Reckless Heart (18 page)

In September, seven trail-weary Hunk-papa Sioux joined us. With them they brought sad news. Crazy Horse was dead, killed by soldiers at the Red Cloud Agency. Shadow’s men stared at each other in stunned silence. Crazy Horse, Tashunka Witko, the mighty war chief of the Oglala Bad Face band, the heart of the Sioux Nation, was dead at the age of thirty-three.

I was sorry to hear of his death. He had been such a vital, magnetic human being, that it was hard to believe he was dead, hard to imagine that boundless energy forever stilled. But there was no time to mourn his passing.

Early the next morning a small detachment of cavalry rode into our camp, led by a Crow scout and headed by a fresh-faced shavetail who introduced himself as Lieutenant Miles Freeman. His words were brief and to the point. The Grandfather in Washington was willing to let Shadow’s warriors return to their respective reservations in peace if Shadow would surrender to General Crook no later than November fifteenth. If they refused, every soldier in the Southwest would be mustered against them and they would be hunted down and killed to the last man. It was strong talk, and an angry buzz rose from the listening warriors.

“Kill the blue-coats and send them back to the Grandfather as our answer,” Tall Horse said disdainfully.

“Let us take their scalps,” Calf Running said eagerly. “I have not taken a scalp in a week.”

“Let us stake them out over an ant hill,” Black Elk suggested. “That is always entertaining.”

“Enough!” Shadow snapped. “They are here under a white flag.”

“My parents were shot down under a white flag,” Calf Running remarked bitterly.

“Is it your wish to be like the white eyes?” Shadow asked quietly, and Calf Running shook his head and spoke no more.

“You have heard the Grandfather’s offer,” Shadow said, speaking to his men. “Is it your wish to accept?”

As one, the assembled warriors shouted, “No!”

“You have our answer,” Shadow told the lieutenant. “Go now.” Shadow’s dark eyes bored into those of the Crow scout. “If you ever lead the white man against us, I will cut out your miserable heart and feed it to the coyotes!”

The Crow warrior’s face turned ashen. Swallowing hard, he wheeled his pony around, dug in his heels, and raced out of our camp as if pursued by a thousand devils. The soldiers followed, though at a more dignified pace.

The warriors were quiet around the campfire that night, and I wondered if they were having second thoughts about surrendering. But then Calf Running began to speak, and I knew, somehow, that he was speaking for all of them, that each warrior present could have related a similar experience. His voice was low and unemotional, as if he were telling a story about someone else. And as he talked, I saw the other braves nod with sympathy and understanding.

“I was only a boy of twelve when it happened,” Calf Running began. “My father had decided to visit his brother, who was camped along the headwaters of the Gila River. My three brothers and their wives traveled with us. I remember it was spring and the desert was in bloom. We were in no hurry and covered only ten or fifteen miles a day before making night camp. We were three days from home when we saw the white men. Our women were afraid, but my father told them not to worry. ‘We are not at war,’ my father said. ‘They will know that when they see we have our wives with us.’ His words did not calm my mother’s fears, so my father tied a white flag around his lance and told my mother to stop worrying and go about her business.

“When the white men saw our white flag, they tied one around the barrel of a rifle and rode into our camp. My father and brothers went to meet them. And were shot down in cold blood. My mother shoved me under her sleeping robes and bid me stay there. Then, grabbing my father’s lance—the one with the white flag fluttering from its tip—she charged the man who killed my father. They shot her many times in the head and chest. They shot my brothers’ wives, too, but not until they had violated them many times.

“When it was dark, the white men left. But not until they had scalped the bodies of my family and stolen our horses. I saw it all from my hiding place beneath the robes. That night I buried my family where they had fallen. The next day I followed the white eyes. When I caught up with them, I killed them while they slept, slitting their throats as my father had taught me. And I have killed every white man who has since crossed my path.”

