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Authors: Madeline Baker

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BOOK: The Angel and the Outlaw
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It was then he heard it, a warning shout followed by a rapid burst of gunfire. And then the clear, ringing notes of a bugle pierced the night.

Cavalry!

J.T. glanced over his shoulder. Brandy was watching him, a look of alarm on her face as she started to get up.

“Stay here!” he ordered brusquely.

He was out the door before she could argue.

J.T. paused in front of his lodge, his gaze taking it all in a long sweeping glance. The far end of the village was under attack, and even as he watched, he saw soldiers riding through the camp, shooting at anything that moved.

Thunder accompanied the staccato bursts of rifle fire.

A woman ran screaming from a burning lodge, a baby cradled to her breast.

Wicasa Tankala stood in the doorway of his lodge, sighting down the barrel of a rifle.

A blue-clad trooper was engaged in hand-to-hand combat with a naked warrior.

The sounds of the battle grew more intense as the fight grew nearer.

And then there was no more time to watch, or to think, as a dozen soldiers came into view. Lifting his rifle, J.T. sighted down the barrel and squeezed the trigger, firing steadily.

Time lost all meaning. The faces of the men he killed blurred together, no longer individual faces, but the face of the enemy.

From the corner of his eye, he saw a soldier ride down an old woman. He saw Chatawinna plunge a skinning knife into a soldier’s back, saw Wicasa Tankala shoot one of the cavalrymen out of the saddle.

His nostrils filled with the scent of smoke and blood and death. His ears rang with the cries of the wounded, the keening wail of a woman, the sound of gunfire.

He felt his rage grow as he saw one of the troopers shoot a young girl in the back. The man was smiling when he pulled the trigger.

With a savage cry, J.T. launched himself at the man, dragging him from the back of his horse. With the Lakota war cry on his lips, J.T. ripped the man’s pistol from his hand and shot him. Blood sprayed over J.T.’s hands and face, bright red blood. The color of death. Of vengeance.

Caught up in the heat of the battle, he drew his knife and grabbed a handful of the man’s greasy blond hair. He was wholly Indian then as he took revenge for every lie, every act of betrayal perpetrated by the whites.

Rising, he glanced around the village, the demon within him wanting to strike again, to draw more blood.

But the battle was over. He stared at the bodies sprawled in the mud and realized, for the first time, that it was raining.

A convulsive shiver racked J.T.’s body from head to foot as he glanced around. The surviving soldiers had retreated, leaving their dead behind.

He whirled around, the knife clenched in his hand, as he sensed someone coming up behind him.

“J.T.?” It was Brandy, her face pale, her eyes wide with horror as she stared at him.

Slowly, he followed her gaze to the bloody scalp clutched in his hand.

“Are you all right?” she asked.

He nodded, sickened by the grisly trophy he had taken in the heat of battle.

Muttering an oath, he flung the scalp aside, then stood there, waiting for her to condemn him, but there was no censure in her eyes, only a growing expression of sadness and grief.

“J.T..” She stared up at him, tears forming in her eyes.

“What is it?” He forced the words past his lips, his body tensing as he waited for her to go on.

“Your grandmother…”

He didn’t wait for her to finish. With a wordless cry, he ran toward Tasina Luta’s lodge. She was lying outside, a gaping hole in the middle of her chest.


Unci!
” He dropped down on his knees and drew her gently into his arms. Her face was pale, her skin cool. He stared at the blood spreading over the front of her dress. He pressed his hand over the wound. So much blood…


Cinks…
” She found his free hand and clutched it in hers, her grip surprisingly strong. “You fought…bravely…I will be proud…to carry your scalps…to dance…beside you…”

“Don’t talk,” J.T. said, forcing the words past the painful lump rising in his throat. He stared at the blood oozing between his fingers, willing it to stop.

He glanced over his shoulder, searching for Brandy. She was standing a few feet away. Wicasa Tankala stood beside her. “Do something,” J.T. said, speaking to the medicine man.

But Wicasa Tankala only shook his head.


Cinks…
do not grieve…for me. I am happy to go.” Tasina Luta drew in a shallow breath. “My loved ones…are waiting…” Her gaze shifted from J.T.’s face, and then she smiled, her dark eyes suddenly bright and clear of pain. “And there is one waiting to come to you.” She squeezed J.T.’s hand. “A son, Tokala,” she said, her voice hardly more than a whisper. “You will have a son.”


Unci…

“I see him now… A strong man…like his grandfather.” Tasina Luta looked deep into J.T.’s eyes. “Like his father.”

