Walks Alone

by Sandi Rog

  Her long, yellow braid draped over one shoulder, a bit frazzled in places, as though she’d forgotten to comb it. It made him smile. Her dress was a mass of wrinkles too—he’d love to see her in Cheyenne clothing. Maybe he’d talk to Song Bird about that.

  Walks Alone stopped and looked as though she were thinking. She then turned and faced him.

  He took a step toward her, sensing she needed to say something.

  “Namehoto,” she said, her hazel eyes fluttering up to his.

  He felt like he’d been punched in the gut and was just able to suck in air.

  “Namehoto.” She shrugged. “What does that mean?”

  How’d she learn that word? He could barely bring himself to speak.

  Her brows crinkled. “Maybe I didn’t say it right?”

  “You said it right.”

  “What does it mean?” she asked, lifting her hands.

  “It means, ‘I love him.’”

  Her eyes lit up, and she strode toward him. His first instinct was to step back, but that was silly. How could he allow himself to be intimidated by such a slip of a woman? He was a warrior, a former Dog Soldier. He held his ground as she stopped in front of him.

  “Those were Runs With Wind’s words. She loves you because you saved her life. God led you to her that day so she could be saved.”

  Unsure how to respond, he simply stared down at her. He could tell his silence made her uncomfortable, but what could he say when he could hardly breathe?

  Her cheeks bloomed pink. “Um, well, I better go. Runs With Wind is waiting.” She gave a slight curtsy then turned and hurried off.

  He watched her go, holding up her skirt and taking Runs With Wind’s hand. Her words turned over in his mind. He’d never seen himself as a hero of any kind since the massacre, especially not as Runs With Wind’s rescuer. But had he not found her, she probably would have died that day. It never occurred to him. And why did God help him to rescue Runs With Wind and not his own mother?

  When she was out of sight, he started for Yellow Leaf’s lodge to return his ledger. He thought about her reaction to Yellow Leaf’s book. She’d actually wept, shed tears for his people. That was a rare reaction for a white person.

  Yellow Leaf wasn’t at his lodge, and after a long search, White Eagle found him wandering around the village. When Yellow Leaf spotted him, White Eagle held up the ledger for him to see. Yellow Leaf saw the book and headed his way.

  “I was looking for this,” he said with obvious relief. “How did you find it?”

  “Walks Alone showed it to me,” White Eagle said.

  “I was telling her to learn more about our tribe, and the next thing I knew she was leaving the lodge with my ledger.”

  “It was a misunderstanding.”

  Yellow Leaf nodded. “She’s a strange girl.”

  From the glint in Yellow Leaf’s eye, White Eagle could see that he was fond of her.

  Yellow Leaf looked down at the ledger then at White Eagle. His face turned serious. “She showed you the book.”

  White Eagle’s chest tightened.

  “Come to my fire.” Yellow Leaf turned.

  White Eagle didn’t want to go to his lodge. Why did he have to remember that day? Out of respect for the old man, he followed.

  Yellow Leaf tied up the door so that no one would disturb them and motioned for White Eagle to sit at his left before the fire, the place of honor as Yellow Leaf’s adopted son.

  Yellow Leaf smoothed his fingers down the long stem of his pipe and held the bowl upright. From his pouch, he gathered tobacco mixed with dried leaves of the sumach and pressed them into the narrow bowl. After dipping a small twig into buffalo grease, he held it over the lodge’s fire, and then placed the pipe stem into his mouth and cupped the bowl as he lit the tobacco, puffing and blowing from the side of his mouth, over and over again. Once lit, he held the pipe straight up and passed it to White Eagle.

  White Eagle gently grasped the lower part of the pipe. He held it upright and was careful that it didn’t touch anything since Yellow Leaf believed that would be unlucky.

  He took a long drag. The smoke streamed down his throat into his lungs, easing the tightness in his chest. Cheyenne tobacco was so much lighter than the white man’s. It went down smooth, like the caress of a feather.

