Reckless Heart (9 page)

Mother was unusually quiet during breakfast. Neither of us ate much. Afterward, I suggested she rest while I did the dishes, but she sent me downstairs to sit with Shadow, saying she wanted to be alone for awhile, and I knew she wanted to pray for Pa’s safe return.

Shadow was asleep when I got downstairs. I sat in the chair beside his cot and studied his face. How handsome he was! And how I loved him!

Mother joined me about an hour later. An uneasy stillness settled over the house as we waited for Pa to come home, neither of us daring to speak the ugly thought that nagged at the corners of our minds, somehow afraid that speaking the words would make them so. Mother sat by the front window, mending one of Pa’s shirts, a faraway look in her lovely gray eyes. Seeing her there like that reminded me of Florence Sanders, and I shivered with sudden apprehension as I mumbled a prayer for my father’s safe return.

Restless, I tidied up the storeroom and stocked the shelves. Later that afternoon several families rode in to pick up supplies. It seemed strange to be waiting on customers when Shadow was hurt and Pa’s whereabouts were unknown.

I questioned each family that entered the store and felt more and more relieved as, one after another, they said they had seen Pa earlier in the day.

I sold one box of ammunition after another to anxious homesteaders who had taken Pa’s warning to heart. Several of the men made nasty remarks about Shadow’s presence in the far corner of the room. A few said they would not come again as long as we were harboring “that redskin killer” under our roof.

Elias Walt, one of the valley’s newest residents, suggested getting a “little necktie party together to show those red-ass niggers how white folks treat murdering savages!”

When Elias Walt left the store, I gave Shadow one of Pa’s pistols—just in case Mr. Walt decided to put his words into action.

Ida Green asked my mother flat out how she could tolerate a dirty, no-good Injun in her house. “Have you forgotten those savages burned down the Henry place and killed poor John Sanders?” Mrs. Green demanded. “Not to mention that poor little child they kidnapped. Really, Mary, I think you’re carrying Christian charity a little too far!”

“This is my home,” Mother replied quietly. “And my Bible says nothing about basing hospitality on the color of a man’s skin.” Mother’s eyes bored into Ida Green’s as she added, softly, “Shadow would not be here now if our men had exercised a little honest Christian tolerance.”

“Well!” Mrs. Green exclaimed indignantly, and flounced out of the store, skirts swishing.

It was going on evening when Pa rode in. With him were Hobie Brown and four of Hobie’s five sons. Conspicuously absent were Hobie’s wife, Charlotte, and his eldest son, Adam. I was about to ask their whereabouts when a harsh look from Mother stilled my tongue, and I went upstairs to set the table for dinner instead. Pa and the Browns were covered with dust and grime, and Mother quickly warmed some water for them to wash in while I put dinner on the table. It was a quiet, strained meal with nobody saying much. When it was over, Pa offered Hobie and his boys the makings of a drink, and then the Browns went out to bed down in the barn, since our house wasn’t large enough to accommodate them.

Later, my folks and I went downstairs. I took Shadow a tray with his dinner on it and sat beside him while he ate. Mother moved about the store, a. troubled look on her face, while Pa locked up and counted the day’s receipts.

“Are they dead?” Mother asked at last, and we all knew who she meant.

Pa nodded. “Charlotte died easy. Adam wasn’t so lucky. But we gave a good account of ourselves, and that’s what saved us. The Indians retreated to talk it over, and we made a break for it. We were damn lucky to get away alive.”

“Their place?”

“Burned to the ground.” Pa threw a hard look in Shadow’s direction. “Where will it end?” he demanded. “Three homesteads have been destroyed. Six people killed. Seventeen, counting the Indians we did for today. A child has been kidnapped. Dammit, Shadow, when will it end?”

“When your people are driven from our land,” Shadow replied evenly, “or when the last Indian lies dead on the plains. My father, and his father, and his father before him lived and hunted in these hills. As far back as the oldest warrior can recall, the Cheyenne have lived and died here. We will not give up the land where our ancestors are buried. Our brothers, the Sioux, will not give up the sacred Pa Sapa, the Black Hills. We will fight and win, or we will fight and die. But we will fight!”

“And will you fight against us?” Pa asked angrily. “Will you kill those who have helped you?” He glanced over at me. “Will you kill those who love you?”