J.T. stared at his grandmother, his throat thick with unshed tears, his nerves strung tight. It was impossible for her to know such things. Wasn’t it?

Tasina Luta looked over J.T.’s shoulder, her eyes alight with happiness as she held out her arms.

“Walks the Rainbow,” she exclaimed softly. “Sisoka!”

Tasina Luta sighed, a long shuddering sigh that seemed to come from the depths of her soul, and then she went limp in J.T.’s arms.

“J.T.?”

He looked up at Brandy, seeing her face through a mist of tears. “She’s gone.”

Brandy nodded, her own eyes filling with tears; tears of sorrow for J.T.’s loss, tears of grief because she, too, had grown to love the old woman.

Lifting his grandmother in his arms, J.T. stood up and carried Tasina Luta into her lodge.

Moments later, Chatawinna arrived to help Brandy prepare the body for burial.

* * * * *

Late that night, J.T. sat alone beside the river. It had been a long day. The bodies of those who had been killed had been prepared for burial, accompanied by the high, keening wail of the bereaved women.

Brandy and Chatawinna had dressed Tasina Luta in her finest tunic and moccasins. Her face had been painted, and then she had been wrapped in a robe, her sewing kit beside her.

Ordinarily, the families of the dead would mourn for four days, but not now. The
Nacas
had decided it was time for the camp to move lest the soldiers come back. At dawn, they would strike the village and move on.

J.T. stared at the knife in his hand. According to custom, he had slashed his arms and legs, expressing his grief and his pain in the shedding of blood.

He stared at his hands, remembering the warm sticky wetness of his grandmother’s blood as it oozed through his fingers.

So much blood had been shed this day, he thought grimly. The Lakota had lost eight warriors, five women, and two children.

Twelve soldiers had been killed. The bodies of the bluecoats had been mutilated by the women, then gathered together and dragged out of camp where they would be left to rot.

So much death…

“J.T.?”

He glanced downriver to see Brandy walking toward him, silhouetted in the moonlight.

“Would you rather be alone?” she asked quietly.

“No. I’ve had a belly full of alone.”

Brandy sat down beside J.T.. Unfolding the blanket she carried over her arm, she draped it around their shoulders.

“Thanks for helping with…with my grandmother,” J.T. remarked after a while.

“She was a wonderful woman. I’m glad I got to know her.”

He swallowed hard, and she knew he was fighting the urge to cry. ”I’m gonna miss her.”

“I know.”

J.T. gestured at the Milky Way. “The Lakota believe that a person’s spirit travels the Spirit Path, the Milky Way, to the Land of Many Lodges. My mother told me that Lakota heaven was better than the white man’s heaven. She said that in Lakota heaven were all the tipi’s of one’s ancestors. They lived in a great green valley where the water was always clear and cold. The buffalo herds were plentiful there.

“Some people believe that before a spirit can be admitted, they have to pass by an old woman. Her name is
Hinankara
, the Owl Maker.
Hinankara
checks each spirit to make sure that the deceased has been properly tattooed, either on the wrist or the chin or the forehead. It’s said that if she doesn’t find what she’s looking for, she pushes the spirits off the trail, and they fall to earth to become ghosts.”

Not knowing what to say, Brandy laid her hand on J.T.’s arm.

“I think she’s happy now,” J.T. remarked. He took a deep breath, and let it out in a long sigh. “She said…she said we were going to have a son.”

“What?” Brandy stared at him in disbelief, one hand resting over her womb.

“That’s what she said. She said he was waiting on the other side.” J.T. shook his head. “That’s not all. I think she saw my grandfather and my mother just before she died.”

“Saw them?”

“I think they were waiting for her on the other side. I never used to believe in that sort of thing, but now…” He shrugged, remembering the joy in his grandmother’s eyes when she spoke of his son, the happiness in her voice when she whispered his grandfather’s name. He knew, deep in his heart he knew, that his grandfather and his mother had been there, waiting to escort Tasina Luta on her journey into the spirit world.

“In my time, lots of people claim to have died and been revived,” Brandy said. “Some of them have written books about their after-life experiences. A lot of them talk about seeing a bright white light, or being met by relatives. They all said that they wanted to stay, but they were sent back because they still had work to do on earth.”

Brandy hesitated a moment. “Was it like that for you?”

J.T. nodded. “I remember a white light, and Gideon telling me I was being given another chance. A son, Brandy. She said we were going to have a son.” His voice broke. “Maybe this was Gideon’s way of letting me know that everything will be all right after I’m gone.”