The Army was as good as its word. Less than a month later two hundred troopers were riding across the desert with orders to wipe out, once and for all, the Cheyenne chief known as Two Hawks Flying, and all those riding with him. Shadow’s scouts were good—the best the Indians had—and we knew the Army’s every movement, every order, right down to the one that said they were to stay in the field until Two Hawks Flying was dead or in chains.

In October, we knew we were in trouble. By then, it was obvious that the soldiers dogging our heels were veterans all, seasoned Indian fighters who knew what they were doing and how to do it. They did not make foolish mistakes, nor did they underestimate their quarry. They did not fall for the old tricks that had always worked so well. Our ambushes failed. When they saw a half-dozen Indians ride into view, they did not charge blindly after them as so many had done before.

For the first time, I saw Shadow’s warriors begin to worry. Not only did the soldiers have us outnumbered almost three to one, but they were better armed and, with the exception of Red Wind and Calf Running’s rangy bay gelding, better mounted. Food, or rather the lack of it, became our biggest concern. With the Army hard on our heels, the warriors had little time to hunt, and we were always hungry.

One night Tall Horse, Two Feathers, and Yellow Deer said they thought they could sneak into the soldier camp and steal some food from the mess wagon. Shadow and Calf Running weighed our need against the risk and decided it was worth a try. Shortly after midnight the three volunteers ghosted out of camp. Unable to sleep, I pulled a buffalo robe around my shoulders and went looking for Shadow.

I found him standing alone near the dying embers of our fire. He looked lonely and sad, there in the darkness, and I knew he was thinking of his father, Black Owl, and of the old days when the Indians ruled the land. I knew he was concerned for my welfare, and that of our unborn child, and for the three warriors who even now would be slipping into the soldiers’ camp. Wanting to comfort him, I went to his side and lay my hand on his arm.

Wordlessly, Shadow put his arm around my shoulders. We stood thus for perhaps twenty minutes before Shadow said, “They should have been back by now.”

The words were no sooner out of his mouth than three gunshots rattled through the darkness. All around us warriors burst from their sleeping robes, weapons in hand, eyes alert.

A long quarter of an hour went by before Tall Horse returned to camp. He was alone, and the warriors exchanged apprehensive glances as they waited for him to speak.

“There were two blue-coats hiding in the wagon,” Tall Horse said when he’d caught his breath. “We did not see them until it was too late. Yellow Deer killed one of them before he was shot. Two Feathers was hit as we jumped from the wagon. Three soldiers pounced on him as he fell. I put my knife into one of them as I ran.”

“What of Yellow Deer and Two Feathers?” Shadow demanded. “Are they dead?”

“I don’t know,” Tall Horse said thickly, then keeled over in a dead faint.

Only then did we see the bullet wound in his back. A closer look showed the bullet had passed cleanly through his body. He was lucky, I thought as I bandaged his wound. A little higher and to the left and he would have been dead.

At dawn, Shadow and Calf Running slipped out of camp. They were gone for what seemed an eternity, and I was a nervous wreck when they finally returned.

Shadow’s face was a mask of bitter rage as he said, flatly, “Both are dead. Strung up by their heels like dead meat and slit from groin to navel.”

“But they died well,” Calf Running added proudly. “Even with their guts hanging out, they died like warriors!”

Chapter Fourteen

The days grew shorter, the nights longer and colder, and still the Army pursued us. In late October I sat alone atop a high bluff while the soldiers and Shadow’s warriors engaged in a fierce battle on the desert below. Shadow was easily identifiable by his magnificent war bonnet as he cut in and out among the blue-clad men, loosing arrows as quickly and accurately as the troopers fired their rifles. Guiding Red Wind with the pressure of his knees, he rode down a half-dozen soldiers, killing them all. The air was filled with the bloodcurdling war whoops of a dozen different tribes, punctuated by the agonized screams of wounded horses and the heartrending cries of dying men. As the morning progressed, a thick haze of dust and powder smoke rose in the air, obscuring my vision.

I was leaning forward in the saddle, straining my eyes to see which way the battle was going, when a voice spoke beside me.