“I do not know,” Shadow replied honestly. “But this I do know. There will be no more fighting until spring comes again. Tomorrow the Cheyenne will leave for their winter camp. But when the grass is new, and the ponies are fat, my people will fight again.” Shadow’s black eyes, which could melt my heart with their warmth, were cold and flat as he said to Pa, “I have asked you before. Now I am begging you. Take Hannah and Mary and leave the land of the Cheyenne before it is too late.”

“No,” Pa replied firmly, as I had known he would. “We’ll stay and fight it out. There’s seventeen families in the valley now, seventeen families just as determined to stick as I am. Come spring, we’ll fight for what’s ours.”

“You’re a fool,” Shadow murmured, and Pa’s head jerked back as if he’d been slapped. Only a word from Mother kept him from doing something rash, and he turned on his heels and stomped up the stairs, his face as dark as the night sky.

“Don’t stay up too late, Hannah,” Mother said, and she looked suddenly old and tired as she followed Pa up to bed.

Chapter Nine

Winter 1875-Spring 1876

The letter was lying on his pillow, written in his bold hand.

“Hannah, your father and I will be at each other’s throats if I stay longer, so I have gone south to join my people. My heart lies heavy within me, for your father is as proud as the Cheyenne, and just as stubborn, and I know he will not leave the valley. I hope, when spring comes, that the hot-blooded young warriors will have cooled off and the battle I fear will not come. If it does, I must fight alongside my people.”

It was signed Two Hawks Flying. How strange that name sounded as I said it aloud. Two Hawks Flying. I had never thought of Shadow by that name, and it tasted alien in my mouth. It was a proud name, a warrior’s name, and I knew that when he used it to sign his letter, he was telling me that he had cut his ties with my family and with me. He was no longer Shadow, the boy I had played with and loved and yearned to marry, but Two Hawks Flying, the Cheyenne warrior, bound to his people by a sense of pride and honor that was stronger than his love for me. A great sadness settled over my heart, for I knew I could have no part in the path he had chosen.

And so winter came. The wind screamed through the wooded hills, stripping the last leaves from the trees until they stood barren and forlorn. Dark clouds shrouded the sky, as heavy and gray as the pain in my heart. I had never felt so alone. Lying in my bed at night, I listened to the coyotes baying at the moon and their bittersweet cries were like the echo of my own tears. I watched, listlessly, as heavy rains pelted the ground, until the trading post stood like an island in a sea of brown slush. The first snowfall came, turning the drab world into a shimmering wonderland of pristine white, but I saw no beauty in it. Christmas came and went, and I found neither joy nor hope in that most wonderful of all days. Likewise the new year, 1876.

Mother left me to myself, knowing I needed to be alone. It was enough for me to know she was there, ready to talk when I felt the need, ready to counsel and comfort when the hurt was gone. Pa, too, respected my grief. I doubt either of them knew how much I loved Shadow, or that I had planned to run off with him. I know Mother thought I was merely infatuated with him and nursed a secret hope that I would soon come to my senses and marry Joshua, though she never voiced her thoughts.

In late January the sun came out, and though it was bitingly cold, it was good to have dry weather and sunshine, if only for a few days. I turned Nellie out of the barn, and she cavorted around the yard like a young colt, slipping and sliding in the mud. But even her ridiculous antics failed to cheer me.

Days later a detachment of cavalry pulled into the trading post, the first soldiers we’d seen since we moved into the valley. One of them, an old trooper named Macintosh, had a letter for me. It was from Joshua. He was stationed at Fort Lincoln under Major Reno. Josh briefly described the daily life of a trooper—roll call, mess call, stable call, close-order drill—the endless training that took a green recruit and fashioned him into a crack trooper. The tone of his letter brightened as he mentioned his idol, George Armstrong Custer, the “boy general”. Even in our remote part of the territory we knew about Custer.

Though graduated last in the West Point class of 1861, his daring bravado and love of fighting gained him quick promotions during the Civil War, and he had attained the rank of Major General by brevet at the age of twenty-five. When the war was over, his rank was reduced to Lieutenant Colonel and he was sent to Fort Riley, Kansas, where he gained great acclaim as an Indian fighter. Now he was at Fort Lincoln preparing to ride against the Sioux, determined to bring them to their knees once and for all.

