Reckless Heart (12 page)

I learned a lot about the Cheyenne on that journey. I learned, for instance, that Cheyenne children were taught from infancy not to cry, lest, in time of war, their childish wails alert the enemy. To my amazement, I found that Indian children were rarely spanked or reprimanded and that most lessons were taught the hard way—by experience. Boys, especially, were indulged, and their childish pranks were either ignored or viewed with amusement.

When I mentioned this to Shadow, he shrugged and said, “The life of a warrior is often short. Sometimes he is killed in his first battle. My people understand this, and as long as the young boys adhere to tribal laws and do not offend their elders, they are allowed to do pretty much as they please until they are fourteen. Then they must begin to take on the responsibilities of being a man and a warrior.”

I discovered, with some surprise, that when a Cheyenne girl had her first menstrual period it was cause for rejoicing. The girl’s mother told the father, and the father spread the word throughout the tribe, often giving away a favorite horse to celebrate the fact that his daughter was now of marriageable age. A special ceremony accompanied a girl’s first period. During this ceremony, she was bathed and then painted red. For a time, she would sit quietly before a fire in her lodge while sweet grass and white sage and cedar needles burned in the firepit to purify her body. Then, wrapped in a fine robe, she was taken to the menstrual hut where she remained in the company of her grandmother for four days, receiving instructions about her future role as a Cheyenne woman. I learned that from then on she would be thus isolated for four days whenever her time came. It was the only Cheyenne custom I disliked.

I was also amazed to learn that Shadow’s father, Black Owl, who was considered to be the head chief of the tribe, had no real power or authority over the Indians. The people would follow him only as long as he led them wisely. If he spoke for peace, and others wanted war, those in favor of war chose a leader and went out to fight. If a warrior wanted to steal some horses from the Crows, he would announce his intent, and any warrior who wanted to go along was free to go. If a man didn’t feel like fighting that day, he stayed home and no one thought the less of him.

The most comforting discovery I made was that, red or white, male or female, people were pretty much the same. Every nation was composed of good people, and those not quite so good, and the Cheyenne were no exception. There were Indians who were outgoing and friendly, and others who were reserved and always a little aloof, even among their own relatives. There were some I liked immediately, and some I thoroughly disliked. There were shy ones and braggarts, those who were unfailingly kind, and those who seemed a little lacking in charity. And there were a few who stood out for one reason or another—like Plenty Beaver, who drank too much. And Snow Flower, who was a shrew. Or Black Lance, a handsome warrior, but one so lazy the tribe took to calling him Always Lying Down.

And then there was Three Ponies. Three Ponies was a chronic gambler. One night he lost everything he owned, including his lodge, to Beaver Tail. When Three Ponies’ wife heard about it, she threw him out—lock, stock, and barrel—screeching at the top of her lungs that Beaver Tail could have Three Ponies, too, but that the lodge was hers, not her husband’s, and could not be gambled away. Three Ponies was properly contrite the next morning but his wife refused to take him back. As was her right, she burned her lodge and went to live with her sister and brother-in-law.

The children of the Cheyenne were adorable. The very young ones ran naked and carefree through the camp, playing the games children play the world over. The little girls played with dolls, the little boys played tag or wrestled in the dirt, growling like young puppies. The children stared at me with unabashed curiosity, fascinated by my long red hair and light eyes. Sometimes one or two would gather enough courage to give me a shy smile.

Later, when they got to know me better, I always had two or three of them following me around, pestering me with questions about the white eyes.

One little cherub, Rising Dawn, was my especial favorite. She loved to hear how I met Shadow at Rabbit’s Head Rock when I was a little girl about her age, and how I threw up all over him the day he ate that raw buffalo heart.

Rising Dawn thought Shadow was the most wonderful warrior alive, and told me, in confidence, that she hoped to be his number two wife when she was old enough to marry—if it was all right with me.

Sometimes, watching Rising Dawn and Shadow together, I would pretend that she was our daughter. There were many babies in camp, and I longed to have one of my own to love and cuddle.

