Reckless Heart (17 page)

This night, sitting beside me, there was a great sadness in his face.

“It isn’t your fault,” I remarked softly. I gestured toward Swift Wind, lying unconscious between us. “He is here because he wanted to be here. They all are. You must not blame yourself every time one of our men dies.”

“Who else can I blame? I knew from the beginning that we could not win. That we could never win.”

“So did they. It was their choice to be here. No one forced them.”

“You speak words of truth and wisdom,” Shadow allowed, “but each of our dead lies heavy on my conscience.”

“I have often heard your warriors say it is better to die in battle than to surrender without a fight. If this is true, then you have nothing to regret. These men are living, and dying, as they wish. Many more would be dead if someone else was leading them. It is only your good leadership that has kept us all alive this long.”

Shadow smiled at me, and the warmth of his glance warmed me through and through. “Thank you, Hannah. You have said the words I needed to hear.”

The boy grew steadily worse. I sat with him to the end and wept bitter tears when he died.

Shadow and his warriors were gone again, and I was alone except for one wounded man who had not recovered enough to ride. I kept busy as best I could, tanning hides and sewing things for the baby, which was due around Christmas.

Shadow had been pleased with the news, though worried that he might be far away when the baby came. With more confidence that I felt, I assured him I was quite capable of having the baby alone, if necessary, though the very idea filled me with dread. After all, I said airily, the Indian women had babies in the open all the time. If they could do it, so could I.

He did not mention that I was not an Indian woman, though I was sure I saw the thought flit briefly through his mind.

Now, as I sat in the twilight of a lovely midsummer day, I laid my needle aside and stared into the gathering darkness. Who would have thought, years ago, that I would be living with fifty warriors? Certainly not I. I remembered my dreams of going to the big city, of seeing a stage play and dining in a fine restaurant, of marrying a tall, dark stranger. Well, it didn’t look like I’d ever see New York or Chicago, but my girlish dreams of a tall, dark lover had certainly come true! And wasn’t I glad. Though I might never wear silks and satins or sup from fine china, and though I might be forever poor in material things, I was rich in Shadow’s love and for me that was enough. More than enough!

With a contented sigh, I went to look in on Bear Tree, an Arapahoe warrior who had been shot in the leg the week before. I found him sitting up in the crude lean-to reserved for the injured, awkwardly mending a hole in his warshirt.

“Here, let me do that,” I offered, and then, realizing he didn’t understand English, I reached for the needle.

And screamed as his hand grasped my wrist in an iron grip. There was no mistaking the lust blazing in the Arapahoe’s deep-set black eyes, or his intent as he ripped my dress down the front and began fumbling with his breechcloth. More frightened than I had ever been before, I struggled against the leering warrior with all the strength I possessed, but try as I might, I could not free myself from his iron hand.

Grinning expectantly, Bear Tree flipped me over onto my back and straddled my legs, and I cringed as his exposed manhood brushed my thigh.

“No, please,” I sobbed, and when I saw there was no escape, I squeezed my eyes shut and heard myself senselessly babbling, “No, no, no,” as the panting warrior lowered himself over me. His breath was hot in my face, and I screamed with terror and revulsion as he forced my legs apart…

“Bear Tree!”

Shadow’s quiet voice rent the dusky stillness like a knife. Bear Tree jerked upright as if pulled by a string. Sullen-faced, he rose slowly to his feet and turned to face his chief. Shadow’s countenance was terrible to behold, and the Arapahoe warrior trembled visibly before the deadly menace in Shadow’s slit-eyed stare.

“Have you anything to say?” Shadow asked coldly, and Bear Tree shook his head, knowing that words would not save him.

“So be it,” Shadow rasped, and the rifle in his hands breathed fire and smoke, and Bear Tree fell backward, blood spilling freely from a hole in his chest. Once, twice, he twitched convulsively—then lay still.