  When finished, White Eagle passed it back to Yellow Leaf who then pointed the pipe stem to the sky and said, “Spirit Above, smoke.” He pointed the stem to the ground and said, “Earth, smoke.” He then pointed the stem to his right, in front of him, to his left and then behind him, offering the smokes to the four cardinal spirits the Cheyenne believed dwelt in those quarters, and said, “Four cardinal points, smoke.”

  White Eagle waited. Yellow Leaf already knew that White Eagle only believed in the One Great Spirit, and though Yellow Leaf wasn’t convinced that there was only one God, he respected White Eagle’s beliefs.

  Yellow Leaf then said a long prayer asking for help from the Creator.

  White Eagle listened, knowing that as soon as he finished, it would be time to talk, time to remember. He looked at his hands. Useless for saving anyone. Useless for saving that child. He closed his eyes, and the memories cascaded through his mind. His chest had hurt from running, the cold had been in his lungs, contrary to the warmth in them now. He had stumbled to the bank with Running Cloud and Black Bear, where they had hid behind the brush to catch their breath.

  And that’s when it happened.

  Jean-Marc heard the cry of a young child. Shots were being fired.

  A white soldier dismounted, knelt down and aimed his revolver at the toddler, then shot. Shrubbery against the bank split apart behind the baby.

  Jean-Marc took aim. He let the arrow fly. It went astray, unnoticed into the dead brush on the other side of the bank.

  “I’ll do it.” Another soldier dismounted and aimed his rifle at the baby.

  He fired.

  The bullet ripped through the small child. He crumpled to the ground, and his crying ceased.

  The baby’s body lay still on the cold earth. Blood painted the snow beneath him and engraved the lifeless image into Jean-Marc’s mind.

  Shaking his head, he pushed it out of his thoughts. He didn’t want to look at the blood. The child’s dead body.

  “What did you see?” Yellow Leaf’s voice cut into White Eagle’s memories, asking him what he was thinking.

  White Eagle’s chest tightened. “I saw the baby I failed to save.”

  Yellow Leaf nodded. “You still blame yourself. You were only seventeen winters. Just a boy.”

  “Yes,” White Eagle said, looking at his murderous useless hands. “But it was that day I became a man.”

  Yellow Leaf remained silent for a long time then sighed. “You are an eagle who makes his nest on the ground, where animals of the forest trample on your home. You leave your nest scattered to be picked up by the wind and other birds.” Yellow Leaf gestured toward the sky. “You refuse to build your nest in the trees or on high rocks where an eagle belongs. And you don’t honor the name given to you by Running Cloud when you saved his life.” Yellow Leaf lifted his hands. “You must look to Ma’heo’o for help.”

  “God has left me,” White Eagle said, remembering all the wars he fought, only to be left with no satisfaction of vengeance, as though he were drowning in other men’s blood. It wasn’t enough. It was never enough to cover the blood of that innocent baby, his mother, grandmother, and his people. And now, after all that carnage, why would God want him?

  “But I’ve seen you reading the white man’s Holy Book.”

  “Walks Alone’s Bible.” White Eagle had stolen it out of Anna’s carpetbag when he came to teach Song Bird English. He needed to return it before she noticed it was missing.

  “Why does the white man put their God on paper? In a book that can be destroyed by rain and fire?” Yellow Leaf motioned outside. “My bible is the wind. The wind is always with us and can’t be destroyed.”

&nb
sp; White Eagle took a long drag on the pipe. He then slowly exhaled and watched the smoke float into the air, until it exited the lodge and disappeared into the blue sky. “Ma’heo’o is like the wind because He’s everywhere. But with a breath He can destroy wind and rain.”

  Yellow Leaf’s question made him realize that no matter where White Eagle turned, God was unchangeable and so were His words. It didn’t matter whether or not they were on paper. He just wanted to find God elsewhere—anywhere but with the white man.

  “Nothing can destroy Ma’heo’o’s words. His words are on paper because white men are fools.” White Eagle handed the pipe back to Yellow Leaf and had an uneasy feeling. Was Anna a fool? She was white, but he couldn’t lump her in with the whole. Maybe that’s where he went wrong? He lumped every white person in with Chivington—the murderer of his people.