Rising Dawn was full of boundless energy. Some days she appeared at our lodge with the sun, eager to help me prepare Shadow’s morning meal. She helped me straighten the lodge and gather wood and look for berries and roots. I loved her company and her merry laughter as we made our way across the plains. New Leaf nicknamed her “the little wife” because she was always in our lodge helping with the work.

I spent a lot of time studying the Indian boys in the days that followed, and as I watched them engage in their activities, I grew to understand Shadow a little better. Indian boys were given weapons at an early age. At first they shot at targets fastened to trees. Later, as they grew older and their skill increased, they were given bigger bows, and they went after rabbits and deer, then buffalo. And finally after man, the most dangerous game of all.

Indian boys did not cry when they were hurt. They did not show grief when they were sad, except in the privacy of their lodge or within the circle of family and close friends. A true warrior was brave and fearless. He spoke always with a straight tongue. He provided his lodge with meat, defended the tribe against all enemies, and showed unfailing respect to his elders.

Dishonesty, adultery, murder, cowardice—these were looked upon with loathing and were severely punished. A woman who was unfaithful to her husband had her nose cut off—a permanent symbol of her infidelity.

Pride came early to a Cheyenne male, pride of race, pride of family, pride in his physical prowess. The dead he held in reverence and respect, rarely, if ever, speaking their name.

A warrior respected a man’s right to be different, too. The most startling example of this was manifested in a tall, slender Cheyenne man known as Bull Cow. Bull Cow was not a warrior. He dressed and acted like a woman, and Shadow said that was his right. There was no disgust in his voice when he spoke of Bull Cow—no derision, only a touch of pity.

I had heard it said among the whites that the Indians never laughed and had no sense of humor. I found this to be totally untrue. The Cheyenne loved a good joke, whether on themselves or someone else. They loved stories, too, and often the whole village would gather around while one of the old men spun a fascinating tale. Sometimes they told stories of great warriors or great battles, sometimes they told the history of the Cheyenne nation, and sometimes they related how Maiyun had created the earth. No matter what the subject, I noticed both children and adults listening with awe.

I learned that the Cheyenne religion was closely bound up in their daily lives. Man Above was the Supreme God, the creator of all life. The Indians believed that everything possessed its own spirit. Trees, animals, rocks, the tall grass, the rushing water, the earth itself—all were endowed with life and were thus revered. No animal was ever killed unless its meat was needed for food or its hide for clothing or shelter. Also, the Cheyenne believed that life was made up of circles—the earth, the sun, the moon—and that there was a center to the earth and that all things were in balance. Thus, they built their lodges in a circle and laid their villages out in circles. Some surmised that because the whites built square houses, they didn’t know where the center of the earth was, and that was why they were such peculiar people. The Cheyenne did not try to change their world but lived in harmony with it, content to live where the Great Spirit had placed them. Too bad, I thought ruefully, that my people did not feel the same way.

It was the first of May when we reached the Sioux camp located at the Big Bend of the Rosebud River. How can I describe it? It stretched for miles and miles—a panorama of lodges and milling horse herds and Indians of all sizes and ages and colors, from pale copper to dark bronze. And even as we arrived, others were coming in. Minnecon-jou, Sans Arc, Arapahoe, Blackfoot Sioux, Hunkpapa, Santee, Oglala, other bands of Cheyenne. The word of Sitting Bull had gone out to all the tribes: “It is war. Come to the Rosebud.”

And they came in droves!

Shadow’s tribe pitched their lodges alongside a contingent of Arapahoe, and the warriors were soon caught up in the general air of excitement and anticipation that permeated the valley. If the whites wanted war, they would get war. Everywhere I looked I saw men working on their weapons, either repairing old ones or fashioning new ones, sharpening lance tips and arrowheads. War ponies stood ready outside each warrior’s lodge, pintos, grays, blacks, chestnuts, bays, duns, roans, buckskins. I remarked on the absence of white or cream-colored horses, and Shadow explained they were rarely used by warriors because they made too good a target at night and were too easily spotted from a distance.

