by Jim Fergus
“How do you know that? I could at least have tried.”
“We know because me and Susie were there, we were livin’ in that village your soldiers attacked. It wasn’t the camp of Crazy Horse, that’s just what the Army believed at the time. It was the winter village of the great Cheyenne chief Little Wolf. Our village.”
“You … you were there?”
We nod.
“Yes, now I see how all this has come full circle,” he says. “I see God’s presence, I hear his voice. It is no coincidence that you came upon me, it is all part of God’s plan, his gift to us. You saw how frightened I was when I was captured, for I had turned away from God’s love. And now you see how calm I am. If the Cheyenne wish it, I am no longer afraid to die. Perhaps it is just punishment for my sins at the hands of those whom I have wronged. Although perhaps, they, too, will find the Lord’s forgiveness in their hearts. Excuse me, for I must pray now and thank Jesus for his infinite mercy.”
The chaplain sits down cross-legged on the ground, closes his eyes, and begins whispering his prayers in a voice so soft we can’t make out the words.
Me, Susie, Lady Hall, and the rest of the girls lead our horses, including Molly’s, down to the creek, some distance away from where Molly sits with Hawk. She stays with him for a good long while, until finally he stands and walks away from her. We’re all dyin’ to know how it went for her and when she joins us, Lady Hall asks her what decision Hawk has reached.
“He is considering the matter,” she answers.
“But what did he say?” asks Carolyn Metcalf. “Did he not give you any indication, any discernable hint about how he was feeling?”
“He didn’t say anything, he didn’t speak, he just listened to me, and he didn’t react to what I said. That is just his way.”
“Molly, you really think he understood you?” Susie asks. “We know you mean well, but Meggie and me ain’t so sure about this idea you got that Hawk understands English. Maybe that’s why he didn’t say anything. You claim he’s considering the matter, but you don’t know that.”
“I’ve already told you, he understands me. He has spoken to me before. He speaks English as well as you do … maybe better. Do you think I’m imagining that?”
“Alright then, lass, don’t get your knickers in a twist. We believe you.”
It is late enough in the afternoon now that the Cheyenne begin settin’ up their night bivouac. It’s as good a place as any, with live water nearby and deadwood along the creek bottom to gather for the fire. And so we, too, set up our own camp. Hawk hasn’t returned yet, but just as dusk comes on we hear again that shriekin’ whistle overhead and we look up to see a red-tailed hawk soarin’, followin’ the tree line above the river bottom. That’s how Hawk got his name, for among the Cheyenne it is believed that he is a shape-shifter and has the ability to turn himself into a hawk, they say he’s been doin’ it since he was a boy. Now me and Susie got tribal blood in our own veins from way back when in the history of the old country, and we can be real superstitious about such matters. Our people were savages, too, so we ain’t sayin’ it’s true, but we ain’t sayin’ it’s untrue, either. Aye, and it’s somethin’ to hear how much Hawk’s whistle sounds like the real thing, so much so that no one can tell the difference between the two.
Now all this while, that damned skinny chaplain has been sittin’ in the same spot, prayin’ quietly to himself. We leave him alone, figurin’ he’ll come over to the fire when he smells the antelope meat we’re cookin’ for supper. But he doesn’t and he’s still in that same position when we’re ready to get under our blankets for the night. It gets plenty cold out here this time of year after the sun goes down, so Molly takes a buffalo robe over and drapes it around Christian Goodman’s shoulders. He doesn’t open his eyes or speak to her, just keeps whisperin’ his damn prayers like he’s in some kinda trance. Me and Susie figure he’ll either be dead in the morning at the hands of Red Fox, or he’ll have run off back to his cave. We go to sleep hopin’ he’ll make it through the night.
17 April 1876
And damned if the chaplain is not still there at dawn this morning. It is cold enough that you can see your breath, and a sheen of frost has settled sparklin’ on the ground. We see that Hawk and his people are already breaking camp without even havin’ made the mornin’ fire.
