoting on his heel, he led us to a squat wooden cabin located near a slow-moving river. An Indian woman emerged from the house as we drew near. Her hair was long and gray, her face fined with age.
"Sunbird, this is my daughter, Hannah, her husband, Two Hawks Flying, of the Cheyenne, and their children, Heecha and Mary." Pa's face flushed a bit as he put one arm around the old woman's shoulders. "This here is Sunbird, my adopted mother."
I blinked in astonishment. Mother! I looked at Shadow and saw the same surprised expression on his face. My father had hated all Indians for as long as I could remember, but then, he had good reason.
His parents, a sister and two brothers had been killed by Blackfeet Indians when Pa was just a little boy. Pa had been left for dead and would surely have died of starvation and exposure if a kindhearted old mountain man hadn't happened along and found Pa wandering around the charred ruins of his family's covered wagon.
Pa smiled sheepishly. "Let's go inside," he suggested. "I think we have a lot of catching up to do."
The cabin was small, a parlor, a kitchen, and two bedrooms, but it was clean and well cared-for. Colorful Indian rugs covered the floor and decorated one wall. Two overstuffed chairs were placed before the fireplace, a square oak table between them. There was a small table and two chairs in the kitchen. There was no stove, so I assumed Sunbird preferred to cook Indian-style over an open fire. Bright blue and white gingham curtains fluttered at the open windows. A Sioux lodge could be seen through the East window and I knew somehow that it belonged to Sunbird.
My father and I sat in the chairs before the fireplace. Shadow sat cross-legged on the floor. Sunbird sat on the edge of the raised hearth stirring a large pot of stew. Heecha and Mary curled up on the rug before the hearth and were soon asleep, lulled by the fire and the conversation.
My father's story was quite amazing. After Shadow had come and taken me away, the fighting had resumed. Hobie Brown and his sons, who had taken refuge with us after their homestead was destroyed by marauding Indians, had all been killed as the battle went on. Pa, enraged, grieving for the loss of my mother and his friends, had fired round after round into the midst of the Indians, killing many warriors. When the Indians decided to burn him out, Pa had charged out the front door, a pistol in each hand, a mighty shout on his lips.
The Sioux had pulled back until he was out of ammunition; then, apparently admiring his courage and fighting spirit, they had taken him prisoner. He had been at the Greasy Grass when Custer was killed, bound and gagged inside a Sioux lodge. So close, I thought, and I had never known he was there.
After the massacre, he had been taken, still captive, to the Dakotas where he had been a slave to a warrior known as Standing Elk. It had been a hard life for my father. He had been mocked and reviled, abused and beaten, but his hatred had kept him strong. He had tried to escape many times, but each time he had been caught and whipped. And then, unexpectedly, Standing Elk's mother had decided to adopt the white man to take the place of another son who died from pneumonia. Eventually, Pa had been accepted by the tribe as one of them. When Standing Elk's band was taken to the reservation, Pa had gone with them. By then,
Standing Elk was dead, having been killed by a bear, and Pa did not want to leave Sunbird alone.
At the reservation, Pa had opened a small trading post where he sold a wide variety of supplies to the settlers moving west. He used a good part of the money he made to help feed and clothe the Sioux.
I was speechless as Pa finished his story. Imagine, my father living with the Indians of his own free will. It was beyond belief and yet, he was here.
"Tell me about you, Hannah," Pa urged. "What brings you and Shadow here after such a long time?"
As briefly as I could, I told Pa about my life with Shadow, how we have lived with his people for almost a year after the Custer massacre, how Shadow had refused to go in when his tribe surrendered, how we had lived alone for a short time, and how he had come to lead a band of renegade warriors against the whites.
Pa listened intently as I told of those dreadful days, his eyes darting from my face to Shadow's and back again. I told how Shadow's men had disbanded when we ran out of food and ammunition, how the soldiers had continued to trail Shadow, how they found us at the cave where I lost our firstborn child.
"Josh was very kind," I said.