For the first time since we had joined up with Shadow’s people, I felt alien. Around me were thousands of Indians, all with but one thought in mind: Kill the white eyes! Drive them from the land! They spoke of victory as if it had already been accomplished. As I puzzled over their optimism, I learned that at the last Sun Dance Sitting Bull, the great Hunkpapa medicine man, had made a flesh offering of a hundred pieces of his skin to Wakan Tanka and in return had received a vision in which hundreds of American horse soldiers fell dead at his feet.

Later that day I saw Sitting Bull, known as Tatanka Yotanka among his own people. I learned he had once been called Jumping Badger, but after showing great courage in a raid against the Crows when he was but a boy of fourteen, he had been given his father’s name. Though Sitting Bull was no longer an active warrior, he was still the leader of the Hunkpapa, revered and respected by all the Sioux tribes. He had a typical Indian face—broad and flat with narrow eyes, a wide thin mouth, and a large nose. I did not find him particularly impressive, until I heard him speak. He was a great orator.

That same day I saw Crazy Horse, the esteemed war chief of the Oglala Bad Face. Here was a man! Slender of face and frame and of medium height, he was yet a commanding figure and, except for Shadow, easily the most handsome man I had ever seen. There was an air of quiet dignity about Crazy Horse that demanded respect, and he was held in high regard by every tribe on the Plains. Of all the chiefs present—and there were many, including Gall, who seemed to be third in command—none received quite the same degree of hero worship as Crazy Horse.

Days passed and Indians continued to pour into the war camp until it looked as if every Indian from the Atlantic to the Pacific was gathered along the banks of the Rosebud River.

It was during one of those warm summer days that Shadow came to me, a grave look in his deep black eyes.

“What is it?” I asked anxiously. “Is something wrong?”

“Yes,” he said. “Very wrong.”

“What’s wrong?” I asked hoarsely. A dozen dreadful thoughts crowded my mind. The soldiers had found us. Someone had died. He didn’t love me anymore…

“We have not been properly married, Hannah,” Shadow said. “I want you to be my wife. Will you marry me according to Cheyenne custom?”

Relief washed over me in great waves. “Marry you,” I breathed. “Oh, yes, yes, yes!”

As we kissed, I felt as if a two-ton rock had been lifted from my shoulders. I had thought of Shadow as my husband ever since the day he carried me away from the trading post, and yet I had longed for a ceremony of some kind to bind us together. Deep down, I had felt guilty because we were living together out of wedlock.

“I have spoken to Elk Dreamer,” Shadow said, his voice warm against my ear. “He has agreed to perform the ceremony, if it is all right with you. It will not be the usual wedding ceremony, since we have been living together for a long time. But it will show everyone that you are mine, and a part of my family.”

The next evening, just after sunset, Shadow and I stood together before Elk Dreamer, surrounded by all the Cheyenne people. I wore a doeskin dress that had been bleached white and tanned to a softness like velvet. It had been a gift from Fawn, and was, in fact, the dress she had worn when she married Black Owl. Foot-long fringe dangled from the sleeves, hundreds of tiny blue beads decorated the bodice. New Leaf had stayed up the night before to make me a pair of moccasins. They were beautiful, as intricately designed and crafted as any evening slippers I had ever seen. My hair fell free about my shoulders, adorned with a single white rose.

Shadow stood straight and tall beside me, looking more handsome than I had ever seen him. He wore a white buckskin shirt that was open at the throat, white leggings heavy with fringe, and white moccasins. A single white eagle feather was tied in his waist-length black hair.

Elk Dreamer raised his right hand for silence. “This is a special day for our people,” he began. “One of our warriors has chosen a woman to share his life. Though she is not of our blood, her heart is good for our people. From this day forward, she will be one of us.” Pausing, Elk Dreamer drew his knife. Taking Shadow’s right hand, he made a shallow cut in his palm, and then did the same to my right hand. Caught up in the beauty of the moment, I did not feel the pain.