The gunshot brought the others running, and I covered my nakedness with a blanket as they gathered around the lean-to. The scene that met their eyes was easily read, and they asked no questions.

“Throw that carrion to the wolves,” Shadow ordered curtly, and two men moved quickly to obey.

Sensing our need to be alone, the rest of the warriors left the lean-to.

Shadow came to me then. His face was grim as he pulled me to my feet, yet his hands were gentle as they brushed the tears from my eyes.

Taking me in his arms, he asked hoarsely, “Are you all right?”

“Yes,” I whispered. “Oh, Shadow, I was so afraid.”

His voice was heavy with self-reproach as he said, “I have been a fool to leave you alone. And a bigger fool to keep you here. Tomorrow I will take you back to your own people.”

“No!” I cried. “I won’t go. You’re my people.”

“Hannah, be reasonable.”

“I won’t be reasonable! And I won’t let you send me away unless…unless you don’t want me anymore.”

“You know better than that,” he murmured, drawing me closer, and I knew I had won.

By late summer there were three separate patrols searching for Shadow and his band of hostiles. There was a price on Shadow’s head now—a hundred dollars, dead or alive, preferably dead. Later, the bounty rose to two hundred dollars. And then three.

With discretion being the better part of valor, we quit the broad, grassy plains of Dakota and headed for the southwest, home of the Apache. Shadow’s warriors had suffered some heavy losses in their last skirmish with the Army, and we were down to less than forty men when we crossed the border into Arizona.

The Apache homeland appeared to be a barren wasteland populated by little more than sand and snakes. Vegetation was scarce, and what there was seemed hostile. Saguaro, catclaw, creosote, prickly pear, ocotillo—everything seemed thorny or spiny. Later, when I saw the desert in bloom, it was like a different world. And as we crossed the country, I discovered there were canyons rich with game and water, green meadows lush with grass, and mountains heavy with timber. But my first impression was one of endless desolation, and I wondered how the Apache had managed to survive so long in such a harsh environment, and why they wanted to hang on to it. I sorely missed the rolling green plains and timbered hills of the Dakotas with the sparkling waterfalls and verdant valleys alive with color.

We had not been in Arizona long when warriors began trickling into our camp, eager to join their wild brothers. Mescalero, Jicarilla, Chiricahua, Coyotero, Mimbreno—they slipped in a few at a time until Shadow’s fighting force numbered close to seventy. A handful of these were old warriors, with iron in their hair and the scars of many battles emblazoned on their copper-hued torsos. But they had fire in their eyes and a young man’s desire to die fighting like a warrior rather than waste away on the reservation.

I listened one night as Calf Running and his Apache brothers reminisced about the old days, when the Apaches, roaming the desert highlands, were masters of all they surveyed. Wide-eyed, I listened to tales of courage and cunning as they spoke of Mangas Coloradas, the great chief of the Warm Springs Apache. His name was Mexican in origin and meant Red Sleeves. When I asked how he acquired such a name, Calf Running smiled and explained that the Mexicans had given it to him long ago because he liked to dip his hands in the blood of his victims. But Mangas was dead, shot down in cold blood at Fort McLean. They spoke reverently of Cochise, the greatest Apache leader of them all, and his ten-year battle with the white eyes. But Cochise was dead, too. They spoke of Gokliya, better known as Geronimo, who was raising hell down in Mexico, and of Old Nana, still riding the war trails though he was well into his seventies.

I learned a little about Apache religion, too. They had a story that closely paralleled the story of the Virgin Mary and Jesus. Only the names were different. Their virgin was called White Painted Lady and her child, conceived immaculately by the Great Spirit, was called Child of the Waters.

I learned that the Apache would literally starve to death before they would eat fish which, according to their beliefs, was related to the snake and therefore cursed. Another thing I learned about the Apache was that they never said “thank you”. Instead, they raised their eyes toward heaven, silently acknowledging Usen’s hand in all things.

