by Judith Pella
“I—I don’t know …”
“I am not good with words—not those spoken from the heart to a woman. Forgive me; I did not say what I meant.” He paused, gazing along the stream as if he could find the right words there. When his eyes lifted once more to face her, the earnestness had returned. Deborah wondered how she could fail to trust a man who looked at her in that tender way.
He took a breath and began again with resolve. “It is not your hair, Wind Rider, nor your eyes that have won my love. It is what you have inside. You have a Cheyenne heart, a strong heart, and for that reason I love you—”
“Broken Wing—” Unexpected tears welled up in her eyes, and a lump in her throat made it impossible for her to say more.
“You do not talk much about your past,” said Broken Wing. “But from the little you say, I think you have had much hurt. I do not wish to hurt you more. I know you are torn between your people and mine, and I would not make more trouble for you. But I believe you feel something for me also.”
“I do, Broken Wing!” Deborah said through her emotion. “But I am afraid and confused also. You are right—it is because of the pain and hurt of my past. I don’t know what to do about it.”
“The Medicine Lodge is a time of renewal; maybe it will be so for you.” The hope in his voice made Deborah’s heart ache.
“If only it were possible,” she said, half-musing to herself.
“I wish to be your husband, Wind Rider. I wish to make a lodge of my own with you. But I do not require an answer of you now. I know you must search yourself much for this decision.
“It is the Cheyenne custom,” he went on, “for the suitor to stand in front of the girl’s tent as Walking Wolf did today. Sometimes they also follow the custom of the more forward Sioux and wear a blanket over their bodies. When the girl comes out, they embrace each other in this blanket if the match is agreeable. But I will not do this with you. For you, Wind Rider, I will make a new custom.” He paused, smiling gently, pleased with his solution to their problem. “You may come to my lodge if you wish to marry me. Then I will know you have searched yourself and found you have feeling for me and desire to be my wife. If you do not come to my lodge, I will understand.”
Everything within Deborah wanted to shout, “I do love you and I want to marry you!” But the words could not break through her fear. All she could do was nod and watch him retreat back to the village.
32
Deborah did not sleep that night. She lay awake on the soft buffalo hide bed, unable to get Broken Wing out of her mind.
How could she love him? He was a wild Indian, uncivilized, illiterate, foreign to everything she had always known. If she married him, she might as well forget ever returning to her own people, for she had heard how white women who had married Indians, even if it had been against their will, were shunned by civilized society. That was why many captives killed themselves rather than unite with Indians. Such an act somehow tainted a woman, made her lower even than a slave.
Could I willingly cut myself off like that? For a savage?
A smile forced its way across Deborah’s lips, full of bitter irony. She knew Broken Wing was no more a savage than her own father had been. Perhaps the Cheyenne warrior couldn’t read, or eat with a fork, or dance in a ballroom, or drive a carriage; but she knew with every fiber within her that he was more civilized than any man she had ever known, except perhaps for her father.
Yet she knew that wasn’t the real reason for her reluctance. She had already more than halfway committed her future to these Cheyenne, repudiating her so-called civilized ways. That day a year ago, riding away from the shame of the gallows with Griff and his outlaws, she had crossed over the chasm between her past and future life, knowing she could never return. She did not want to return. The past was lost; all the joys of her childhood and the hope of recapturing the happiness of her youth had been shattered in Leonard Stoner’s bed. Perhaps the forming of that chasm had been for the best. The Sun Dance meant renewal, new life, as Broken Wing had wisely pointed out. Maybe she was ready to hope again, to reach out for a new kind of happiness. Perhaps the very contrasts Broken Wing presented made him the logical choice to begin that new life with.
Her reluctance, then, had little to do with the life Broken Wing offered. Rather, it had to do with Broken Wing himself—not his race, or his wildness—but more with whether she could trust herself to a man again. It was his gender, not his character, that troubled her.
