Cheyenne Caress

by Georgina Gentry

He turned Katis, riding slowly along the brush, looking for clues. A slight movement in the undergrowth caught his eye and he pulled his pistol. “Come out, damn you!”

  Only another rustle in the brush. His heart beating hard, his gun cocked, Johnny rode closer to investigate.

  It was then he saw the girl. For a long moment, he did not recognize this naked mad woman crouching in the brush, her skin burned dark, her blue eyes crazed and vacant, her magnificent hair wild and tangled. “Winnifred?”

  They stared at each other, as much horror on her face as he felt. Then she screamed and turned to run through the brush.

  “Winnifred!” Johnny shouted. “Come back! We’re here to help you!”

  But even shouting at her in English did not stop her flight. Major North galloped over. “What’s happened?”

  Johnny had already dismounted and ran through the brush after the fleeing girl. He caught her in a few steps, whirled her around, but she fought him like a wild animal.

  “Miss Starrett, it’s me, Johnny Ace! You’re all right now!”

  She looked up into his face, screamed in terror, and fought him.

  Johnny struggled with her, yelling over his shoulder, “Major, I need help! She’s out of her mind!”

  North dismounted and ran over. He stared, mouth half-open in horror. “Good Lord, is that Winnifred Starrett?”

  Johnny pulled her to him, twisting her hands behind her back to control her. When he took a breath, he could smell the scent of men’s seed on her. “What’s left of her!”

  The officer returned to his horse, got a poncho, and brought it back to cover her. When she saw the blue uniform, she seemed to calm somewhat, although her eyes still looked vacant.

  The major cursed softly. “What on earth did they–?”

  “Guess!” Johnny said bitterly.

  Major North touched her arm soothingly. “Miss Starrett,” he said softly as if talking to a scared child, “you’re safe now.”

  Winnifred Starrett looked at Johnny, her face still etched with terror. She flung herself at the officer, screaming in hysterics.

  Major North put his arms around her and patted her hair while signaling for David Van Schyler, the medic. “No offense, Johnny, but your dark face seems to be scaring her.”

  Johnny nodded and stepped away from her. “I imagine she’s seen enough dark faces to do her a lifetime.”

  The sensitive blond medic came running with a canteen, took the girl’s arm, and led her away.

  Johnny leaned against a tree and closed his eyes, heartsick. He had seen raped women before, but he would never get used to the haunted look of their eyes, the effects of violence that was more humiliating to the soul than dying. Some of them recovered–to a point. Some of them never did. He’d heard too many stories of women going insane or committing suicide. Among Indian women, it was taken as a matter of course that they would be raped by the victors. Who knew what happened to those brown victims eventually?

  He had his job to do. Pulling himself together, Johnny scouted around quickly, assessing the scene. The Dog Soldiers had evidently split into two parties–maybe more. Tracks led off to the south and west. If they hadn’t bothered to take the girl, they were traveling fast and light. That could mean only one thing. They meant to make some lightning-fast raids then get out before the cavalry could arrive. A shiny object glittered in the sun. He bent to pick it up and swore as he recognized it.

  Johnny went back to the stage, knowing he’d have to find something to clothe Winnifred. She couldn’t travel all the way back to the fort in nothing but the major’s poncho. Most of her luggage and personal things were scattered around the landscape. When he found one dress, the elegant gown she had worn the night of the party, he quit looking and carried it to the medic.

  When Winnifred saw his face, she began to scream. Johnny handed Van Schyler the dress and strode back to the major.

  North pulled at his mustache. “This ends the mission. We’ll go back to the fort.”

  Johnny looked over at the half-crazed girl again and heard the angry mutter of the troopers. “The men are in a mood to look for Dog Soldiers and kill them.”

  The officer shook his head. “We’ve done what General Carr told me to do–find the stage. Besides, we can’t drag her along with us and we might be outnumbered. How many warriors do you think they have?”

  “At least fifty. Maybe more than that. They’ll keep building their strength as others ride in to join them on these raids.”

  “Then we need reinforcements, more ammunition before we take in after them again,” the major said.