"Josh! Pa exclaimed. "Josh Berdeen?"
"Yes. He was in command of the soldiers who found us. He took us to Fort Apache. I . . . I married him."
Pa's eyes grew wide. "Married him?" Pa glanced at Shadow, who had remained silent during my tale.
"Yes. Josh blackmailed me. Shadow was to be hung. I begged Josh to free him and Josh said he would, if I would marry him. So I did."
Pa looked at Shadow again. "And?"
"He did not keep his word," Shadow said flatly. "Like all white men, his words were filled with treachery."
"Not all white men," Pa refuted quietly. "Go on, Hannah."
"Josh freed Shadow from the stockade, but he left him bound in the woods to die of starvation. Two men found Shadow and took him back East where they exhibited him as Two Hawks Flying, the last fighting chief on the plains. Shadow was their prisoner for many months. I didn't know any of this at the time, of course. I thought Shadow had gone back to the Dakotas."
"Where's Josh now?" Pa asked.
"Dead." Shadow spoke the word, and it was filled with satisfaction.
"I was pregnant with Shadow's child when I married Josh. Josh was outraged when he discovered the baby wasn't his. He threatened to give the child away. I knew he meant to do it and I ran away. Josh came after me. He found me in the same cave where he had found us before. Josh was going to make me leave Heecha in the cave to die. But Shadow came and changed all that."
Pa looked at Shadow again.
"I left him wounded in the wilderness, as he had left me," Shadow said flatly. His dark eyes moved possessively over my face. "And I took back what was mine."
Pa nodded. I could see by his expression that he understood why Shadow had done what he had done to Josh. Once, Pa would have been outraged by such seeming cruelty, but no more. He had lived with the Sioux long enough to become acquainted with their beliefs, their way of life. Indian justice was rarely as civilized as white justice, but the punishment always fit the crime.
"We went to Mexico after that," I went on. "Shadow fought with Geronimo for a little while, but when Geronimo decided to winter at the reservation, we left. Shadow and I and another Indian couple lived in a little valley at the foot of the Sierra Madres until this summer when Crook came through rounding up Apaches. We spent the last few months at San Carlos. It was horrible."
Pa nodded. ''We've heard a lot of bad things about San Carlos. The agent, Tiffany, was recently indicted by a Federal grand jury for keeping eleven men in confinement for fourteen months. The men were innocent of any crime. Hopefully, conditions will improve now that Army officers have taken over running the place. If they can get rid of Sieber and Mickey Free, maybe the Apaches will settle down."
I had heard of Al Sieber. He was a big Pennsylvania Dutchman who was a natural gunman and utterly ruthless. It was reported that he had once gunned down an Apache prisoner in order to save on rations. He was hated and feared by the Indians. Mickey Free was half Mexican and half Irish. He had been raised by Apaches and often acted as an interpreter, though he could not be trusted. The Indians despised him.
"So," Pa said. "You're here. You'll stay with us, of course, until you can get a place of your own."
I looked at Shadow. "Is that all right with you?"
"If it is what you want," Shadow answered tonelessly.
"We'll stay," I said, grateful at the thought of living in a house and sleeping on a bed.
Later, after we had eaten and the children were tucked in for the night, we four adults sat outside drinking coffee.
"I never gave up hoping that someday I'd find you," my father remarked. "Every few months I went around to the other agencies, hoping to hear news of your whereabouts."
Shadow leaned forward. "Did you ever hear anything about my father?"
Pa nodded slowly. "He's dead, Shadow. He died at the Red Cloud Agency two years ago."
"And his wives?" The question was mine.
"The young one died of a fever quite some time ago. I think the older one lives at Standing Rock with her sister's family."
We were suddenly silent.