Pretty Nose comes over to us now to say we’re headin’ out soon as possible, that the scouts have come upon a party of white men camped upriver. She says there are Crow and Shoshone warriors with them, probably guides for whatever business they are on. Hawk seems to have more important things on his mind than the chaplain, and since he’s still alive and Red Fox has made no move toward takin’ his scalp, we figure the lad is in the clear in that regard.
We wake the others and tell ’em what’s goin’ on, and then we start packin’ up our own night camp. Me, Susie, and Molly go over to the chaplain.
“Time to wake up now, sonny boy,” says I. “We’re movin’ out. You can go back to your cave now if you want.”
The chaplain opens his eyes, blinks a few times like he’s shakin’ off his trance. “Go back to my cave? You mean they’re not going to kill me?”
“You’re still alive,” says Susie, “in case you hadn’t noticed. If they were goin’ to kill you, your hair’d be hangin’ off Red Fox’s belt by now.”
“I do not wish to return to my cave. May I not accompany you? Perhaps I can do God’s work among these people. But first I must go back to retrieve my possessions.”
“If you want to come with us, laddy, you got no time for that.”
“I cannot leave without my Bible. It is not far. I can be there and back in only a few minutes.”
“Hurry up then. But understand that we can’t wait on you, we’re movin’ out with the Cheyenne. And if we’re gone before you’re back, you’ll have to catch up. Just so you know, there’s a band of white men camped in the vicinity. They got Crow and Shoshone scouts with ’em. These tribes are old enemies of the Cheyenne. We don’t know who the white men are or what they’re doin’ here, but if their scouts cut our trail, there will be blood spilled, that much is sure.”
“I’ll take you on my horse to fetch your Bible,” says Molly. “It will be faster.”
“Don’t do that, Molly,” says Susie. “You need to stick with us. The chaplain is on his own.”
But she’s already headed to the rope corral where the horses are held overnight. She leads her mare out, slips the bridle over its nose, throws the saddle on its back, cinches it up, swings on, and rides back to us. “Can you mount behind me?” she asks the chaplain.
“Of course I can,” says he. “I grew up among horses on our farm.” And the skinny little fella climbs aboard.
“Jaysus Christ, lass,” says Susie, “are ya really goin’ to risk your fookin’ life for a bleedin’ Bible?”
But she is already headed to the river, the chaplain with his arms wrapped around her waist. I look over to the Cheyenne camp, which is nearly ready to head out, and I see Hawk watching Molly’s horse splashin’ across the river with the chaplain ridin’ behind her. He looks worried, and a wee bit perplexed, for he must be wonderin’ where in the hell she’s headed.
It takes us another ten minutes or so to finish packin’ up our own affairs and preparin’ the horses. It seems like Hawk dawdles a tad in movin’ out, but his first responsibility is to look after his own, and soon they get under way. By now we’re all real worried that Molly ain’t come back yet. But we can’t afford to be left behind, and we have to make the hard decision to follow the Cheyenne and have faith that Molly and the chaplain can pick up our trail.
We travel fast for better than an hour, due west, keeping to the river bottoms. Hawk has gone out himself with the scouts, leaving Red Fox in charge of us. We figure we’re headin’ toward the foothills of the Bighorn mountains, hazy and just barely visible on the horizon, where we can get into the timber for cover. The country we’re passing through is rich
in game and we scare up a number of elk bedded down overnight along the river. They get up as we pass with gangly alertness, blowin’ clouds of vapor from their nostrils, and bound off with a grand rustling of underbrush. When we are forced to leave the river bottoms to cross a section of plains, we see small herds of buffalo grazing. Yet none of this game do we hunt as we ordinarily would, for Red Fox seems in a hurry to put distance between us and the white men with their Crow and Shoshone escorts.
As the time passes and the distance between us increases, and still Molly and the chaplain do not appear, we cannot but imagine the worst. We do not speak of it, for we each know what everyone else is thinkin’. One after the other, we turn periodically in the saddle to look behind us, hopin’ that by some miracle Molly will appear. But Hawk has clearly made the only choice he can, and if one of our group must be sacrificed for the survival of the rest, so be it. It is the way of this wild country. She took it upon herself to leave us, rash and reckless girl that she is, goddamn her. If she has fallen into the hands of the wrong men, this pretty blond white girl will not be well used. Aye, and she will have no one to blame but herself … Goddammit all, didn’t me and Susie tell you not to go off like that?