  Johnny held out the object he’d picked up and handed it to the officer.

  Frank North whistled low and began to curse. “New Winchester shells! I don’t think I saw the guard and driver armed with these–”

  “But I’ll bet the Dog Soldiers were,” Johnny said.

  North looked at the shell a long moment then put it in his pocket. “We’ve suspected gun running for a long time, those dirty–! Too bad those swine couldn’t be the ones the Dog Soldiers ambushed!” He looked over at Winnifred. “I dread telling her father what’s happened.”

  They returned to Fort McPherson. It was an ordeal riding with Winnifred. She wept continuously, and no one with a dark complexion dared get near her for fear of sending her into hysterical screams.

  Someone from the fort had evidently seen the patrol from a distance because little groups of people had gathered to watch them ride in. Luci stood in front of the trading post alone.

  Johnny saw her and felt an overpowering anger with her because she was Cheyenne, and with himself because he loved her in spite of it. He couldn’t stop himself from shouting at her, “Take a good look at what your damned Dog Soldiers have done!”

  He saw the horror reflected in her eyes as Winnifred rode past with the medic. At the sight of her shocked face, he was abruptly weary and sorry at his outburst.

  Luci looked up at him, both horrified and angry at his unjustified attack. “Was that Winnifred Starrett?”

  He sighed, leaning on his saddle horn. “What’s left of her.”

  “I must help the poor girl!” But as Luci ran forward and Winnifred saw her, the white girl began to scream and babble.

  David Van Schyler winced and gestured Luci away. “Sorry. Anyone with dark skin . . . well, you understand.”

  Luci looked up at him and nodded dumbly. She really didn’t know the young man except that he had a reputation for being kind and caring. She knew he was an artist. Once she had seen him with his paints out sketching landscapes. And everyone knew about his sister.

  Winnifred continued to scream. Two officers’ wives rushed up in a rustle of petticoats, glared at Luci, muttered something about “Dirty Cheyennes,” and rushed to help Winnifred.

  Johnny dismounted, caught Luci’s arm, and pulled her aside. “You see? It’s already started. Walk with me to put my horse away.”

  He had such an iron grip on her wrist, she couldn’t do anything else. Behind her, Winnifred’s high-pitched screams were enough to tear at even the hardest heart.

  “What–what happened?” she asked.

  “You know what happened.” He kept walking, dragging her along into the barn. “Have you moved your things out?”

  She stood in the shadows, stroking Katis’s neck with her free hand, avoiding Johnny’s gaze. “I told you I was going to. How can I sleep with a man who kills my people?”

  “You’d claim a people that does that?” He gestured toward the parade ground, where Winnifred’s screams still echoed.

  Immediately she felt defensive. “The Cheyenne have had their women raped, their people killed, too.”

  “They aren’t your people, Luci. You’ve never really lived among them. You owe them no loyalty.”

  “I owe them the loyalty of blood kin.”

  “So when it gets down to it, blood really is thicker than water, isn’t it?” he challenged her, his swarthy face hard as dark granite. He sto
od looking down at her, still clasping her wrist. “I ought to treat you like a captured female enemy!”

  His lips were slightly parted and she had to fight an insane urge to throw her arms around his neck and kiss him. “What is it you want from me, Johnny Ace? You’ve had my body! Would you feel better if you raped me? Do you want to shame and humiliate me?”

  “I–I don’t know what I want, but I want you!” His grip on her wrist tightened. “Move back in with me. We won’t discuss anything about Cheyenne and Pawnees. We’ll pretend that subject doesn’t exist!”

  She loved him; she couldn’t help herself. But she couldn’t ignore what he was–a wolf for the blue soldiers, paid to hunt down and help kill her people. She shook her head, trying to pull out of his iron grip without success. “It wouldn’t work. I know that as soon as the troop can be resupplied, you’ll be going out again. I’ve been closing my eyes too long, knowing the chasm between us is too deep and wide to ever bridge.”

