Strongheart: The Lost Journals of May Dodd and Molly McGill

by Jim Fergus

  “The soldier shot over my head, Mesoke, he did not kill me. The hole you saw was charcoal I put on my face before I went to the horses. The medicine woman said it would protect me. I am ashamed, for I was a coward. I was so scared I made pee in my pants when the soldier pointed the gun at me. And I fell down asleep on the ground.”

  “I love this little boy, Molly,” May said, still weeping and holding him close. “He was my first friend among the Cheyenne. And all this time, I’ve believed that John Bourke killed him. I could have sworn I saw him shoot the boy, and I’ve hated him for it ever since. But he just fainted out of sheer terror. And who can blame him?”

  * * *

  May and I were on the far side of the camp, setting up our lodging for the night, when our war party returned, the sun just dropping behind the hills. Of course, she had wanted to go immediately in search of Martha, but I insisted that we do this first, for I was certain that Martha had ridden out with the warriors, which I did not wish to tell May, who would only have worried.

  The People were gathering now at the edge of the camp to greet our victorious warriors as they rode in. The women and girls took up the joyous trilling sound, not joined this time by any keening, which told that all had returned alive, perhaps only a few with minor injuries. The two warriors in the lead wore the headdresses of their enemies, and others behind them led Crow ponies and carried extra rifles, shields, scalps, and other trophies of war. I glimpsed several members of our Strongheart society bringing up the rear of the procession. The men warriors have not yet accepted us as equals, and for now we are relegated to this position, but that is going to change as soon as we have a meeting to form our new tribal council. By the time May and I had succeeded in jostling our way to the front of the crowd, the warriors were dismounting, gathering their arms and whatever trophies they had won in battle. As they did so, the horse boys ran out to take charge of their assigned mounts and lead them back to the picket line where they would unsaddle, unbridle, check for wounds, wash and curry them, then hobble them and turn them out in the river bottom to drink water and graze. Just before dark, they would gather them and reattach them to the picket line, and teams of three boys would take shifts throughout the night to guard the precious stock. There would be no horse thievery here.

  “But where is Martha, Molly?” May asked. “I’ve been looking for her as we came through the crowd, and have not caught sight of her.”

  “Martha is a member of the Strongheart warrior society, May,” I said. “We must look for her among the incoming horsemen.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” she answered, “although I admit that is an amusing joke. Martha can barely walk without falling down, let alone ride with warriors.”

  “It is true that she still lacks certain athletic skills,” I admitted, “but as I told you, Martha has changed a great deal since last you saw her. In addition to her donkey, she now has two war ponies of her own.”

  “Nonsense,” said May. “Martha a warrior … please … truly, you have an evil sense of humor, Molly.”

  I laughed. “Well, let’s go looking for her, why don’t we?”

  And so we moved through the horsemen, who were chattering among themselves, boasting of their exploits on the field of battle, no doubt exaggerated. All gave May, dressed in her white woman attire, wary regards.

  “Don’t worry,” I assured them, “she is my captive,” which made May laugh.

  “I don’t know what I was thinking,” she said. “I should have changed into my hides before we came. I think I was just too eager to get here. I risk being scalped. By the way, Molly, your Cheyenne is not so bad. You’re picking it up well.”

  Now we approached a rider who had her back to us and was loosening her horse’s girth strap. “Hello, Martha,” I said, “look what the cat dragged in.”

  “Ah, Molly!” Martha said, turning to us. She had blood on her shirt, her face, and her hands. Her smile of greeting faded as she saw May, her face registering a full gamut of emotions—confusion, doubt, disbelief, relief—and then it contorted into a half smile, half grimace, as she raised her hands to cover her eyes, her shoulders shuddering, her legs giving way beneath her as she collapsed to her knees.

  May knelt before her. “Is that any way to greet an old friend?” she said, putting her hands on Martha’s forearms. “Are you injured, Martha? Is that your blood?”