He was a dashing and romantic figure, and as I read Joshua’s glowing description of Custer, I wondered which picture correctly portrayed the man with the long yellow hair, the one Josh painted of a brave soldier and valiant fighter, or the one Shadow had drawn for me one afternoon down at the river crossing—that of a strutting, arrogant, glory-hunting murderer who had massacred a sleeping village of Cheyenne in the valley of the Washita.

Josh went on to say that word had gone out to all the Plains tribes in December, admonishing them to surrender immediately and report to the reservations by January 31st or be considered as hostiles and treated accordingly. Josh went on to say that in view of the bitter weather and the short notice, it was doubtful if the tribes would comply, and that there’d likely be war at last. He said that latrine rumor had it that the Army was tired of fighting the Sioux and had decided to wipe them out once and for all; that, come spring, a major campaign was sure to be mounted against the Sioux in the Black Hills…

I laid Joshua’s letter aside. The Sioux and the Cheyenne were allies, and a cold hand closed over my heart as I recalled Shadow’s words:

“Our brothers, the Sioux, will not give up the sacred Pa Sapa, the Black Hills. We will fight and win, or we will fight and die. But we will fight!”

Troubled, I picked up Joshua’s letter and read the last few lines:

“Tell your pa it might be wise to pull out of the valley as soon as the snow thaws. There’s talk of a lot of unrest among the Northern Cheyenne. Our scouts report that Black Owl is thinking of joining Sitting Bull.”

As I put Joshua’s letter away, I thought of the things he’d said, and of the things Shadow had said, and it seemed to me that sooner or later the two men I cared for most beside my own father were destined to meet somewhere in the Black Hills. I wondered which, if either, would survive, and knew I would be condemned by everyone in the valley if they knew it was Shadow I prayed for most of all.

Hobie Brown and his sons stayed with us through the winter, and we were glad to have them. Hobie’s oldest boy, John, was a skilled hunter and trapper and managed, somehow, to keep meat on our table through that long, miserable winter. Benjamin was a natural artist, and we wiled away many a night watching him sketch scenes of local wildlife that were so real you wanted to reach out and touch them. I especially liked his drawing of a red-tailed hawk, for it reminded me of Shadow. Paul played the banjo and brightened many a long, dark night with his music. David, the youngest, was a born clown. He kept us laughing with silly stories and funny poems that didn’t make a lick of sense. They didn’t rhyme, either, but that didn’t matter.

It was David that became my dearest friend. We talked often of books we’d read, of faraway places with exotic names and curious customs. He never asked why I was so sad, but one night he took my hand in his and said, simply, “Hannah, if you ever want to talk about it, I’m here to listen.”

It was David’s unfailing cheerfulness that reached through the layers of my unhappiness and made me smile again; David made life worthwhile.

Spring came at last. One day it was cold and bleak, gray as Nellie’s hide, and the next morning the sun was shining, the sky was a clear, unblemished blue, and the snow was melting. Business picked up at the post. Mother’s flowers bloomed. Hobie Brown and his boys started talking about rebuilding their place, and Pa offered to lend them whatever tools and supplies they needed to get started. Paul Brown proposed to Lucinda Bailey and they set the date for late June.

David and I spent long hours together walking in the woods along the river’s edge, glad to be out of the stockade walls. We were picnicking there one sunny afternoon when David asked me to marry him. I wanted to accept, for I was very fond of David, but I just couldn’t bring myself to say yes. Much as I liked David, much as I enjoyed his company and his unfailing ability to make me laugh, I didn’t love him and never would.

“I can’t, David,” I said sadly. “I’m sorry, but I just can’t.”

“Hey, don’t look so glum about it,” David responded cheerfully. “I’m the one who’s being rejected, not you.”

“Oh, David, can’t you ever be serious?”

“Don’t know—never tried.”

“I’m glad. Can we still be friends?”

“Couldn’t we be kissing cousins instead?” he queried impishly, and I laughed as he claimed a kiss.

The better I got to know David, the sorrier I was that I couldn’t love him, for we were well-suited for each other in both age and temperament. I began to think that should he propose again, I might accept, for I was terribly lonely for someone to love. And perhaps it was wiser to marry a man you didn’t love after all. Perhaps, in the long run, it was better never to love at all, for only those you loved could hurt you. And I was determined never to be hurt again.