  “Then damn you, don’t call what we have ‘love.’ Let me pay you to sleep with me. I need you, Luci!” Before she could react, he pulled her against him, kissing her while she fought him. The big Pawnee held her easily while she struggled in his arms. He forced his tongue between her lips, grinding his body against hers. Her pulse began to race and she felt herself wanting him, wanting to mold herself against him, put her head against his chest, and tell him how much she had missed him, how glad she was that he was back.

  But when he freed her, she slapped him. “How dare you say that! I’m no whore!”

  “I’d killed men for less than that,” he said softly, rubbing his face where she had struck him.

  “Then kill me, big, stupid Pawnee!” she taunted him in a frustrated rage. “Kill me, you paid wolf for the army!” Then she turned and ran out of the barn.

  Major North sat at his desk, staring out the window, ignoring for a long moment the red-faced sergeant waiting patiently in front of the desk.

  His body ached from today’s long ride back to the fort and he had just returned from a meeting with General Carr. Somewhere a baby cried and the sound drifted through his open window in the early summer heat. Or was it that hapless Starrett girl?

  The sergeant cleared his throat as a gentle reminder in case the major had forgotten he had sent for him.

  “Oh, yes, Sergeant. Send a wire warning other forts. We’ve got something here worth looking into.” He stared at the shiny, telltale cartridge in his hand. What kind of men would arm the Dog Soldiers against their own kind? Men to whom money was everything. As in every war, the only ones who won were the arms dealers. He hoped whoever this sonovabitch was, he got what he deserved someday.

  The sergeant cleared his throat. “Anything else, sir?”

  “Yet another request for more horses, better arms.” He smiled wryly. “Although we won’t get them.”

  He rolled the Winchester cartridge around in his palm. The Cheyenne were well armed and had nothing to lose. They had already lost many of those dear to them at Sand Creek in ’64, and again last fall when Custer attacked Black Kettle’s camp on the Washita one cold November dawn. Knowing that when the army finally defeated them, they would be sent back to reservations, the Cheyenne could not win but they would not quit. And he was up against the Dog Soldiers, the bravest of the brave, the best of the warrior societies.

  “Sergeant, you ever see a hotamtsit?”

  “Sir?” He looked bewildered.

  “It’s a Cheyenne honor–a long strip of decorated rawhide. A Dog Soldier who wears one is pledged to sacrifice his life, if need be, to win a battle. That’s what we’re up against if any of them ride with this band–a suicide unit.”

  “What did you call it, sir?” The sergeant scratched his red face in bewilderment.

  “Hotamtsit. I saw one once.” North steepled his fingers, remembering. “Only the bravest of the brave win one–a ceremonial, decorated band looped around the body.”

  “But I don’t see how–”

  “There’s a red wooden stake tied to the end. If the position is overrun by the enemy, the wearer is pledged to drive that stake into the ground so he’s literally tied to that spot to fight to the death.”

  “Good Lord!”

  He closed his fist over the cartridge. “So that’s what we may be up against, and better armed than we are. Did you know the Dog Soldiers always brought up the rear when the tribe was on the move for that same reason? To protect a retreat if necessary?”

  The sergeant made a whistle of grudging admiration. “Tough people!”

  “And we’re going out after them just as soon as we can get fresh horses, and get reequipped.”

  “Begging the major’s pardon, but I doubt we’ll get much, no matter what kind of telegram you send. Congress hasn’t quite gotten over the cost of the war; they’re terribly tight-fisted with the army right now.”

  North shrugged. “Happens after every war. We relax, let down our defenses, spend the money on other stuff. Then we’re unprepared when the next war starts.”

  He thought about the Cheyenne and had a fleeting sense of admiration for them. They couldn’t win, but they wouldn’t quit. Didn’t they have a right to live as they had always lived, wild and free and uncivilized?

  Somewhere in the quiet, he heard screaming drifting on the hot air, and recognized it as Winnifred’s voice.