The most peculiar thing of all was the curious relationship between an Apache brave and his mother-in-law. For some reason which I never quite understood, once a man was married, he was forbidden to ever set eyes on his wife’s mother!

Shortly after our arrival in Arizona, one of Shadow’s scouting parties returned to camp leading three prisoners, two blue-clad troopers and an Apache tracker. These were the first prisoners Shadow’s men had ever taken, and the atmosphere in our camp fairly crackled with anticipation as the luckless captives were stripped naked and staked out on the hard, unyielding ground. Calf Running was all for slitting their throats then and there, but the other Apaches wanted to torture the prisoners—especially the Apache tracker, who was considered a traitor.

One of the troopers was little more than a boy, and he began to cry softly as the Indians argued back and forth, some urging a quick death, some holding out for something a little more exciting, like skinning the prisoners alive or staking them out over an ant hill. The smell of fear was strong on the boy, and the warriors laughed with contempt as he pleaded for his life.

The second trooper was older, and judging by the hash marks I’d seen on his uniform shirt, had been in the service for more than fifteen years. His eyes shuttled nervously from the Indians calling for torture to those arguing for a quick death. Sweat rolled freely from his pores, and he began to shiver spasmodically as fear and tension took hold of him.

The Apache tracker paid no heed to the voices rising and falling around him. With a face impassive as a canyon wall, he stared at the dying sun and quietly chanted his death song.

Afraid that the Indians favoring torture were going to win, I went to Shadow and begged him to release the prisoners.

“I cannot,” he said evenly. “My warriors must make this decision for themselves. Many of them have seen their wives shot down in cold blood. They have seen their old people trampled beneath the uncaring hooves of the soldiers’ horses. They have seen their little ones slaughtered. I know what is in their hearts, and I must let them take vengeance if they so desire.”

And desire it they did. A tall, hatchet-faced warrior known as Black Elk stepped forward, knife in hand. Squatting beside the veteran trooper, he raked the sharp blade across the prisoner’s pallid torso. The trooper began to moan as Black Elk’s blade went ever deeper, cutting through meat and muscle.

The lust for blood was a tangible force in our camp. Two warriors, chanting softly, suddenly drew their knives and chopped off the prisoner’s hands. The prisoner screamed as blood poured from his wounds—a long, agonized scream that ended abruptly as a Blackfoot brave slit his throat.

As one, the warriors turned toward the boy. There was a sudden stench as the prisoner voided his bowels. Eyes wide with fright, the boy rolled his head back and forth and in so doing spotted me. He stared at me for several moments; then, recognizing me as a white woman, he cried, “Lady, help me! For God’s sake, do something!”

It was the worst moment of my life. I felt Shadow’s hand on my shoulder. “There is nothing you can do to save the boy,” he said quietly. “Neither is there any reason for you to stay and watch him die. No one will think the less of you if you leave.”

Wordlessly, I shook my head. I was here of my own free will. I had fought at his side, shared his grief when one of our warriors died. I would share this, too, though it sickened me to watch.

They did not torture the boy long, and when they were through with him, they turned purposefully toward the Apache tracker.

The things they did to him are too horrible to relate. Suffice it to say that when they were through, the prisoner no longer resembled anything human. Through it all, the Apache’s black eyes burned with defiance. And only at the very end did he utter a sound, and that was the war cry of his people.

I could not sleep that night. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw the bloody remains of the prisoners. Yet I could not fault Shadow’s men for their actions. I knew what they had suffered at the hands of the whites. I knew all about Sand Creek and the Washita, about all the treaties made and broken. Nevertheless, I was glad that Shadow and Calf Running had not taken part.

The bodies were gone the next morning, and only a few scattered bloodstains remained to show there had been violence in our camp. The warriors spoke ill of the two soldiers, saying they had died badly, but they all agreed, if grudgingly, that the Apache tracker had died well for a traitor.

Shadow never made mention of what had happened, but that afternoon he told his men there would be no more prisoners.