I thought often of Shadow, though I had forgotten his predictions of war. The troubles of last year seemed far away. Everyone in the valley was busy. The men spent their days planting and plowing, while the women were all happily engaged in preparing for Lucinda’s wedding. Mother was altering Mrs. Bailey’s wedding gown for Lucinda, and one day I slipped it on, curious to see how I’d look as a bride.

Staring at my reflection in the big mirror downstairs, I pinned the veil in place and imagined myself standing before the preacher with Shadow at my side.

“Beautiful! Just beautiful!” came a voice behind me. Startled out of my daydream, I turned to find David smiling at me.

“You’ll make a lovely bride one day,” he said huskily. “I hope whoever you marry will realize what a prize he’s getting.”

“Oh, David,” I murmured, blushing before the frank admiration in his eyes.

He might have tried to kiss me then, and I might have let him, if Mother had not come in looking for Pa.

Later that day Jed Tabor, Saul Green, and Elias Walt rode into the trading post, bragging about how they had captured a couple of Indian kids skulking around the Tabor place.

“They won’t be stealin’ no more of my stock!” Jed Tabor boasted. “No, sir!”

“Nor anyone else’s,” Saul Green added, slapping his thigh with delight.

“How’s that?” Pa asked suspiciously.

“Cause we strung ‘em up, that’s why!” Elias Walt chortled and burst out laughing like he’d just told the year’s best joke.

“Strung ‘em up!” Pa growled. “I thought you said they were just kids.”

“Nits make lice,” Jed Tabor said curtly. “If we kill the bastards while they’re young, we won’t have to fight ‘em later.”

“You’re a fool, Jed,” Pa muttered. “You’re all fools.”

“You turning into an Injun lover, Sam?” Elias Walt asked gruffly.

“Don’t be a bigger fool than you already are,” Pa warned sharply. “I got no love for the Indians, but I’ve got no desire to fight them, either, and if what you boys have done today doesn’t start an all-out Injun war, we’ll be damn lucky!”

After that, it seemed we heard stories of raids and killings every day. Some German settlers located at the south end of the valley were massacred. A Sioux village was attacked by the Army, with heavy casualties on both sides. A wagon train was wiped out by a mixed band of Sioux and Cheyenne. The Walkers, upset by the increased Indian activity, pulled up stakes and left for Oregon. They never made it.

Near the end of April the Indian raids came to an abrupt halt, and when a whole week went by without a single incident, David and I rode up into the hills behind the trading post for a picnic. It was good to be out in the open, out of the stockade walls. Below us, the valley lay bathed in golden sunlight. The river made a narrow swath of blue against the valley floor. A thin thread of blue-gray smoke spiraled from the chimney of the trading post.

Lifting my eyes, I gazed into the distance, the sandwich in my hand forgotten. Far away, beyond the mountains, lay Custer and Joshua and Fort Lincoln. And Shadow. Why did his memory still have the power to hurt me? Why didn’t time erase his image from my mind? All I had to do was close my eyes and Shadow’s swarthy countenance appeared, every detail in sharp focus, undimmed by time or distance.

David was a nice-looking young man. He had thick sandy-brown hair, kindly brown eyes, and a warm, loving smile. He was bright and clever, he was generous and good-natured. Why couldn’t I love him? Why did I continue to long for a man who put loyalty to his people before his love for me? Oh, how I longed for Shadow to hold me and love me. Why didn’t David’s kisses make my heart sing with joy? Why didn’t the touch of his hands fill my soul with sweet agony?

Shadow. Long black hair, skin like rich copper, eyes black as a midnight sky. Why couldn’t I forget him and marry David, who loved me and wanted me?

With a sigh, I put my sandwich back in the picnic basket and faced David. “I’m not very good company today, am I?”

“Well, now that you mention it, I have had more sociable companions,” David allowed. “But none as pretty. You know, Hannah, it might help if you talked about it.”

“There’s nothing to talk about,” I said, shaking my head. “Really.”

And there wasn’t. Shadow was gone, and all my tears would not bring him back. In the meantime, I had a man who loved me and wanted to marry me, and I knew that I would be a darn fool to let him get away.

I was about to tell David I would marry him if he still wanted me when a faraway speck of movement caught my eye. In minutes, the speck became a long dark line snaking along the crest of the next hill. Before my mind could accept what my eyes were seeing, David grabbed me around the waist and thrust me onto Nellie’s back.

“Ride, Hannah!” he shouted, swinging aboard his own mount. “Ride hard!”