Shadow dropped a hand over Pa's mouth. "That's enough, Sam," he said, grinning.
"Enough, hell!" Pa exclaimed. "Let's go skin that cat before the scavengers ruin the hide."
Christmas was special that year. I was with those I loved and we were all strong and healthy. Rebecca's shoulder was nearly healed, though still tender to the touch, and Shadow's wounds had healed without a scar. We had a beautiful tree, good food, and a promising future. Life was perfect.
We were sitting in front of the fireplace, singing Christmas carols, when there was a knock at the door. We looked at each other, startled by the idea that we were not alone in the valley.
"Who could it be?" Rebecca asked, frowning.
"Beats me," Pa said. "But there's only one way to find out." And taking the rifle from its place over the mantel, he opened the door.
A man and a woman and a girl of about seven stood on the porch. They were bundled up in heavy coats, mittens, scarves and hats against the cold. Beyond them, I could see a small wagon hitched to a slat-sided gray mare.
"Afternoon, folks," the man said, smiling broadly. "We were out for a ride when we saw the smoke from your chimney and thought we'd come check it out. We live about ten miles east of here. Didn't know we had any neighbors."
Pa put out a big hand. "Glad to meet you folks. Come on in before you freeze. This here's my wife, Rebecca. This is my daughter, Hannah, and her husband, Shadow. These are my grandkids, Heecha and Mary."
There was an awkward moment of silence when our new neighbors realized Shadow was an Indian. They glanced at me and then at Heecha and Mary, and I could see them wondering if Heecha was mine.
The man cleared his throat. He was short and stocky, and bowlegged. His hair and eyes were brown, his features nondescript.
"I'm Porter Sprague," he said. This is my missus, Helen, and our girl, Nelda."
Pa and the man shook hands. Shadow did not offer his hand to the stranger, and Sprague didn't seem to expect it.
Rebecca asked the Spragues to join us for pie and coffee and they accepted. Helen Sprague was a shade taller than her husband. She had curly red hair, brown eyes, and a wide mouth that was rarely still. She gushed over everything and eagerly offered to help Rebecca in the kitchen, more out of curiosity to see the rest of the house than to be of help, I thought uncharitably.
I sat in the parlor beside Shadow, feeling my anger grow as Porter Sprague chatted with my father and totally ignored my husband. Mary and Nelda sat on the floor in front of the fireplace playing with Mary's doll. Heecha had gone into the spare bedroom to work on a new bow he was making.
The Spragues stayed for an hour or so and seemed like nice enough people. They had come out from Illinois the year before, bound for California, but they had fallen in love with Bear Valley and decided to make their home here instead.
They didn't say anything about Shadow being an Indian, but every now and then Helen or Porter would glance at Shadow, a hint of disdain in their eyes.
Shadow ignored them both. He sat beside me, his face impassive, his dark eyes unfathomable as he gazed at the fire crackling in the hearth. Indeed, he might have been alone in the room, for he seemed to be oblivious to what was going on around him.
It was Nelda who finally brought up the subject of Indians. Pa and Porter Sprague were discussing cattle, hay and barbed wire, Rebecca and Helen Sprague were making a date to get together in the near future to make a quilt when Nelda Sprague's high-pitched voice caught everyone's attention.
"Why does your brother have such dark skin?" Nelda asked brashly. "He looks like an Indian."
Mary gave the girl a look that would have scorched green grass. "He is an Indian," she said haughtily. "And so am I."
"Well, I wouldn't brag about it if I were you," Nelda Sprague replied scornfully. "Everybody knows Indians are no good."
My daughter's face clearly reflected the hurt Nelda Sprague's words had caused. It took every ounce of self-control I possessed to keep from reaching out and slapping Nelda's freckled face.
"Nelda, hush!" Porter Sprague glanced at Pa apologetically. "I'm awfully sorry, Kincaid," he said gruffly. "You know how kids are.''
Pa's face was as dark as a thundercloud. "I know kids that age generally repeat what they hear at home," Pa said tersely. "That's what I know. I think you'd better leave now."
Sprague nodded, his face and neck turning beet red with embarrassment. Helen' Sprague mumbled a quick goodnight as they put on their hats and coats and hurried outside.