Tonight we are bedded down in a rough bivouac with no fires permitted. We don’t even put up our little Army tents, we just cover ourselves with the canvases in a tight group. We don’t talk much. All of us are double worried now, for when the other scouts came in from their different directions at dusk to confer with Red Fox, Hawk was not among them. Too dark now to write more. We chew a little dried buffalo jerky for our meager supper and now we try to sleep …
LEDGER BOOK IV
Red Painted Woman
I looked now at the Indian girl on the donkey. She wore a buffalo robe over a dirty deerskin shift, leggings, and moccasins, and her face was covered in red clay greasepaint, clearly mixed from the local soil, the same color as the striated earth of the bluffs above the river. On each of her cheeks were three parallel slashes of black paint, which gave her a fierce, warlike appearance. She seemed to be in a kind of trance, dazed, her eyes fixed and staring straight ahead …
(from the journals of Molly McGill)
16 April 1876
This afternoon, when we stopped to water the horses, the scouts caught a young soldier who was filling his canteen from the river, and dragged him into our camp at the end of a rope. He was pitifully thin, terrified. When he had sufficiently composed himself, he told us he was a deserter, that his name was Christian Goodman, and that he had been the chaplain of the same cavalry company that attacked Little Wolf’s village—indeed, he had been witness to the massacre. He said he panicked and ran away. We felt sorry for him. He seems so young, so sincere in his faith, genuinely contrite. He has somehow managed to survive out here for a number of weeks, living in a cave, eating his horse and whatever else he could scavenge and hunt, including rodents. From the look of him, he appears to be near starving to death.
Even Meggie and Susie, whose hearts are so hardened in vengeance against the soldiers, felt that the young man’s life should be spared by the Cheyenne, and I took it upon myself to speak to Hawk on this matter. I walked down to the riverbank where he was watering his horse and sat beside him. It is the first contact I have yet had with him on this journey, and I felt oddly nervous in his presence.
“He is not really a soldier, you know,” I said. “He is a chaplain, a holy man. He carries no weapon. He does not believe in taking the life of another human being. He deserted from the Army because the soldiers were killing your people, were killing children. He got scared and ran away. That’s all. Please, we ask you not to kill him.”
Hawk did not look at me as I spoke, nor did he answer, he simply gazed across the river. We sat there for a time … I don’t know exactly why but I leaned my shoulder lightly against his … yes, of course, I do know why … I did so because I wanted to touch him. We held this contact for a while … until he stood, gathered his horse’s reins, and walked away from me without looking back.
When I returned to our group, the chaplain was sitting cross-legged, his eyes closed, praying in a whisper. The Cheyenne had decided to make our night camp here, and he remained in this same position for the rest of the afternoon and into the evening. After the sun went down, I covered him with a buffalo robe. We ate our dinner and prepared to take to our tents. Still Christian Goodman sat praying. “He’ll either be dead and scalped in the morning, or gone.” said Meggie. “And there ain’t a thing more we can do about it.”
21 April 1876
After the passage of several days, I must finally make note of a harrowing experience that almost cost me my life. The Kelly girls accuse me of recklessness, of jeopardizing the safety of the entire group … and surely they are justified in doing so …
The morning after my last entry, we prepared to break camp early, for our scouts had discovered a party of white men with Crow guides, bitter enemies of the Cheyenne, camped upriver from us. The chaplain, Christian Goodman, was in fact still alive, whether due to my entreaty or simply because Hawk was distracted by this information, I have no way of knowing. The chaplain announced that he would like to join our party, but he insisted upon first returning to his cave to retrieve his Bible. In the interest of saving time, I offered to ride him across the river, much to the disapproval of Meggie and Susie, who wondered why I would risk my life for a Bible … a fair question, for with the death of my daughter, I have lost whatever small religious faith I once possessed … Not heeding their objections, I quickly fetched my mare, the grateful chaplain jumping on behind me, pressed my heels lightly to Spring’s flanks, and across the river we splashed.