“Wal, looky here,” twanged the voice. “Jest see what I caught!”

With a start, I glanced around and found myself staring into the leering, pock-marked face of a cavalry trooper.

“I reckon I jest ended the war,” he drawled, and before I could think or speak or act, he tied my hands behind my back, looped Sunny’s reins over his saddle horn, and led me down the back side of the bluff into the soldiers’ camp.

In the distance, I could hear the sounds of battle, and I wondered how much longer the fighting would last and what Shadow would do when he discovered I was gone.

When we reached the Army camp, the trooper pulled me roughly from the saddle and propelled me into a large tent. Inside, a man with iron gray hair, a sweeping gray moustache, and cold gray eyes was seated behind a makeshift desk. He looked up, frowning irritably, as I stumbled into the tent.

“Son of a bitch!” he growled. “I send you out to scout the hills and you turn up with a woman!”

“Not jest any woman, Major Kelly,” the trooper countered with a sly smile. “The woman of Two Hawks Flying.”

The major’s eyebrows shot up and his gray eyes brightened with interest. “That right, girl?” he demanded.

I felt my cheeks flame as the major’s gaze lingered on my swollen belly. The disgust in his eyes made me mad clear through, and I lifted my chin and said, “Yes, I’m his woman. And proud of it!”

Major Kelly snorted. “Yeah? Well, you won’t be so high and mighty when you find yourself behind bars for pussyfootin’ around with your country’s enemies. Why, I wouldn’t be surprised if they tossed you and that brat you’re carryin’ into the pokey and threw away the key!”

Jail! I could not hide the distress his threat caused me. Would they really send me to jail for living with Shadow? And my baby, too? Oh, but surely they would not subject a child to life in prison!

“Stockton, get this Injun lover out of here,” Kelly snapped. “And tell High Horse and Cloud I want to see them on the double.”

“Yes, sir!” Stockton acknowledged, and hustled me out of the major’s tent and into another, smaller one located at the far end of the camp. With a grin, Stockton tied me to a chair. I cringed as one of his hands groped inside my dress, gasped as he squeezed my breast. His breath was foul as, leaning close to my face, he said, “I’ll be back to see ya later, honey.” Then, laughing softly, he left me alone.

As soon as he was out of sight, I began to try and free myself, but I could not loosen the ropes one bit. Still, I struggled for a good fifteen minutes before I admitted defeat, and as I sat there in that gloomy tent, I was seized with despair. What would I do if Stockton came back? Oh, but surely he was only trying to frighten me. Surely he wouldn’t want to bed me. Merciful heavens, I was big as a house! Surely no man, not even the most depraved, would want to bed a woman pregnant with another man’s child!

The minutes dragged by. There was an abrupt silence as the distant sounds of battle came to a halt. The sudden quiet was unsettling. Had the Indians won? Or had they ridden off in defeat, leaving me behind. I went cold all over as I saw myself being handed from one trooper to another, to be used and used again until we reached Fort Apache, and I was thrown into prison.

After what seemed hours, two Pawnee scouts came for me. Wordlessly, they untied my hands and motioned me outside.

“Mount up,” one ordered gruffly.

“Where are we going?” I asked, trying to keep any trepidation from creeping into my voice.

“To parley with Two Hawks Flying,” came the unexpected, but oh so welcome, reply.

Just the mention of Shadow’s name routed my fears. I pulled myself into the saddle, offered no resistance as one of the scouts tied my hands to the pommel while the other took Sunny’s reins.

Minutes later we approached the battlefield. Both sides had claimed their dead, but the smell of powder smoke lay heavy in the air. A dead horse lay in the distance, surrounded by vultures. A white flag fluttered in the rising wind. And next to the flag stood Major Kelly, flanked by a dozen dour-faced troopers, all heavily armed.

I felt my heart quicken as I saw Shadow ride up, followed by Calf Running, Tall Horse, No Wind, Black Elk, and Small Bear. They did not dismount.