Tears burned Brandy’s eyes. She didn’t want to think about a future without J.T., not now. Not ever.

“It’s late,” she said wearily. “Come home and let me look after those cuts, and then I’ll fix you something to eat.”

“I’m not hungry.”

He turned toward her, his dark eyes filled with sorrow. He’d known so much unhappiness, so much sadness and loss, she wished she could erase all the pain, all the heartache, wished there were words enough to tell him how much she loved him.

But sometimes words weren’t enough. With a sigh, Brandy drew him into her arms and cradled his head against her breast.

“Go ahead and cry, love,” she urged softly. “You’ll feel better.”

J.T. wrapped his arms around Brandy’s waist and held her close. Tears scalded his eyes. He hadn’t cried in years, he thought, not since his mother died. He held Brandy tightly, holding on to her love as tears washed down his cheeks. He could hear her heart beating beneath his ear, strong, steady, reassuring.

When his tears subsided, he placed his hand over her abdomen. His child was there, growing a little each day. His child…the son he would never see.

“Brandy.” He breathed her name, needing her as never before. Needing to hold her, to make love to her, a confirmation of life in a day shrouded by death.

As if she knew what he needed, she spread the blanket on the ground and drew him down beside her. Gently, she kissed him, her hands caressing him as she removed his clothing, her lips touching the self-inflicted cuts on his arms as if she could absorb his pain and his heartache.

Rising to her knees, she undressed, then stretched out beside him and drew him to her once again.

J.T. held her close. She was woman, the bearer of life, heart and soul of all that was good, and he needed her, needed her strength, and, most of all, her love.

And because she knew what he needed, she nurtured him with her love, holding him, caressing him, loving him as tenderly and gently as ever a woman had loved a man, asking nothing in return, wanting only to comfort him, to assure him that he wasn’t alone, that she knew and understood.

The passion between them burned soft and warm, overshadowed by his grief and pain. She whispered to him that she loved him, that she would always love him, that he would never be alone again.

And in the quiet of that starry night, she felt the wetness of his tears on her cheeks as their bodies found release in the ancient affirmation of life.

Chapter Nineteen

 

Brandy sighed, stretching her arms and back. They had been traveling since early morning and she wondered how much farther they’d have to go before the
Nacas
found a place to bed down for the night. It seemed she was tired all the time now. Her breasts were tender, her ankles were slightly swollen, her stomach itched. Several times during the day, she’d had to stop and relieve herself.

She wished that she knew more about pregnancy and childbirth, wished that her mother was there to reassure her, to tell her what to expect, to soothe her fears.

J.T. was the soul of concern. He stayed close to her side, his dark eyes reflecting his anxiety. He was new to this, too, and even more nervous that she was.

That night, after they made camp, they went for a short walk away from the others. Finding a place to sit, J.T. put his arm around Brandy’s shoulders and drew her close. “Are you all right?”

“Fine. Just tired.”

“Maybe you shouldn’t be riding.”

“I’m sure it’s all right.”

“Are you?”

Brandy shrugged. “As sure as I can be.”

J.T. dragged a hand across his jaw. He didn’t know a damned thing about childbirth. What if all this riding was hurting Brandy, hurting the baby? He couldn’t bear it if anything happened to Brandy or the child, couldn’t go to his grave knowing he had been responsible for hurting the woman he loved.

“Don’t worry, J.T.. I’m fine. Honest.”

“I hope so. Dear Lord,” he groaned softly, “I hope so.”

* * * * *

Traditionally, the Lakota made their winter camp in a wooded hollow west of the Black Hills, and this year was no exception. Brandy was overcome with relief the day J.T. told her their journey was over. It had been a long two weeks. Time and again they had cut the trail of whites, mostly miners, headed toward Deadwood Gulch. On two occasions, there had been minor skirmishes. The first time, three warriors had been killed; the second time, two warriors had been killed and two others badly wounded. Many of the young braves were eager to do battle, anxious for vengeance against the whites after the way the Army had attacked the village, but Wicasa Tankala and Nape Luta spoke for peace.

The campsite the
Nacas
had chosen was a beautiful place. Brandy glanced around, admiring the scenery while J.T. unloaded the lodge poles and tipi covering from the pack horses. Tall trees offered shelter from the wind and a good supply of firewood. There was water nearby; graze for the horses.