Images of Shadow's family drifted across my mind. I remembered his father, Black Owl, as I had seen him the first time: a tall proud man wrapped in a red blanket. The moment I saw him, I knew he was Shadow's father. He had the same hawk-like nose, the same stubborn set to his mouth, the same fathomless black eyes. I remembered seeing Black Owl standing under a starry sky, his arms raised in prayer as he pleaded with Maheo for the life of his son. I remembered the last sad day when Black Owl decided to take his people to the reservation. Tears had burned my eyes as I watched the two warriors embrace for the last time, deeply moved by the love and respect they had for one another.
"Come with us," Black Owl had urged. "You cannot fight the white man alone."
Shadow had laughed hollowly. "I am not foolish enough to try," he had said. "But neither will I surrender my freedom."
I remembered standing at Shadow's side as his people left Bear Valley for the last time . . .
I thought of New Leaf, Black Owl's wife. She had been kind to me in the days when Shadow and I had shared her lodge. She had been about forty then, with a wide expressive face and a tendency to be plump. Her eyes were always sad, even when she smiled. Later, I had learned that New Leaf had lost two children. She was quiet and soft-spoken but she had a quick mind and I had often overheard Black Owl discussing tribal affairs with her late at night. She had given me my first pair of moccasins.
Black Owl's second wife, Fawn, had been one of my dearest friends. Seeing how awkward and cumbersome my long skirt and petticoats were, she had given me one of her dresses to wear until I could make some of my own. She had been a changeable creature, her moods shifting from merriment to anger and back again, sometimes in the space of a few moments.
I had often seen Black Owl scowling at her as if trying to decide whether to scold her or hug her.
In the beginning, I had been shocked to learn that Black Owl had two wives, more shocked to think that a girl of seventeen could be married to a man close to fifty. Fawn did not seem concerned that her husband had another wife, although I found such an idea shocking and immoral. Fawn, however, seemed quite pleased with her situation.
"Why should I not like it?" she had asked. "Black Owl is a brave warrior and a good provider. We always have meat in our lodge. And the work is not so hard when there are two to do it."
Later, I realized there was nothing immoral or sordid in a man having two wives. It was, in fact, a practical solution to a major problem, for the women far out-numbered the men and a warrior often married an aged squaw or a widow simply to provide her with shelter and protection.
And now Black Owl and Fawn were dead.
Shadow rose silently to his feet and moved soundlessly down the porch stairs out i
nto the darkness beyond the house. My father and Sunbird and I made small talk for several minutes, and then I went to look for Shadow.
I found him standing under a windblown pine, his face lifted toward the sky, his arms upraised in prayer. I came to a halt some twenty feet away, not wanting to intrude on such a private moment. How beautiful he was, standing there in the dappled moonlight. His black hair hung loose to his waist, as smooth as the hide of a panther, as black as the night around us. His profile, outlined in the light of a full moon, was clean and perfect. His body, clothed in dusty leggings, clout, shirt and moccasins, was tall and straight and strong.
Several minutes passed before he lowered his arms, and then he stared into the distance, his eyes dark and brooding.
"Shadow?"
He turned slowly to face me, and I saw the moisture shining in his eyes. I had never seen my husband crynot when he was wounded in battle, not when our firstborn son was born dead, not when his people were defeated for the last time. But he was crying now, for his father, and for a way of life that was forever gone. It was a sight that tore at my heart, and I felt my own eyes fill with tears as I went to him and took him in my arms.
"I'm sorry about your father," I said earnestly. "He was a fine man."
"He is better off dead," Shadow said bitterly. "We would all be better off dead."
"Shadow . . ."
"I cannot live like this!" he said vehemently. "I would rather be dead myself!"
"No! Don't talk like that. Please, Shadow, don't give up hope. Things will get better. I know they will."
"They will not."
It frightened me to hear the discouragement in his voice. He had always been the strong one, someone for me to lean on. How would we survive if he gave up now?
The next few weeks were not as bad as I thought they would be. My father and Shadow formed a close friendship that warmed my heart. It was wonderful to see the two men I loved the most walking together, talking without arguing, smoking in companionable silence on the porch in the evening after dinner. Shadow found many old friends on the reservation and his spirits lifted.
Reckless Love Page 5