When it suited him, Shadow could erase all expression from his face. It was a trait all red men seemed to possess. I called it his Indian face. He was wearing it now, and he gave no sign of recognition when he saw me.

“You see, we have your woman,” Major Kelly said curtly. “And we will not hesitate to shoot her for a renegade and a traitor unless you and your warriors surrender immediately.”

Shadow glanced briefly in my direction, and for the life of me all I could think of was that I must look a mess. Then he was staring hard at Major Kelly.

“I cannot give you a decision until I counsel with my warriors,” he responded tersely in English. “I do not command them as you command your Army. It is for them to decide if we fight, or if we surrender.”

Major Kelly looked skeptical until the two Pawnee scouts affirmed Shadow’s words. Then, still certain he held the upper hand, he said, coldly, “Very well. You have until dawn tomorrow to give me your decision. If you and your braves have not surrendered by then, your woman will be shot.”

Shadow nodded curtly and, without a glance in my direction, pulled Red Wind into a rearing turn and galloped away, followed by his warriors.

Major Kelly swore under his breath. “Stockton, take the woman back to your tent and keep an eye on her. Cloud, you and High Horse keep watch outside. I want to see the rest of you in my quarters immediately.”

My mind was in turmoil as Stockton led me away. I told myself the Major had no authority to execute me if Shadow refused to surrender, that he was only bluffing. The words “traitor” and “treason” sounded ugly, and I knew the penalty could very well be death. But not here and now. Major Kelly had no right to determine my fate. I was entitled to a trial before a jury. And yet, who would ever know or care if Kelly had me shot? The soldiers all looked at me with contempt, hating me because I lived with an Indian.

As we approached Stockton’s tent, he leaned over and patted my cheek, and suddenly the thought of a firing squad didn’t seem so bad. I tried to convince myself that Stockton could not possibly find me attractive, that I had misread the hungry look in his eyes. But I was shaking all over when he lifted me from my horse.

I stared at his tent, thinking I would rather walk into hell than be alone with Stockton. He gave me a little push from behind, and I lurched forward. My legs went weak as he followed me inside and secured the tent flap. I suddenly felt terribly alone and vulnerable, and I knew that if I screamed for help, no one would come. It was a terrible feeling, knowing I was completely at this man’s mercy, that he could do whatever he pleased without fear of reprisals.

I swallowed hard as he turned to face me, and I went cold all over as I realized my worst fears were about to come true.

“Looks like we’re gonna be together all night,” Stockton drawled, “so you might jest as well stretch out on thet there bunk and make yourself to home.”

“N…no, thank you,” I stammered. “I’ll just sit over there in the chair.”

Stockton’s face got very ugly very fast. “You’d best do as I say, Injun lover!” he snapped, and backhanded me twice across the mouth.

The threat of another blow and the possibility that he might do something to injure my child prompted me to do as bidden. The springs creaked as I sank down on the thin mattress.

I did not protest when he tied my hands and feet to the cot’s frame. Resigned, I lay cold and unmoving as he began to kiss me, his blubbery lips slobbering over my face and neck, wetting the bodice of my dress. His hands squeezed my breasts until they ached and then, grinning like a cat playing with a mouse, he reached under my buckskin skirt. His hands were big and calloused, covered with coarse black hair; his fingernails were broken and dirty, and I shuddered as I felt his filthy hands probe between my thighs.

He was panting now, his face red and mottled, his yellow eyes aglitter with desire as he shucked his shirt and began fumbling with his belt buckle. Naked, he was even more loathsome. His body was flabby and stark white save for the tangled mass of curly black hair matted on his chest. I thought briefly of Shadow’s magnificent physique, all lean and bronze and ridged with muscle. And then there was no more time for thought. There was only fear and revulsion as Stockton lowered himself over me, his breath hot and foul as he began to whisper obscenities in my ear.

Tied hand and foot, I could not resist, but could only pray he would finish quickly and leave me alone.