  On the other hand, didn’t the small groups of Pawnees and other Indians have a right to live without being harried off the face of the earth by the Cheyenne and their allies? And what of the settlers? They were starving immigrants or refugees from crowded big cities, trying to make a home for themselves on the rich farm land that now only buffalo and Indians roamed. He was glad he didn’t have to make any moral decisions in this. Major Frank North and his men would follow orders and do their duty–whatever that was.

  “Major, was there something else?” The sergeant shifted his weight restlessly.

  Of course there was. North had been stalling, unsure how to word the other telegram he had to send. How did you tell a man something like this?

  “Send another wire to Manning Starrett in Denver. Tell him . . .”

  Tell him what? Not the truth. No man should hear such a truth in a telegraph message.

  Dear Mr. Starrett. Stop. Your elegant daughter raped and tortured by fifty savages. Stop. The fort doctor is not sure if she will ever regain her sanity. Stop. Just in case, look into the possibility of an asylum for the insane in Denver. Stop.

  The sergeant cleared his throat, shifting his weight from one foot to the other while North hesitated.

  She was screaming again. He hoped the doctor would be able to sedate Winnifred soon so she wouldn’t keep the whole fort awake tonight. He got up, went over, and closed the window, even though the early summer night was hot.

  North looked down at the shiny cartridge in his hand. Somewhere there was a white man who had caused Winnifred’s terror. He hoped God would even the score somehow.

  “Okay, Sergeant, send him this wire: Dear Mr. Starrett. Stop. There has been an unfortunate incident. Stop. Stage waylaid and wrecked near state line. Stop. But your daughter is alive. Stop.”

  Too bad, North thought. Too bad she’s alive.

  “If you can get a stage to bring you here,” he continued, “do come get Winnifred. Stop. She needs love, reassurance, and a personal escort back to Denver. Stop.”

  “Is that all, sir?”

  Should he add that if Mr. Starrett had any household help with dark skin, he’d better fire them because Winnifred screamed when she saw anyone who remotely favored an Indian? “That’s all, Sergeant. Send it.”

  The man saluted and left. North sat back down and turned to stare at the books on the shelf behind him. Sometimes he wished real life could be like fiction, where everything worked out right at the end, where the bad were punished, and the boy and girl found true love.

  He frowned, thinking of Johnny Ace and Luci. Life was more apt to be like Romeo and Juliet,
where there was no way things could work out and the lovers died in the end.

  Try as they might to keep it quiet, the gossip about what had happened to Winnifred would finally get to Denver and she would be an outcast. No white man would marry a girl who had been raped by a whole war party–even if she regained her sanity, which Major North doubted. And suppose she was pregnant by one of those braves? He didn’t even want to think about it.

  With a melancholy sigh, he buried his face in his hands and devoutly hoped that Manning Starrett was a kind, compassionate man who would be understanding and supportive.

  Manning Starrett screamed one last time at his housekeeper and limped in to sit in the elegant parlor of his Victorian mansion. He ought to fire her but she was the only one in a long line of help who would put up with his temper. Mrs. Polinski was a widow, the sole support of younger sisters and brothers in an orphans’ home somewhere, so she couldn’t afford to quit, no matter how badly he treated her. Money was power. Manning liked both.

  What in the goddamn hell was holding up that overdue stage? He’d withdrawn a large sum he kept in the Peabody Bank in Boston to finance this arms deal. Manning prided himself on not ever putting all his eggs in one basket. Besides, people might be curious if he withdrew that large a sum from his local bank.

  The front door bell rang, making him start. He heard the housekeeper answer it, and a little of her friendly conversation with Billy Reno.

  “Billy! Get in here! Don’t stand out there jawin’ with my hired help!”

  Billy came into the dining room, rubbing his chin. “News of the stage, Manning. Bad, I’m afraid.”

  Manning began to swear, reached for his cane, and got to his feet with difficulty. “I knew it! God damn it to hell! I just knew it! And all that gold–”

  “Manning, have you forgotten your daughter is supposed to be on that stage, too?” Billy looked reproachful.

  He really had forgotten. Still compared to a large gold shipment, any man would worry about the money first–wouldn’t he? “Oh, yes,” he grunted, “Winnifred. Have you heard anything?”