Pa slammed the door behind them. "I'm sorry, Shadow," he said. "I know how they feel. I felt the same way about Indians myself not too long ago, and I'm sorry."
"It is not your fault," Shadow said stiffly, and left the house.
I looked at my father and Rebecca, uncertain as to whether I should go after Shadow or leave him alone for awhile. The bitterness in my husband's eyes was like a knife in my heart. He was a good man, a proud man, and yet people like Helen and Porter Sprague could not see past the color of his skin. For a moment, I wished I were a man so I could curse and holler and slam my fist into the wall.
"Go to him, Hannah," Rebecca advised. "he needs you."
With a nod, I pulled a shawl around my shoulders and went to find Shadow. He was nowhere in sight, but a dazzling full moon clearly illuminated his tracks in the snow. His trail led me to the river crossing. I saw him standing near the water's edge, staring across the river at the vast stretch of land that had once belonged to the Cheyenne. His face was dark with anger; his hands were balled into tight fists.
He heard me long before I reached him. As he swung around to face me, I saw the hatred burning in his eyes, hatred for the whole white race. I could not blame him for his feelings. Many whites had wronged him. Joshua Berdeen had left him bleeding in the wilderness to die. Clyde Stewart and Barney McCall had saved his life only to take him back East and put him on exhibit in a traveling tent show. It had been a humiliating experience for Shadow. Men and women and children had stared and pointed at him as if he were some new species of wild animal. Clad only in a brief clout, moccasins, and an ankle-length warbonnet of Crow origin, he had been forced to stand before gawking crowds while Barney McCall spun a wild tale depicting the atrocities Two Hawks Flying had perpetrated against helpless women and children, then went on to extol the virtues of Clyde Stewart who had, single-handedly and with great daring and courage, captured Two Hawks Flying, thereby ridding the west of a great menace. Before he had managed to escape from the tent show, Shadow had been cruelly whipped to settle a foolish bet. He had been shot in the arm by an irate father whose son and daughter had been killed by Apaches. He had been poked, prodded, mocked and spat upon.
Looking at him now, I could see that he was remembering it all. The force of his angry gaze stopped me in my tracks and I shivered, more from the ominous expression in Shadow's black eyes than from the cold.
"Shadow . . ." I whispered his name and then fell silent. What could I say to erase the bitterness from his eyes?
"Some things will never change," Shadow said acridly. "There will always be white men who hate Indians, just as there will always be Indians who hate whites."
"I love you," I said. "I will always love you."
Shadow's eyes lost their angry look as he held out his arms. "It is good that some things do not change," he murmured, drawing me close.
We stood there together for a long time, content to be quietly close. The night was beautiful, quiet and peaceful. The sky was clear and inky black, the stars twinkling like lights in a dark house.
I gasped as the child stirred beneath my heart.
"What is it?" Shadow asked, concerned.
"The baby moved. Here, feel." I placed Shadow's hand over my swollen abdomen, smiled as the child moved beneath his palm. "I had forgotten how it feels," I said wonderingly.
"It was a good strong kick," Shadow remarked. "Perhaps we will have another son."
"I hope he looks like you."
Sh
adow shook his head, his good mood gone again. "I think the child will be better off if it looks like you."
I knew why he felt that way, but I could think of nothing to say in reply. Perhaps Shadow was right. Perhaps the Indian would never be accepted by the whites. I stared into the distance, wondering what the future would hold for our children. Would they be shunned and ridiculed because of their Cheyenne blood, never accepted because they were half-breeds? It was a dismal thought, one that haunted me for many days to come.
XIX
Spring 1886
With the coming of spring, we learned there were four other families in the valley. Pa and Shadow spotted their cabins during one of their forays across the valley in search of game and Pa, being a friendly, outgoing man, took off one day to meet them.
The family nearest us was from Vermont. Their name was Smythe and they had eight sons ranging in age from nineteen months to seventeen years. The Banner-mans lived beyond the Smythes near the bend of the river. They had a daughter, Victoria, who was six years old.