Brandy’s thoughts grew troubled as she began to set up their lodge. It was the fall of 1875. Not a good time to be in the
Paha Sapa
. If she recalled her history correctly, the western half of the territory, including the Black Hills, had been ceded to the Sioux and Cheyenne as a homeland. It was beautiful country, filled with game. George Armstrong Custer had discovered gold at French Creek in the Black Hills in the summer of 1874. News of a gold strike spread like wildfire and there followed a stampede of whites into the Hills looking for gold as twenty-five thousand miners and storekeepers swarmed into Deadwood Gulch in hopes of striking it rich in the gold fields or across a counter.

But Brandy knew the worst was yet to come. At the end of the year, the government would order all Sioux and Cheyenne to return to their reservations. Those who disobeyed would be considered hostiles. The last major confrontation between the Sioux and the Army would take place at the Little Big Horn in the summer of ’76.

Following Custer’s death, the Army would pursue the Indians with a vengeance. Sitting Bull would take his people and seek refuge in Canada. In May of ’77, Crazy Horse would surrender at Camp Robinson near the Red Cloud Agency in Nebraska, only to later take his people and slip away.

Crazy Horse had always been one of her favorite historical characters, a man of courage and integrity. She had read everything she could find about his life. When he left Camp Robinson, eight companies of the Third Cavalry and four hundred Indian Scouts would be sent after him, but before they could hunt him down, Crazy Horse would surrender yet again, this time at the Spotted Tail Agency, where he would be killed.

Brandy glanced around the camp, her brow furrowed. Should she tell Wicasa Tankala what the future held? Would she be meddling in history if she told the medicine man what she knew? Would he believe her? What if he didn’t? What if he did?

Burdened by too many questions and not enough answers, she went back to setting up her lodge.

She was still thinking about Custer and the battle to come when she went to bed that night.

 

The sound of a choked sob roused J.T. from a deep sleep.

At first, he thought the camp was being attacked again, and then he realized the cry had come from Brandy.

Whispering her name, J.T. shook Brandy’s shoulder.

“No!” She screamed the word, lashing out with one arm as she did so.

J.T. grunted as her fist caught him alongside the head.

“Brandy, wake up. Wake up!”

“J.T.?” She blinked in the darkness, trying to see his face.

“I’m here.” Gathering Brandy into his arms, he held her close, one hand stroking her hair. “That must have been some nightmare.”

“It was. Oh, J.T., it was awful.”

“Want to tell me about it?”

Brandy shook her head. It had been too terrible. Too real.

“Now you’re having nightmares,” J.T. said, and she heard the grin in his voice. “I thought that was my job.”

“You haven’t been troubled by your nightmare for a long time now,” Brandy remarked. She snuggled deeper into his embrace, thinking how wonderful it felt to be held in J.T.’s strong arms, to know that nothing could hurt her while he was there.

J.T. ran his fingers through Brandy’s hair, his expression thoughtful. What she’s said was true. He hadn’t been bothered by any bad dreams since that night in the cave when Brandy had told him she loved him.

He caressed her cheek with his knuckles, pressed a kiss to her temple. “Are you sure you don’t want to tell me about it?”

“I don’t know…it…I…” She bit down on her lower lip. “I’m afraid, J.T.”

“Of what, honey?”

“The future.”

He frowned, all too aware of how quickly the days were passing by. Soon, he’d be gone and she’d be left alone with no family and a baby on the way. No wonder she was having nightmares.

“What about the future, Brandy?”

“I know what’s going to happen to the Lakota and the Crow and all the rest of the Plains Indians, J.T.. In a few years, there won’t be any Indians living in the old way. They’ll all be on reservations. But before that happens, there’s going to be a terrible fight at the Little Big Horn between the Sioux and the Cheyenne and Custer.”

J.T. grunted softly. Tatanka Sapa had told him of battles fought in the past, at the Washita, at Sand Creek.

“I dreamed that we were there, that…” She took a deep breath and let it out in a long, shuddering sigh. “That you were killed in battle.”

J.T. rested his chin on the top of her head, grinning wryly as he gazed into the darkness. Dying in battle sure beat dancing at the end of a rope.

“Should I tell Wicasa Tankala what I know, J.T.? Do you think he’d believe me?”

“I’m sure he would,” J.T. replied quietly. “He’s a medicine man, you know. Dreams are part of his business.”

“I know, but…what if something I told him influenced the future of the Lakota? What if it changed the course of history.”

J.T. frowned. “Is that possible?”

“I don’t know, but what if it is?”

“Maybe you could save some lives.”

