Savage Hero (3 page)

The Crow saw their country as a gift to them from the First Maker, who created the world. Their land had snowy mountains and sunny plains, different climates and good things for every season.

When the summer heat scorched the prairies, the Crow could draw up under the mountains where the air was sweet and cool, the grass fresh, and where the bright streams tumbled out of the snow banks.

There with his powerful bow made of mountain-sheep horn and covered with the skin of a rattlesnake, Brave Wolf had proudly hunted the elk, the deer, and the antelope.

There one could always see plenty of white bears and mountain sheep.

There, a warrior could find many places to hide. But Brave Wolf knew of one special place. It was where he was leading his men.

He was almost certain that his brother would be hiding there.

Dull sublunary lovers' love
(whose soul is sense) cannot admit
absence, because it doth remove
those things which elemented it.

—John Donne

A procession of wagons, accompanied by a contingent of cavalry, rolled through tall, waving grass and sage meadows. Soldiers rode at the front, the sides, and at the rear, their eyes constantly sweeping the land as they watched for Indians.

Mary Beth Wilson, twenty-three, and her son David, five, rode in one of the wagons. As she held the reins, Mary Beth's long auburn hair blew back from her oval face in the gentle breeze. The bonnet she had worn only moments ago was now in the back of the wagon. Since the air was so sweet
and warm on this mid-September day, she wanted to revel in it.

She wore a pretty lace-trimmed cotton dress, the design of flowers against a backdrop of white almost as delicate as the woman who wore it. Mary Beth was tiny, yet she was strong inside and out. She had learned strength as a child, living on a farm in Kentucky where she worked alongside her parents raising crops that kept them fed throughout the long winter months.

She worked even harder now at her own farm, since her husband was no longer there to see to the chores. She had not hired helping hands because she saw that as a waste of money. She loved the outdoors enough to do everything herself.

And her garden was not all that big. It was only large enough to keep her and David in food.

Her son was old enough now to help till the beans and to plant rows of corn, and then harvest everything alongside his mother.

But that garden and her home were far removed from her now. She was in a distant land, her fingers aching from holding the reins so tightly in her fear of the unknown.

She had not wanted to be the last wagon of the train that was carrying the wives and children of the men who had died in the Battle of the Little Big Horn. They were traveling to a different fort, a safer one farther from hostile activity.

No one had imagined that the Indians had such strength and determination, or that there were so many who were willing to put their lives at stake
by fighting the cavalry. Mary Beth had put her faith in General Custer, who had been so victorious in his battles with the Indians.

But she had been proved wrong. They all had been.

Custer had died alongside his men that day beneath the bright sun when Indians not only outnumbered the white pony soldiers, but also outwitted them.

Yes, it had been three months since the battle, and Mary Beth had been living a life of dread at Fort Kitt where her husband had been stationed.

Since the massacre on that damnable battlefield, the widows and children had stayed at Fort Kitt while they waited for the colonel in command there to say that he thought it was safe enough to travel to another fort. From that point, the widows could continue onward, returning to their homes far from Montana and its dangers.

Tears fell from Mary Beth's violet eyes as she fought off the remembrance of the moment when word had reached her that her husband, Major Lloyd Wilson, had died alongside Custer.

She and her son had only been at the fort for one day before he died.

The reason Mary Beth had traveled west made her heart ache even more. She had come from her home in Kentucky to tell Lloyd that she wanted a divorce. She had felt that she could not import such news by way of an impersonal letter or wire.

Her reason for wanting the divorce was not because she had found another man. It was just that
she had never truly loved Lloyd. She had married him because she was lonely after her parents died at the hands of highway robbers, and because she had known him since childhood.

She had been married to him for six years, but no matter how hard she had tried to love Lloyd the way a woman should love a man, she just never got those special feelings that she had heard women speak of.

She had cared for Lloyd, but only in a sisterly, perhaps even motherly, way.

While he had been away from her and his son, she had had more time to think about things and had finally concluded that it was time to make a break. By doing so, Lloyd could eventually find true love, as could she.

But now?

All that Mary Beth felt was guilt.

She had told Lloyd her decision just before he'd left to fight alongside Custer in the battle that would claim not only Custer's life, but also Lloyd's.

She could not get past the feeling that she had sent her husband to his death. Surely he had been too distracted by her revelation to fight or even protect himself.

She was tormented by the knowledge that Lloyd had not been part of General Custer's usual troops. Because of Custer's plans to hurry along his campaign against the Indians, he had needed additional soldiers. He had gone to Fort Kitt and asked for volunteers.

Because Lloyd had heard so much about Custer's
illustrious reputation as a leader, he had deemed it an honor to be a part of any battle that would be led by the general. He had been the very first man at Fort Kitt to step forth and sign up with General Custer.

That decision had made her husband a marked man even before she gave him her news about the divorce . . . news that she now knew had torn his world apart.

Mary Beth and her son David had attended Lloyd's funeral three months ago. Although she hated leaving his grave behind, knowing that she would never see it again, she could hardly wait to reach the fort that stood on the banks of the Missouri River. From there she would travel by river-boat to her farm in Kentucky.

She would be so glad to be away from this place where death might be lurking around every bend or behind every tree.

Ah, fate. Who could ever know what fate had in store?

Home.

Oh, Lord, she could hardly wait to get back home to her own little world!

She wished that she had never left Kentucky. Now she understood what the word “loneliness” truly meant, for she had never felt so empty or so alone.

Knowing that she would never hear Lloyd's laughter again, or be able to look into his beautiful blue eyes, filled her with a despair she had never thought possible.

“Lloyd. . . . Lloyd . . .” she whispered as hot tears rolled across her lips.