  “All men can be foolish,” Yellow Leaf said. “Both the red man and the white man.” He then took a drag on his pipe. “Maybe the words written in that book are supposed to be written in the hearts and minds of man.”

  White Eagle thought about Yellow Leaf’s familiar words. Wasn’t there a passage of scripture that said that?

  Yellow Leaf motioned toward White Eagle. “Your father believed the words in the white man’s book, and he was not foolish. But you are like a leaf blowing in the wind. You are lost without Ma’heo’o. You need to go to Him so you can find peace.”

  The place to find Him was in His word, so White Eagle’s attempts would not be in vain. But how long must he wait? When would God grant him that peace he desired? His fingers clutched his knees. Ever since that awful day, peace, God had eluded him. He couldn’t bring himself to tell Yellow Leaf about his dreams, about his nightmares. About how that day haunted him in the night. Oh, how he wished they were just dreams, that there was nothing real about them.

  Whether he wanted it or not, the memory would forever invade his thoughts, invade his mind.

  Chapter Ten

  Squealing laughter and painted children spilled over the hills just beyond the village. Anna held her skirt high and ran from the frolicking braves riding stick horses with leaves tied as feathers in their hair. Her own long braids danced over her shoulders as she waved the buffalo cloak high above her head.

  The children had painted her nose black and made streaks of red and brown on her cheeks and forehead. Their little fingers on her face had sent her to giggling, and now she laughed out loud.

  With the wind in her hair and kicking up her leafy tail behind her, she hadn’t felt this alive, this free since she was a child in Holland. The village stood at the base of the hill, and to her right the lake glittered in the sun, and the children’s mimic lodges dotted the landscape to her left. Rocky Mountains protruded above the trees, showing off their caps of snow, and she breathed in the fresh mountain air as birds sang and soared overhead.

  Small blunt arrows from the seasoned braves tickled her sides, so she spun around, holding the skin high, turning and turning it in the air. Finally, she dropped to her knees and collapsed in the thick grass, out of breath.

  Little Fox, the leader of the braves, and other boys practically pounced on her, using their hands as tomahawks, pretending to make the final blow, bringing the hunt to an end. Some groped her hair and touched her skin, but she didn’t mind, and their little hands felt like a dozen chipmunks running all over her.

  She mocked the groans of a buffalo, and even though she’d never witnessed the death of such a beast, she felt certain she imitated its moans with realism. She then rolled over and played dead.

  The boys picked up the cloak and placed it reverently on the two poles fixed together as a travois. They hooted and hollered as they carried the buffalo back to their miniature village.

  Anna lay in the still grass and gazed into the blue sky. Something brushed against her cheek. She spotted a purple flower, plucked it and held it to her nose. The same kind of flower White Eagle had given her. The horses grazed nearby, and she imagined what it would be like if this place was her home, a home she’d never have to leave.

  Trees bordered the other side of the village. Just the other day she’d wandered off with Runs With Wind beyond the trees and they’d spotted some elk grazing in nearby fields. This peace could only be found in God’s creation. In fact, because He created it, she wondered just how much her surroundings were like Him, how much they reflected His character. Hmm. She’d never thought of that before. This was what made life good, worth living.

  A small ache turned in her abdomen, jolting her from her thoughts.

  Her time.

  She sat up straight, completely unprepared for what was about to happen. If she were in civilization right now, she would have everything she needed, but she had no idea what an Indian woman would do. She’d better find out, and quickly.

  She waved to Runs With Wind, who just happened to be praising Little Fox for his prized “buffalo.” Anna called to her and motioned that she needed to go back to the village. She hurried in that direction and when Runs With Wind joined her, they held hands. Once they entered the village, she tucked her purple flower in the little girl’s hair. She said Song Bird’s name in Cheyenne and tried to ask where she might be found.

  Runs With Wind took her hand and pulled her through the village. Small children played and ran past them. A little boy reached out and touched Anna’s braid then another chased him away. They came to White Eagle’s lodge and Runs With Wind pointed at the door.