The real harm from her marriage to Leonard had come not so much from his physical abuse, but because he had invaded her youthful innocence, attacking that part of her that had wanted to trust, to love, and to give herself to a man. He had twisted those needs, nearly severing them from her. But she was still young, only twenty-one, and those desires still needed fulfilling. Her wounds were deep, but not beyond the healing scope of time. Simple logic told her that to let one man so destroy her would be foolish. And being a year removed from the horrendous situation, lying in the safe security of an Indian lodge, helped Deborah to remember that Leonard and Caleb were not the only men in her life. She had known tenderness and love and friendship from her father and brother, and Jacob Stoner. Even Griff McCulloch had been a decent man.
But she hadn’t been married to any of them. Could there be something about marriage?
Lodging with Gray Antelope and Crooked Eye over the last several months had given her the opportunity to observe a marriage close at hand. Perhaps Crooked Eye was not the most affectionate of men, but he treated his wife well, with respect. Many times at night, after they had all retired to their beds, Deborah would hear them talking quietly on the other side of the lodge. He not only respected her opinion, he sometimes even sought it! Occasionally they had disagreements. Then one or the other—never the same one over and over—apologized, and all was well.
Deborah had also observed the marriage of Stands-in-the-River and Stone Teeth Woman. Stands-in-the-River could be a bit of a tyrant at times, and Stone Teeth was perhaps the hardest working squaw in camp. But Deborah had never seen her wear a browbeaten, miserable expression. Though she was known to complain at times, she did not do so bitterly; and just as often she sang the praises of her husband, who was likely to become a chief soon.
So, again, the question arose in Deborah’s mind: What of Broken Wing? What kind of husband would he make?
Deborah closed her eyes, visualizing his strong, sensitive countenance—the eyes that could dance with merriment, flash with passion, even draw within himself with introspection; the lips that formed a smile to melt the hardest soul, that spoke kindness and wisdom. In the months she had known him, she had never once seen a cruel or vicious look upon that face. Even when he stood over the dead Pawnee, he had worn no look of evil triumph. And in the few times he had chanced to touch her or even to behold her with his eyes, she had never sensed anything but kindness. She recalled the day of Carolyn’s birth, and how tenderly he had touched her baby and how compassionately he had led Deborah to an acceptance of the child. Could a man maintain such a performance for over six months? After all, she had known Leonard only a few days. If she hadn’t been in such a hurry, she might not have been so easily deluded.
She had believed that after Leonard, she could never love a man, yet she could not deny her feelings for Broken Wing. Nor could she deny her need for him—not on a physical level, for she was certain she could survive on her own now—but rather her need for his love and his friendship. No amount of abuse could ever totally destroy this need in a young woman, in any woman. When she recalled the things Broken Wing said earlier that day about her, it stirred her deeply. She needed to be loved like that, she needed to know it was possible.
Oh, Broken Wing, I do love you! Is it possible that I might truly find happiness again? Perhaps it is time I try.
****
Deborah slept little more than an hour the whole night. Still, she awoke refreshed, and with a rare smile upon her face. She was ready to take anoth
er chance at happiness. With Leonard, she had been running away, but now she felt as if she were running toward something—perhaps a new life. A small, nagging fear still tried to tug at her heart because she had lost so many people that she loved. Yet an inner sense seemed to assure her that she had to take the risk sometime. This life, especially on these untamed plains, was hard and harsh. Survival was more a miracle than the norm. Even if she was doomed to lose Broken Wing, could she really live in her protective shell forever? Did she want to?
That morning, before leaving the lodge, Deborah fed Carolyn, then spoke to Gray Antelope who received Deborah’s announcement with pleasure. The older woman found a good blanket, one given to the tribe last winter by the government, and gave it to Deborah.
Feeling just a little silly, Deborah wrapped the blanket, shawl-like, over her head and shoulders. It fell around her body, nearly to the ground.