“Mama, what did you just say?” David asked, drawing Mary Beth's eyes quickly to him. “Mama, you have tears in your eyes again. Is it because of Papa? Is it?”

She almost choked on a sob when she turned to look at her son. He had Lloyd's blue eyes, the same golden hair, the same long, straight nose.

And she could already see that David's shoulders were going to be as wide and powerful as his father's.

Yes, her David was Lloyd all over again, and at least in him, she would have her husband with her forever.

She reached over and tousled David's thick, golden hair. “Yes, it's because of your daddy,” she murmured. “His death is too fresh in my heart for me not to cry occasionally at the thought of him.”

“I miss him too,” David said, wiping tears from his own eyes. “Why did it have to happen, Mama? Why do Indians hate us so much?”

“I've thought about that, David, and I think I can see why they would,” Mary Beth said, sighing.

She looked away from him and swept her eyes over the vastness of the land, on to the mountains, and then closer, to the deer that could be seen browsing in the brush.

It was a lovely land. The grass was green and thick, fed by the bright streams that came tumbling out of the snow banks of the mountains. There were lush meadows and plentiful game.

It was a paradise, a paradise that the red men saw as being spoiled by white people.

“Why would Indians want to kill Papa?” David asked, wiping more tears from his eyes.

“They see all white people as takers of their land, interfering in their lives,” Mary Beth said.

She found it strange to be defending the very people who were responsible for her Lloyd lying in a grave.

Yet she had heard about so many atrocities against the Indians.

She supposed that even Lloyd had participated in such horrendous action against the Indians, because he was a man who followed orders.

“But the Indians are murderers, Mama,” David said stiffly. “They murdered all . . . all . . . of the men who fought with Papa and General Custer.”

“It was a battle and everyone fought for survival, both red-skinned and white, David,” Mary Beth said, her voice breaking. “It just happened that during that battle, the red man was the strongest.”

“But I thought General Custer was supposed to be the best soldier ever,” David said, gazing intently at his mother. “Papa, too. He was a good soldier.”

“Even good soldiers die, David,” Mary Beth murmured.

She looked quickly past David when she caught a movement along the ridge of a hill. But it was gone as quickly as it had come.

“Mama, what are you looking at?” David asked when he saw her peering past him.

He turned and flinched when he, too, saw what looked like an Indian that suddenly appeared on the ridge, and then was gone again.

“Are we going to die today, Mama?” David asked, again gazing at his mother. “Are those Indians going to come and kill us like they killed Papa and General Custer?”

Mary Beth reached over and gently touched David's cheek. “No, they're not,” she said. She tried to sound convincing enough that David would believe her. “That's why there are so many soldiers with us. They won't allow anything to happen.”

“But you saw him too, Mama,” David said. “You saw the Indian. I know you did. I saw fear in your eyes.”

“Yes, David, from time to time I've seen Indians appearing along the ridges, but they disappear as quickly as they appear,” Mary Beth said softly. “I guess they are playing some sort of game.”

“What sort?” David asked, raising a golden eyebrow.

Mary Beth returned her hand to the reins and again clung tightly to them. “Cat and mouse,” she said, catching a glimpse of three Indians on the same ridge.

“Cat and mouse?” David asked.

“They only want to frighten us, that's all,” Mary Beth said, hoping it was true. She had seen the soldiers repositioning themselves, bringing themselves more tightly together in one group alongside the wagon train.

“I wish we were at Fort Henry already. I wish we
had already left it and were at the other fort where we will board that boat that's going to take us home,” David said. “I wish we were already on the boat.” He swallowed back a sob. “I wish we were home, Mama!”

“Me too, son. But we're not, so work on your whittling awhile, David,” Mary Beth encouraged.

She, too, wished that they had reached the Missouri. The sight of the river would give her some confidence they might return to Kentucky alive.

“Get your mind on something besides Indians. You've got a pretty horse started on that big chunk of wood that Colonel Jamieson gave to you.”

“Papa would like it,” David said. He reached behind himself for the chunk of wood that was already taking the shape of the head of a horse.

“Yes, Papa would like it,” Mary Beth said.

She glanced again at the ridge.

This time she felt faint. There was not one, two, or three Indians, but a whole mass of them.

From this vantage point she could guess there might be a hundred warriors moving along the ridge, their eyes following the progress of the wagon train.

Suddenly a bugle blew and soldiers began to shout, ordering everyone to drive their wagons into a wide, protective circle.

Everything became a frenzy of horses and wagons and screaming women and children as the soldiers leapt from their horses and positioned themselves for firing just as the war whoops rang out and the sound of horses' hooves upon the land
came to Mary Beth's ears like huge claps of thunder and the Indians came in a mad rush toward the wagon train.

Terrified, her heart thumping wildly in her chest, Mary Beth struggled to get her horse and wagon into the circle.

But somehow there was not enough room for her wagon.

She found herself and David stranded outside the circle, the soldiers oblivious to her plight as they began firing their weapons at the approaching Indians.

“Mama, I'm afraid!” David cried as he stared at the Indians growing closer and closer. He screamed when some fell from their horses, blood streaming from wounds in their chests.

“Be brave, David,” Mary Beth cried.

She scrambled to the back of the wagon and desperately searched for her own rifle. How she wished she had kept it near at hand.

“Mama!” David screamed again.

As Mary Beth turned to him, she went cold inside. An Indian was yanking her son from the seat, then before she knew it, riding away with him.

“Oh, Lord, no!” Mary Beth cried.

Filled with a deep, cold panic, Mary Beth breathed hard as she grabbed up the rifle she had just uncovered.

She rushed to the front of the wagon, her eyes on her son as he fought the Indian who held him in his arms as he continued riding away from the fight.

“David. . . . David . . .” she whispered as she took aim at the Indian's broad, copper back.