  Anna peered inside. The dim light emphasized her black nose. Unable to remove the paint, she reached to remove her leafy tail instead, but movement caught her eye, and she saw Song Bird repairing a moccasin. Anna ducked through the door, relieved to find her alone. Anna wasn’t sure how to explain what she needed, so she did her best to be as clear as possible without being too explicit.

  “My womanly cycle has come,” Anna whispered, standing as close to Song Bird as possible so she wouldn’t have to speak too loudly of the subject.

  Song Bird looked up.

  Anna placed her hand on her abdomen. “You know—what all women get once a moon? It’s about to start.”

  Song Bird’s eyes widened. She looked around the lodge then her gaze settled on White Eagle’s shield and war bonnet. Suddenly, she sprang to her feet and talked and jabbered so furiously that Anna couldn’t follow what she was saying. Song Bird waved her hands, motioning for her to get out of the lodge.

  Anna ducked and backed outside the door, while Song Bird continued her loud chatter. Other women came near, stood by and looked Anna up and down, making her more conscious of her painted face and tail. Song Bird shouted at them and motioned for them to come. They began unpinning White Eagle’s lodge. When some older men joined in to help, Song Bird hurried to Anna’s side and led her away from the crowd.

  “What happened?” Anna asked.

  “A woman who bleeds must never enter warrior’s lodge. You put curse on White Eagle.”

  Anna glanced over her shoulder at all the people working to take down the lodge. Some shook their heads and others shouted at one another to help unpin the buffalo skin as quickly as possible. Heat scorched her cheeks. Of all the people to curse, she cursed the one who was her only ticket to Denver City. And now the entire village was aware of the curse. Worst of all, the entire village knew that this was her time of the month.

  Song Bird led her to a lodge where several women were inside. Some stood over smoke, and the scent of sweet grass, juniper needles, and white sage filled the air. Song Bird took Anna’s hands in her own.

  “You not be ashamed, daughter. This my fault. I not tell you.”

  Anna was so hot from mortification she wished for something to fan her cheeks. She couldn’t speak, reeling with shock over the revelation she had just made to half the Cheyenne tribe. She could never face those people again. Even Runs With Wind had been standing nearby and witnessed her folly. What a nightmare. If only she could go home. Home to Denver City, where something so personal coul
d remain just that—personal. She covered her face with her hands. White Eagle would find out.

  God! Take me away from here!

  What would they do to her?

  “Will I be punished?” She choked out the words.

  “No.” Song Bird spoke in earnest, gripping Anna’s hands. “I speak to White Eagle. You stay here for four suns.”

  “I have to stay here for four days? Why?” Not that she was eager to meet the whole tribe again.

  “Yes, until you pure. Stand with other women over smoke. This makes you clean.”

  The room of the lodge began to spin. She wished she could run away. She wanted to wail. To wail and disappear completely from the face of the earth.

  “I want to go home.” She fell into Song Bird’s arms, no longer able to keep her tears at bay.

  Just then, several chattering women gathered at the door. They pointed their fingers at Anna and shouted. The only words she could understand were “curse on brave warrior,” “dirty woman,” and “pray the Great Spirit would spare his life.”

  “It hasn’t even started yet,” Anna said, hiding her face in Song Bird’s shoulder. “Surely, there’s no curse until it has actually started. Right?” Her words seemed to reverberate off the walls of the lodge. She’d never spoken so—so—unrefined.

  Song Bird held her away and looked at her with a sad frown. She shook her head.

  “Then no one is cursed,” Anna said, hopeful. “All this worry and tearing down his lodge has been for nothing.”

  “We must make sure lodge is pure.” Song Bird rubbed her hand along Anna’s arm in an effort to soothe. “We not take lodge down. We only throw back covering. We burn sweet grass and juniper leaves. When done, covering can be thrown forward and pinned together. Until then, no shield owner may enter lodge.”

  Well, that information didn’t make her feel any better.

  Song Bird took her hands. “You stay away from medicine, sacred bundles, shields, and do not touch feathers tied in man’s head.” Her gaze was earnest as she explained the rules. “No man may come near you. They may not eat from dish or drink from pot used by you. If he does, he be wounded in next battle.”