There was a sudden stab of pain as he thrust into me, and I bit my lips to keep from screaming, but the touch of his hands pawing my flesh and the driving force of his manhood violating my body was more than I could bear. With a strangled sob, I began to retch.

Stockton swore as a rush of hot green vomit spewed from my mouth and dribbled down his neck. Still cursing, he reared up and began to slap me, forehand and backhand, again and again until my face was numb. He was still hitting me when a dusky shape loomed out of the darkness and dragged him off me.

It was Shadow.

Stockton’s face went fish-belly white when he saw the savage hatred glittering in Shadow’s cold black eyes and the foot-long knife in his hand. Wild-eyed with fright, the trooper opened his mouth to scream but all that emerged was a hoarse cry of fear. And then Shadow was on him, hacking and stabbing with terrible fury, until what had once been a man was nothing but a grotesque pile of butchered meat.

Shadow’s hands looked as if they had been dipped in red dye when he pulled the knife from Stockton’s body for the last time. His breath came in short hard gasps, as if he’d been running a great distance, and his eyes blazed like twin coals in hell as he stared at the thing that had been a living, breathing human being only moments before.

Feeling my shocked gaze, Shadow looked up. Magically, the enraged killer vanished and the man I loved took his place. He drew a deep breath, held it for stretched seconds before he let it out in a long slow sigh. When I started to speak, he motioned me to silence. Then, after wiping his bloodied hands on the blanket folded across the foot of the bed, he cut me free.

Shadow had gained entrance to the tent by slashing a hole at the rear, and we left by the same way. I grimaced when I saw the bodies of High Horse and Cloud sprawled in the dirt, their throats cut from ear to ear.

And then we were running for cover, and when I could run no further, Shadow carried me the last hundred yards to where Red Wind was waiting. Riding hard, we caught up with the warriors in a shallow gully far to the south of the soldier camp.

Calf Running smiled as he handed me Sunny’s reins. “Welcome home, Hannah,” he said cheerfully. His eyes twinkled expectantly as he turned to Shadow and asked, “How many?”

“Three,” Shadow answered tersely.

The Apache’s grin broadened as he shouted, “
Enjuh! Cat-ra-ra ata un Innas yudastcin!
” which, roughly translated meant, curses and destruction on all white bastards.

In November it rained. And rained. The ground turned to slush and sucked hungrily at the horses’ feet as they plodded through it. Great drumrolls of thunder shook the earth, and lightning lanced the darkened skies with scorching fingers of flame. The wind blew continually, its voice low and mournful like the cry of a grieving Cheyenne squaw, or high and shrill like the wail of a tormented soul lost in the bowels of hell. There were teeth in the wind that cut through our clothing like sharp knives, so that we were always cold, always wet. And always hungry. I had been hungry before but never like this. I’d once heard an old mountain man say you weren’t really hungry until you were “ready to eat a horse with the hide on”. Well, I was hungry enough to eat the hide and the hoofs, too!

I knew the warriors were every bit as cold and hungry as I was, but there were no complaints.

“At least we are free men,” Calf Running remarked one miserable night, and that seemed to be the attitude of all the braves.

But I could not help wondering, as I choked down a hunk of cold, half-cooked venison, how life on the reservation could possibly be any worse than slogging through the ankle-deep mud with nothing but a damp buffalo robe to turn away the wind and rain, and nothing to eat but a slice of raw meat. I felt as though I were trapped between two nightmares and I didn’t know which was worse—the stark reality of those awful days, or the terrifying dreams that haunted my sleep. Night after night I woke in tears as I relived the unspeakable horror of what had happened in the soldiers’ camp. Often I woke screaming as I imagined Stockton’s hands exploring my flesh, or felt the weight of his body crushing mine. Again and again I saw Shadow rise up out of nowhere like an avenging angel. Sometimes I woke in a cold sweat, trembling in the dark, as I recalled the awful look of rage and hate on Shadow’s face as he repeatedly drove his knife into Stockton’s cowering flesh.