  “It isn’t really you, May,” Martha managed to sputter through her tears, still covering her eyes with her hands as if afraid to look again. “You’re dead, this is some kind of dream, or a trick, I’m going crazy again, aren’t I? You’re dead!”

  May couldn’t help letting a laugh escape. “I’m not dead, Martha. Nor am I a dream, or a trick, and no, you’re not going crazy. Take your hands away from your eyes, look at me, and please tell me if you’re injured.”

  Martha slowly lowered her hands, her tears subsiding, snot running from her nostrils. She wiped it away with the back of her bloody hand, streaking blood across her face. May helped her to her feet, and they embraced.

  “Oh, May,” said Martha, “my dearest friend. No, I am not injured, I killed an enemy, it is his blood I carry upon me.” Then she cupped her left hand at her waist and displayed the scalp dangling from the braided rawhide belt she wore. “Look, I counted coup and I took my first scalp.”

  “Good God, Martha, you scalped a man?”

  “I scalped an enemy, May. He tried to kill me, but I killed him first, and I took his scalp. Kills in the Morning Woman showed me how to do it.” She looked hard again at May. “My God, you survived, how is it possible, and where have you been all this time?”

  “All of that later, Martha. I see that you have much to tell me, as well. We will have plenty of time to catch up, my friend, because I’m not going anywhere … that is, if your band will permit me and my companion, Woman Who Moves against the Wind, to travel with you. We’ve been on our own all summer, and it would be nice to have some company for the winter.”

  Phemie had now come up behind us. “I believe that can be arranged, May,” she said in her low, sonorous voice.

  May did not turn for a long moment upon hearing Phemie’s unmistakable voice. When she finally did, she stared at the negress, shaking her head in amazement. “Now it is my turn to say, ‘I thought you were dead, Phemie.’” Then she leapt into Phemie’s embrace, and when they separated they held each other by the forearms.

  “And I you, May,” said Phemie, with a rich chuckle. “Why, just look at you, girl, the cat with nine lives, and you don’t appear much worse for the wear, either. As a matter of fact, you look fine, May, strong and healthy. And all dressed up like a white girl.”

  “You look pretty damn good yourself, Phemie, as majestically beautiful as ever.”

  “Where in the hell did you come by that outfit, girl? Don’t tell me you’ve gone over to the other side?”

  “Don’t worry, Phemie,” May said. “I’m just pretending to be a white girl. I’m still just as Cheyenne as you.” And they both laughed.

  * * *

  A feast and dance has been announced by the camp crier this evening to celebrate the victorious war party’s return, and for the warriors to dance an account of their individual triumphs in the battle against the Crow. All have cleaned up and dressed in their finest party attire … such as it is in these rather spartan times … It goes without saying that none of us have extensive wardrobes to share, but fortunately May had brought her own shift, leggings, and moccasins along in the pack behind her saddle. Given the suspicious, even slightly threatening looks cast her way by some of those in our band who do not know her, she was aware that it would be inappropriate, even insulting, to attend the dance wearing her white-woman attire. We did manage to put together some beaded necklaces, armbands, bracelets, and earrings to dress her up a bit, and we braided her hair, so that when she appeared in front of the others, she was fully transformed.

  “Well now, that is much better, May,” said Martha, who we al
l couldn’t help noticing wore her first scalp on her belt to display at the dance. “Much better, indeed … You know, after I got over my initial shock and confusion when first I saw you, I feared that you had reverted to your old race, which, of course, would not do here.”

  “Martha, dear,” May answered, with a laugh, “please don’t tell me that you were thinking of adding my scalp to your belt?”

  “No, no, of course not, my friend,” said Martha. “It is simply that I have embraced this new life of ours so thoroughly that I have grown quite wary of the ve’ho’e … and given our treatment at their hands, even rather vindictive toward them. They clearly do not have our better interests at heart.”