As she approached the lodge of Stands-in-the-River, where Broken Wing lived, she wondered if he was even there. Today was supposed to have been the day of the buffalo hunt. Might he not have left hours ago? He never said he’d wait in his tepee until she came. Would she have to pace for hours, perhaps days, before seeing him? She was already causing quite a stir in the village with her unorthodox behavior. When did a proper Cheyenne girl ever court a man? The Cheyenne women were considered to be the most chaste women on all the plains, and she must now appear to them to be a brazen hussy. Already, some were casting her expressions of shock, although some were smiling and giggling.
They must think me crazy! They must—
Suddenly the lodge flap opened. Broken Wing ducked outside and quickly strode toward her.
Feeling just a little trepidation, faltering for a moment, Deborah finally took a breath and did what Gray Antelope had instructed. She opened wide her blanket and threw her arms, and the blanket, around him. Without hesitation, Broken Wing returned the embrace. He had passed up the hunt, waiting for her, hoping she would come, praying she felt for him even just a fraction of the love he felt toward her.
Later that day Broken Wing, adhering to accepted tradition, sent six horses, each laden with hides and many other trinkets, to Crooked Eye’s lodge.
The shaman grinned and said to Deborah, “Well, daughter, a young brave wishes to wed you. Is this acceptable to you?”
Deborah nodded, unable to repress a joyous grin.
Crooked Eye continued. “Then I, as your father, accept his gifts.”
He took Deborah to his remuda, where he kept his stock, and led in Broken Wing’s animals. Then he picked out eight different horses. “These are for your husband-to-be to seal our bargain. And …” he paused, raising his hand in a sweeping motion toward the remuda, “because this is such a joyful moment and I am pleased with you, you may choose any horse for yourself.”
There were twenty or thirty horses in the remuda, for Crooked Eye was a man of substance in the tribe. He no longer went on horse raids with the warriors, but his services as shaman garnered him a rich income.
Deborah concentrated on the mares, and she quickly saw the one she wanted. When she led out the chestnut with its silky coat and black mane and tail, Crooked Eye nodded his approval, despite the fact that she had chosen one of his best animals.
“You make yourself worthy of the name Broken Wing has given you,” he said. “You do know horses. That is good. Maybe I should have married you myself.”
“Gray Antelope would not have liked that,” Deborah replied coyly.
“She is spoiled. I should have taken a second wife long ago. But she has no sister, and it is dangerous to have two wives who are not sisters.”
Deborah was in a thoughtful mood later when she happened to see Broken Wing. They walked under the cottonwoods by the river. He talked to her about the tribal marriage rites and encouraged her to speak in detail to Gray Antelope Woman, who would act as her mother in the ceremony.
“We will not have a big lodge to start with,” he said apologetically, “for I have only three horses left besides the new ones from Crooked Eye.” Deborah realized he had given more than half his wealth to Crooked Eye as a marriage pledge, and though he had received more than that as a dowry, his generosity touched her. “I had more,” Broken Wing continued, “but when the Pawnee raided before we moved the camp, I lost many. After the Medicine Lodge dance, we will take out a raiding party and replenish our stock.”
Deborah wasn’t thinking about horses just then. Rather, her earlier conversation with Crooked Eye had been disturbing her. She was again thinking about trust and hope and taking risks.
“Broken Wing,” she blurted as a new panic caught her, “will you take other wives?”
“It is the Cheyenne custom … but it is not always done.”
“Will you?”
“Would this displease you?”
“I want to be a good Cheyenne wife,” she replied, “but … I don’t think I could accept that. There are some white customs that are simply too deeply inbred to shake.”
He smiled down at her. “It would not be fair for me to take another wife, Wind Rider, for I would always hold you in esteem over that one, and thus she would be too miserable.”
Deborah sighed with relief, and laughed and threw her arms around Broken Wing, kissing him enthusiastically on the lips.
“This is one white custom you may keep!” he laughed as he returned her passion eagerly, seeming to quickly master the foreign ritual.
Still breathless with emotion, Deborah asked as they fell reluctantly apart, “How long are Cheyenne engagements?”