Fred and Myrtle Brown lived across the river. They had a sixteen year old son named Jeremy. The last homestead belonged to George and Ruth Tippitt. The Tippitts were an elderly couple with no children at home. Their son had been killed at Shiloh, their daughter lived in Rhode Island.
I dreaded the thought of meeting the rest of our neighbors after our encounter with the Spragues. I was certain Helen Sprague had already informed anyone who would listen that there was a real, honest-to-goodness Indian living in the valley. I was equally certain she had encouraged everyone to avoid Shadow, and perhaps myself, like the plague.
It was on a lovely clear day in March that the invitation I had been dreading arrived. The Bannermans were having a party so we could all get acquainted. Everyone in the valley was invited. Shadow immediately said he would not go.
"Then neither will I," I said, relieved.
"Don't be Silly," Pa admonished. "You can't spend the rest of your life holed up here. These folks are our neighbors and if we're going to make our home here, then we've got to get to know them, and they've got to get to know us. Especially Shadow. Once they learn he's not going to scalp them in their beds, they'll come around." Pa directed his gaze at Shadow. "Most folks are pretty decent if you give them half a chance."
Shadow looked doubtful.
"It's up to you," I said, hoping he would say no.
"Perhaps your father is right," Shadow said thoughtfully.
I was terribly nervous as I dressed for the party. I was eight months pregnant and I felt fat and unattractive as I pulled a pale blue dress over my swollen belly and smoothed the full skirt over my hips. As I brushed my hair, I prayed that Shadow, my children and I, would be accepted by our neighbors as I had been accepted by the Cheyenne years ago. People could be cruel and unforgiving, and it was with that thought in mind that I urged Shadow to wear the dark pants and shirt he had worn in Chicago, but he refused.
"I am Cheyenne," he said as he pulled on a pair of buckskin pants and a long sleeved buckskin shirt. "What I wear will not change what I am."
Why would anyone want to change him? The thought ran around in my mind as I looked at Shadow. His hair, freshly washed, hung black and shining past his shoulders. The buckskin shirt, fringed at the sleeves and across the back, outlined his broad shoulders. The pants, fringed along the outer seams, covered long muscular legs. He was a perfect example of what a man should be, and I loved him clearly.
"You look very handsome," I said.
"And you are beautiful."
"Am I?" I looked in the mirror. I had never thought of myself as being attractive but it pleased me to know that Shadow thought so. I had always thought my nose was a trifle too small and my mouth a little too wide. My hair was my best feature. It fell in soft waves around my face. Most women wore their hair gathered in a bun or a braid, but I wore mine loose because Shadow preferred it that way.
My stomach was in knots when we arrived at the Bannerman's cabin. I took a last hasty look at our children. They had been scrubbed from head to toe, their hair neatly brushed and combed. Mary wore a bright yellow dress that Rebecca had made especially for this occasion. Heecha wore brown pants and a red shirt. Looking at them, I knew they would make a good impression.
I smiled nervously at Rebecca and she patted my arm reassuringly. Rebecca looked lovely in a long blue skirt and long-sleeved white blouse. Her hair was swept high on her head, a single chestnut curl fell over one shoulder. Pa looked handsome in a pair of black pants and a crisp white shirt. I took a deep breath as Pa knocked on the door.
We were the last to arrive, and I felt every eye swing in our direction as we entered the house.
Mrs. Bannerman broke the silence before it grew awkward. "Welcome," she said, smiling cordially. "I'm Lydia, and this is my husband, Horace."
Pa made our introductions to Lydia Bannerman, and she introduced us to the rest of her guests. Mattie Smythe was a woman with dark hair, gray eyes, and a figure that remained trim in spite of eight pregnancies. Her husband, Leland, was tall and lean, with brown hair and brown eyes. Their children, named alphabetically, were Abel, Benjamin, Cabel, David, Ethan, Frank, Gene, and Henry. They were as nice a bunch of boys as I had ever met.
Ruth Tippitt was a rather tall angular woman with gray hair and twinkling blue eyes. She loved to talk and as I got to know her better, I discovered she had a fine hand with a needle and loved to sew, crochet, knit and embroider. She made lovely shawls and quilts and doilies and gave them away as gifts to all her friends.