  “Yes, that much is clear, Martha, and I do share your wariness. However, now and again, I believe it is useful to have a look in the mirror, and recognize that however well we may have adapted to Indian ways, we are still ve’ho’à’e—white women—ourselves. It is true that I have reentered that world over these past months, having dealt with traders and merchants, ranchers and settlers. And I must say, I did rather appreciate being treated far better by them than I would have been dressed as a squaw, and a white one at that. Nor can I deny having felt a certain nostalgia, even longing, for the old life we left behind.” May laughed. “Well, except, of course, for my time in the asylum. But now you see…” She held out her arms. “I have put my feet back on Cheyenne earth, with no regrets. And I do so look forward to watching you dance, dear!”

  It is the first opportunity we have had to hold a dance since we left the Little Bighorn. Fires have been laid and lit, the meat of various game animals—buffalo, deer, and elk—has been installed on spits, and the musicians, dancers, and spectators have begun to gather. Of course, the occasion also provides a timely opportunity to celebrate the return of May Dodd, Mesoke, who, before the evening is out, I suspect, will have a new name bestowed upon her in honor of her resurrection from the dead. Having heard so much about this woman from Meggie and Susie and the others, and now to see how she is received by those in the camp who know her, I more fully appreciate what an important figure she had become among the People.

  Dog Woman, our tribal he’emnan’e, half man/half woman, is in her element, bustling about, organizing the preparations, giving orders, squawking at the miscreants, and scolding the children. She had elected to leave Little Wolf’s band and join ours after the battle on the Little Bighorn, partly, I believe, because she has taken rather a shine to us white women, despite all the distress we caused her with the preposterous, yet amusing cancan performance we put on in the village. She seems to find us exotic, and, being such a social being herself, she carefully studies us and our strange ways, even those of which she disapproves. However, when the poor thing first laid eyes upon May before the celebrations began, she promptly burst into tears and ran off. We assumed at first that these were tears of joy, mixed perhaps with a bit of shock at finding Mesoke alive. However, May explained to us that Dog Woman, being a sensitive soul, believed that she was gazing upon a ghost. The misunderstanding was quickly straightened out, and the two embraced tenderly.

  It was fully dark now, and May’s little Horse Boy, Mo’éhno’ha, having gathered and picketed the herd with the other boys, joined us at the fire. So preoccupied have I been with my reunion with Hawk that I have neglected to write of my own little orphan girl, Mouse, Hóhkééhe, whose parents were killed in the Mackenzie attack, and whom Hawk and I had intended to adopt—a plan abruptly interrupted by his wounding and my capture at the battle of Rosebud Creek. The child had remained in the care of her grandparents, Bear and Good Feathers, who had taken her in after the deaths of her parents. I was reunited with my little Mouse at the Little Bighorn, and the old couple told me she had pined for Hawk and me almost as much as she had for her real parents upon their death. There is so much of that here … death follows us all, young and old, as inescapable as our own shadows …

  Bear and Good Feathers elected to rejoin Little Wolf’s band, as did virtually all of the elders, and left with the chief from the Bighorn battlefield, leaving the child with me. They told me they were tired and ready to begin the journey to Seano, and she would be better off in my care. When I galloped off so impulsively to rejoin Hawk, I knew my friends would look after her in my absence. As May had suggested when speaking of our respective worlds, in this one we live tribally—our own small family, within the larger family of the band—and we take care of each other. I see how easily May has fitted herself back into that structure, especially after donning her native attire. It is quite true that all would have looked upon her differently had she come to the feast and dance in her white-woman outfit, as if she were an outsider, or had chosen to set herself apart from the tribe. It would have been disrespectful.

  My little Mouse now sits in my lap before the fire, while Horse Boy, too old now to thus position himself upon May, huddles close beside her, his arm through hers, as if afraid of losing her again. In looking at us together, I am struck by the fact that although we come here via quite different paths, May and I share the unbreakable bond of an insatiable hunger for our lost children, and that we need these two little ones in our arms as much as they need us.

  The others are taking their places cross-legged around us. We can smell the game cooking over the smaller open fires, the flames of the largest in the center of the dance circle, towering like giant burning arrows shooting into the sky.