“Very quick,” assured Broken Wing. “We can be married tomorrow while the Medicine Lodge still stands to bless us with good magic.” He paused, then said more solemnly, “If it is your wish … ?”
Because her last marriage had happened too quickly, Deborah should have felt nervous. But this time it was her choice, her decision; and whether it occurred tomorrow or in a year, she sensed intuitively that Broken Wing would always be the man he was this moment—the man she loved.
33
So it was, on the following morning, in accordance with tribal tradition, Deborah dressed in one of Gray Antelope’s finest deerskin shifts and was placed on the back of the spritely chestnut mare. Twelve Beads Woman, one of Gray Antelope’s close friends, led the chestnut, while Gray Antelope followed, leading Crooked Eye’s gift horses. Like a small parade, they traveled the short distance to the lodge Broken Wing shared with his brother. There, while Gray Antelope took charge of Carolyn, several of Broken Wing’s male friends and relatives took Deborah from the horse, placed her on a blanket and then, taking up the corners, carried her into the groom’s lodge. She was given the place of honor in the rear of the lodge, and when the braves departed, her new female in-laws redressed her in a new buckskin outfit, this one of a soft hide so pale in color that Deborah thought it must have come from a white deer. This, and the intricate beading on the dress marked it as a rich gift, and Deborah wept as she received it. She realized that these women, some whom she barely knew, had spared nothing for Broken Wing’s bride. Stone Teeth Woman embraced her warmly.
When Deborah was dressed and her hair braided and wrapped in beaver skin and adorned with silver disks and beads, Broken Wing was summoned to receive his bride. He stopped abruptly in the tepee door as he first beheld his beloved Wind Rider, and tears rose in his eyes.
He still did not know how he could be so fortunate to have deserved such a gift as this white woman who now stood before him, a lovely Cheyenne squaw. She was his best dreams fulfilled. Ah, dreams … surely this must be their meaning!
He took her hand and together they sat in Stands-in-the-River’s lodge, now quickly filling with wedding guests. Hours of feasting followed, and dancing by the men, both inside and outside in the cool summer evening. It was nearly as festive and enthusiastic as any of the Sun Dance ceremonies. Deborah hardly noticed that Gray Antelope and Stone Teeth had slipped out of the tepee until she saw them return sometime after dark
. The noise of merry-making quieted as Gray Antelope Woman stepped forward and addressed Deborah.
“Daughter,” she said, then swept her arm toward the open tepee door, “there is your lodge; it is your home; go and live in it.” She tried to be solemn and grave as she spoke, but her eyes twinkled and her lips quivered with her joy.
Broken Wing took Deborah’s hand and together they stepped outside. There, beside and somewhat behind Crooked Eye’s spacious lodge, sat a smaller tepee that had not been there that morning. Deborah realized that during the wedding feast her new “mother” and “mother-in-law” had been busy erecting a home for the newlyweds. Weeping, Deborah embraced and kissed the two women, who responded with pleased grins.
Amid an onrush of well-wishing from Crooked Eye and Stands-in-the-River—embraces for Deborah and slaps on the back for Broken Wing—the bride and groom walked arm-in-arm to their new home.
Deborah tried to focus on the generous household supplies the older women had given them. Two backrests, and a cradle for Carolyn, now unoccupied, since Gray Antelope had insisted on keeping her during the wedding rites; several cooking utensils, including a cast-iron kettle and large water skin, which were all displayed against a wall in the tepee. But then Deborah’s eye rested on the thick winter buffalo hides spread out on the dirt floor, and the realization of what she was embarking upon finally struck her. Immediately she grew tense and fearful. A near-panic gripped her as the awful image of her first wedding night leaped into her mind.
What have I done? she silently screamed. What makes me think it could ever be different?
Broken Wing had already sat down on one of the hides and was holding a hand out, entreating her to join him. She stood stiff and tense in the middle of the tepee, feeling cold and sick. Gray Antelope had once told her love might make her change her attitude about the union of a man and a woman. But all at once, Deborah was afraid that not even love would be enough.