“But should I?”

“I can’t answer that, Brandy. Hell, I don’t have the answers to my own problems.”

“What problems?”

His fingers played in her hair as he pondered her question. How could he tell her that she was his problem? Lately, he had been feeling more than a little guilty for taking her away from Cedar Ridge, for involving her in his life. And now he’d gotten her pregnant, and he wouldn’t even be around when the baby came.

“J.T.?”

He swore softly. “I don’t know what to do about your knowledge of the future, Brandy. All I can think about is you, and the baby, and what’s going to happen to you when I’m gone.”

“We’ll be all right.”

“Will you?”

His arms tightened around her and when he spoke again, she heard the anguish in his voice.

“Brandy, I don’t know what’s gonna happen to me, or when. I told you the day would come when you’d have to make up your mind about what you wanted to do when…when my time was up. I think that time is now.”

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Dammit, Brandy, you’ve got to…”

She placed her fingers to his lips. “How can I decide what to do, J.T? I can’t bear to think about it, about you…about…”

He heard the tears in her voice, felt her tremble in his arms, and he cursed himself anew for involving her in his life.

If she couldn’t decide what she wanted to do, then he would have to make the decision for her. But not tonight.

“We’ll tell Wicasa Tankala about the Little Big Horn tomorrow,” J.T. said, “and let him decide what to do about it.”

“All right.”

J.T. felt his throat tighten as she snuggled trustingly into his arms. One day soon, he would have to decide what to do about Brandy’s future.

Help me, Gideon
, he thought as he wrapped his arms around her.
Please help me.

* * * * *

Wicasa Tankala nodded solemnly as J.T. translated for Brandy. She was surprised when he readily accepted her story about being a traveler in time. She had expected some doubt, some skepticism, but he only nodded and urged her to go on with her story. When she had finished relating how she had come to be in the past, she told him everything she could remember about what happened to the Lakota after the Custer massacre.

“I have seen visions similar to what you say will happen in the future,” the old medicine man said. He stared into the fire, as though mesmerized by the dancing flames. “Many nights my dreams have been troubled by thoughts of the future, by visions of our people being hunted down by the bluecoats.”

The old man sighed, and it seemed to come from the innermost depths of his soul.

“I have had dreams of
Tatanka Iyotake
fleeing his homeland, going North to the Land of the Grandmother. One night while I was looking at the stars, I saw
Tashunke-Witke
lying dead in a white man’s iron house. The wheel of time is turning, and the day of the red man is coming to an end. I have seen this.”

Taking his gaze from the fire, the shaman looked at Brandy, and then at J.T..

“I must think on this,” he said after she had told him everything she could remember about Custer and the coming battle. “Say nothing of this to anyone else. I will call the
Akicita
and the other shamans and we will make a sweat.”

“As you wish,
Tunkasila
.”

Wicasa Tankala studied Brandy for a moment. “Are you happy here, daughter?”

“Yes, very.”

Wicasa Tankala nodded, as though he had known what her answer would be. “He is good to you?”

Brandy’s cheeks grew warm. “Yes.”

The old man nodded again, looking pleased. “Take care of each other,” he said. “
Hecheto aloe
.”

J.T. smiled at Brandy, then took her hand and they left the lodge.

“Do you think we did the right thing, J.T.?” she asked later, when they were in their lodge again.

J.T. nodded. “You’ve told him what you know. Now the decision must be his.”

“What do you think they’ll do?”

“I don’t know, but it’s out of our hands.”

* * * * *

The days grew shorter, the nights longer and colder. The leaves changed on the trees. The horses’ coats grew shaggy.

Wicasa Tankala counseled with the tribal elders and they decided to stay where they were until spring.

On rainy days, the people stayed inside and told stories, relating the ageless legends of the Thunderbird, of Coyote, of the White Buffalo Woman. Though Brandy didn’t understand everything that was said, she was content to sit beside J.T., cocooned in his love. For this time, for these precious days, she refused to think of the future.

Winter came with a vengeance, cloaking the land in a blanket of white. On days when the sun was out, the people often bundled up in furs and blankets and went outside. Children and adults alike went careening down the snow-covered hills on sleds made from buffalo ribs, or on stiff pieces of hide.

One afternoon, Brandy made a snowman. She used two pieces of coal for his eyes, a small pine cone for his nose, and long skinny sticks for his arms. And because he was a brave warrior, she placed three turkey feathers on top of his head.

Standing back, with J.T.’s arms around her waist, she admired her handiwork.

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