George Tippitt was a crusty old man with a fringe of white hair and a shaggy gray beard. He rarely said more than two words at a time and was a little hard of hearing. I thought George and Ruth made an odd couple, Ruth being so charming and polite and George being so crotchety and kind of scruffy-looking, but they seemed very happy together.
Fred Brown was a jolly sort. He had graying blond hair, green eyes and always wore a plaid vest and a derby hat. His wife, Myrtle, was short and plump. She had a mass of curly light brown hair and deep blue eyes. Their son, Jeremy, was tall and blond and more than a little arrogant about his looks.
Lydia Bannerman had auburn hair which she always wore piled high on her head. It was obvious she was accustomed to being in charge and she quickly became the social leader and trend-setter in the valley. She came from a fine Boston family and it showed. Her manners were impeccable, her voice was always carefully modulated, her table always correctly set. Lydia had violet eyes and frequently wore dresses of lavender and purple to bring out their color.
Horace Bannerman was a rather paunchy man with a shock of black hair and deep brown eyes. He looked more like a gentleman farmer than a settler, and acted like one, too.
Dinners at the Bannerman home were always formal occasions, putting everyone on their best behavior. The men were careful of their language and their cigars, the women always wore their best dresses, and the children were careful to mind their manners.
Victoria Bannerman was the image of her mother. Her long auburn hair was always neatly combed, and I never saw her in a dress that wasn't freshly laundered and ironed. It was easy to see that one day she would be a beautiful young woman, poised, well-mannered and eagerly sought-after.
I smiled and shook hands with everyone I was introduced to, feeling as nervous as a cat in a roomful of rocking chairs. I felt as if everyone was judging me, wondering what kind of woman would marry an Indian and bear his children.
Shadow seemed at ease. He shook hands with the men, smiled pleasantly at the women, and promised the children he would not scalp them until he knew them better.
Our neighbors were all polite and friendly, save for Helen Sprague, who remained cool and standoffish. During the course of the evening, I occasionally noticed someone staring curiously at Shadow, but I couldn't blame them. After all, he was different from the rest of us and few whites had ever seen an Indian up close. Heecha and Mary were soon involved in a game of hide-and-seek w
ith the other children and I breathed a sigh of relief. They seemed to be having a good time in spite of Nelda Sprague's presence.
It was a lively party. George Tippitt played the fiddle and there was dancing and singing out in the lantern-lit yard. I smiled as Pa and Rebecca danced by. Rebecca seemed to grow more lovely every day, and I was glad Pa had found her. They made a handsome couple and it was easy to see they were very much in love. Pa had been lucky twice, I mused, first with my mother, and then with Rebecca. I realized suddenly that Rebecca and my mother were very much alike, and I wondered if that was one of the reasons Pa had been drawn to Rebecca in the first place.
Shadow was not familiar with most of the songs or dances, so I stayed close to his side, knowing he felt out of place. We were sitting on the porch steps, watching the Bannermans and the Smythes do the polka, when Fred Brown sat down on the step next to Shadow.
''Haven't we met someplace before?" Fred Brown asked, frowning thoughtfully. "You look familiar."
"I do not think so," Shadow replied.
Mr. Brown shook his head slowly. "I'm sure I've seen you somewhere before," he insisted, and then his green eyes lit up with recognition. "Damn!" he exclaimed in a loud voice. "You're the Indian from the carnival. I saw you in Jersey City back in '77. Well, I'll be gone to hell, imagine you being here!"
"Yes," Shadow said through clenched teeth. "Imagine."
"It was a hell of a show," Fred Brown went on, slapping his thigh gleefully. "Me and the missus purely enjoyed it. And Jeremy near busted a gut when Clyde Stewart himself invited him to come on stage. The boy talked about it for weeks afterward. Hey, Jeremy, come on over here a minute."
"What do you want, pa?" Jeremy Brown asked impatiently. "We're playing tag and the kids are waiting for me."
"You remember that trip we took to Jersey City when you were a kid? I knew you would. This is the Indian you and your cousin, Marynell, slapped all that war paint on."
"No kidding? Nice to meet you," Jeremy said politely. "I had a good time that night. Can I go now, Pa?"
Reckless Love Page 18