His cave was in the rocks partway up a bluff only a few minutes’ ride from the creek bank. “Let me slip off right here,” he said when we reached it. “It will take me only a moment to gather my Bible and saddlebags.”
“Make haste,” I said.
Not visible from my vantage point, the cave entrance was concealed by large boulders, into which the chaplain now climbed, agile as a monkey. I waited uneasily, with a sense of impending danger which I may only now be feeling as I tell of it in retrospect. He took longer than I expected.
Perhaps it was the murmur of the river and the slight morning breeze in my face that prevented me from first hearing their approach, but suddenly Spring raised her head in alarm and nickered softly. And when I turned, there they were riding up behind me—a man, if you can call him such, astride a hammer-headed paint pony, leading by a halter rope an Indian woman mounted on a donkey.
The man raised his arm as if in friendly greeting as he approached. “Ah, bonjour ma belle fille!” he said. “Quel plaisir to find a beautiful woman out for a ride on such a fine morning! This must be Jules’s lucky day!” He wore a tattered U.S. Cavalry uniform, the jacket navy blue with yellow stripes on the sleeve, the pants a dirty pale blue with a matching yellow stripe on the outside of the leg, high brown leather riding boots, the seam split open above his calf, and a broad-brimmed Army hat worn sideways with the brim turned up, a tassel from the braided gold hatband hanging off one side. Beneath the hat, long ringlets of black hair spilled over his shoulders and down his back, leaving dark grease stains on his jacket. He was swarthy of complexion, whether by natural pigment or by filth it was difficult to say, and from his features he appeared to have Indian blood. As he rode up beside me, Spring snorted and sidestepped skittishly.
Side by side on our horses, I could smell the man. If evil has an odor, it would be his, a stench somewhere between that of rotting carrion and excrement. “Allow me to present myself, mademoiselle,” he said, taking off his hat and sweeping it across his upper body to his waist in a gesture meant to be gallant. “I am Sergeant First Class Jules Seminole, chief Indian scout of the Fifth U.S. Cavalry under the command of Général Georges Crook. But I see that you are traveling alone, ma petite. Be not afraid, for Jules is here to offer you his full protective services under the generous wing of the
United States government.” He smiled a malevolent grin, exposing a partial mouthful of rotted teeth.
Yes, this was a name I had heard before, from both the Kelly sisters and Gertie. I felt a cold tremor run up my spine. “I am not afraid,” I answered, “and I am not your petite. Nor do I require your protective services, or those of your government, although I thank you for the offer.”
“Ah, but of course you need Jules, ma belle,” he said. “You juste do not know it yet.”
I looked now at the Indian girl on the donkey. She wore a buffalo robe over a dirty deerskin shift, leggings, and moccasins, and her face was covered in red clay greasepaint, clearly mixed from the local soil, the same color as the striated earth of the bluffs above the river. On each of her cheeks were three parallel slashes of black paint, which gave her a fierce, warlike appearance. She seemed to be in a kind of trance, dazed, her eyes fixed and staring straight ahead.
“Aren’t you going to introduce me to your companion?” I asked the man.
“Ah, oui, pardon mademoiselle, how terribly impoli of Jules. Allow me to introduce you to my wife, Vóese’e, which in your language means Happy Woman. It is a name I have given her myself, for we are so very happy together.” He turned and looked at the girl with a mock expression of tender devotion. “Is she not beautiful? We are very much in love.”
“She doesn’t look so happy to me,” I said. “She looks like your prisoner.”
“Mais non,” Seminole said in a tone of feigned offense. “… Ah, oui, oui, perhaps you might say she is a prisoner of the heart. You see, she fell crazy in love with Jules when first she laid eyes upon him. Which I think you may understand yourself, ma petite, for this often happens when women meet Jules … they cannot resist his charms. Love at first sight … I think … do I not detect?… yes, I think perhaps, you, too, are already just a little bit?…” He held his thumb and forefinger up to me, parted slightly in the gesture indicating “small,” “juste un tout petit peu in love with Jules, are you not, ma chérie?”