  It is then that we hear a commotion on the edge of the camp and warning cries from the sentries. Those of our warriors already seated stand quickly and take up their arms (we have all learned to keep them close at hand at all times); the children scatter as they are taught, to hide in the underbrush, the older collecting the younger. Horse Boy leaps from May’s side to run to the picket line and help secure the stock. We women warriors, also armed, stand and begin to move toward the noise. But for the trillions of stars, the night sky is black and without a moon, the darkness beyond the fire ring complete.

  Then, just as suddenly, the sentries issue the all-clear signal, the collective, relayed call of the Great Horned Owl, telling us that there is no danger after all. Hearts beating double time, we relax and move back toward the fire. Now in the shadows, we see two of the sentries, leading three people toward us, though we can’t at first make out their features. “Goddammit to hell,” one of them says in an unmistakably familiar voice, “I told these fellas: ‘ole Gertie here snuck right past your outside guards, an’ damn near got all the way into your camp, ’fore you caught me. Now what the hell kinda sentry duty is that, boys?’” The three figures walk into the light and stop, as the sentries return to their positions. Gertie takes off her old sweat-stained, broad-brimmed cowboy hat and slaps it against her thigh, a puff of dust rising. “Hate to crash the party, ladies,” she says, “but I never could resist a Cheyenne feast and a dance. Heard the drums and smelt the game cookin’ in the air a mile back.” She takes a little jump and clicks her heels together. “And I got my dancin’ boots on.”

  Now for the first time Gertie appears to suddenly recognize May and then me, and she becomes very still. “Holy … bejesus … Christ,” she says under her breath, “so you come back from the dead, did ya, May? And you, too, Molly?” And to her companions, she says: “I do believe we done wandered into a ghost camp, ladies. I been hearin’ about such things on the plains for years, Injun camps on a moonless night, peopled by nothin’ but the dead, all those killed in these long wars, men, women, and children, only they don’t know they’re dead yet, so they keep goin’ on about their business just like they ain’t. I think we best turn right around and ease our way back down the trail. I seem to have lost my hankerin’ for a dance tonight.”

  “You know, I am growing awfully tired of being mistaken for a ghost,” says May. “Come give me a big bear hug, Gertie … if I can stand the smell of you … and you’ll see that I’m still made of warm flesh and blood.”

  As to the two other women who have stepped out of the shad
ows with Gertie, we’re nearly as stunned to see them as she is to see May—Lady Ann Hall and Hannah Alford have returned to us.

  INTERMISSION

  by Molly Standing Bear

  Amazons

  “Achilles removed the brilliant helmet from the lifeless Amazon queen. Penthesilea had fought like a raging leopard in their duel at Troy. Her valor and beauty were undimmed by dust and blood. Achilles’ heart lurched with remorse and desire … All the Greeks on the battlefield crowded around and marveled, wishing with all their hearts that their wives at home could be just like her.”

  —Quintus of Smyrna, The Fall of Troy (from The Amazons: Lives and Legends of Women Warriors Across the Ancient World by Adrienne Mayor)

  I hope the reader will forgive me this short intermission … although as the editor of these journals, it occurs to me that I am not really required to apologize … though maybe I should at least beg your indulgence. I didn’t have much of an education, unless you count the kind learned while being abused by a Catholic priest in the dark basement of the Indian school to which we were all sent away. This hands-on experience kind of soured my interest in formal education, not to mention in the church.

  I became an obsessive reader as a means of escape, and books became my teachers. I read everything and anything I could get my hands on, which, in a Catholic boarding school, is a limited selection. Of course, most readily available was the Bible, Old and New Testaments, both of which I read from cover to cover more than once. I learned a great deal about fratricide, matricide, patricide, infanticide, genocide, ethnic cleansing, slavery, sex slavery … pretty much everything one needs to know about the evil, violence, and debasement of human nature. But I read the good parts, too, and tried to take heart from them.