In the Shadow of the Hanging Tree

by Michael A. McLellan

  “No ma’am. I came to talk with my friend, Standing Elk. He’s a Cheyenne, umm, Medicine Man.”

  “He told you, and you decided to help me?”

  “Yes’m.”

  “Is he going to be angry with you?”

  “If they figure it was me? I expect he will be. Only not for the reasons you might be thinking.”

  “For what you did to his chief?”

  “Short Bull wasn’t his chief. It’s hard to understand the Indians’ ways, even for me, and I lived with them. Standing Elk won’t be angry because Short Bull is dead, or that you…were freed. He didn’t like that Short Bull took you and he told me as much. He didn’t do anything about it because it wasn’t his place. He’ll be angry with me because to him, it wasn’t my place either. If the Dog Men find out what I did, they’ll blame Standing Elk. He was the one who first brought me to them.”

  Clara gave Henry a truculent look. “Don’t they know right from wrong?”

  “Most do, some don’t. Just like other folks, I reckon. But just like other folks, knowing right from wrong don’t always mean they do right. Most Indians are fine people; kind like you wouldn’t believe. I lived with the Cheyenne for a fair amount of time and never saw one of them do harm to another, and that’s a lot more than I can say for other folks I’ve spent time with.”

  “You mean white people?”

  “White and colored. My own father was killed in a squabble over a pair of shoes—least that’s what I was told—and I once saw a slave strangle another slave just cause he thought the man was cozying up to the straw-boss too much and getting extra rations of corn flour. What I’m trying to say is, most Indians aren’t like Short Bull any more than most white folks are like that fella who killed President Lincoln. No matter where you’re looking from it was a terrible thing, him taking you like you were his to take…were there others with you? Your husband?”

  “No. No husband.” Clara wanted to avert her eyes again but didn’t. “There were others. There was someone I loved very much.Like a father.” Clara studied Henry’s face.

  Then, much like Randall had fourteen days earlier and over three hundred miles away, she told her story. Not wanting to recount the details of her two weeks as Short Bull’s captive, she ended with the Dog Men attack. Her composure, which she tried so stoically to keep, once again dissolved and she wept telling of Randall’s death at the hands of the young Indian.

  Henry listened without interrupting, even when he recognized John Elliot’s name.

  “I met your man,” he said when she was finished. “In St. Joseph. I sometimes hire on with army supply caravans and tend horses. Anyway, they mostly just give me work they could have soldiers doing so I’ll be around if they need a scout or interpreter.”

  “You’ve seen him? Is he well? Is he at Fort Laramie?”

  “He was fine last I saw him. I was along on the supply caravan he came in to Fort Laramie with. He struck me as a thoughtful man. He spent a goodish amount of time writing letters… mayhap to you. I left not long after we arrived. I suppose it’s been a fortnight or thereabouts.”

  “Do you think he’s still there?”

  “I couldn’t say. There’s a lot of comings and goings. If he isn’t, probably someone will know where he is.”

  “Will you take me to him, if he isn’t?”

  “Well now, the army might be better—”

  “I had some money, but it was in the wagon…”

  “It’s not about money, ma’am. I don’t have a lot of use for it, truth be told.”

  “Please. I have to see John, and my father must have already sent word to whoever is in command at Fort Laramie. They may not help me. They might even try to send me back to New York. My father has influential friends.” Clara paused, looking deflated. “I’m sorry. I must seem ungrateful.”

  “No, ma’am, you don’t. I’ll see you to him, if I can.”

  4

  Clara was running through the moonlit prairie. She looked over her shoulder, Short Bull’s shadowed face loomed behind her. He reached for her, the tips of his fingers brushing her shoulder lightly before falling away. She ran faster, her breath coming in ragged gasps. His hand clamped on her shoulder and pulled her back. He pushed her down on her stomach. She tried to crawl away but he held her down with one hand on the back of her neck and forced himself into her. The pain was immediate and intense. He leaned over her, grunting, his heavy breath in her ear. His grunts turned to gurgles; hot blood splashed over her. She screamed.

  Henry awoke from his thin sleep with a start. He looked around, momentarily disorientated, then grabbed the Spencer leaning against his saddle. “What is it?” he whispered into the darkness.

  “Nothing,” Clara responded, sounding shaken. “I had a dream. It’s nothing, I’m fine now.”

  Neither one of them could go back to sleep. Henry wondered what he was going to do when they got to Fort Laramie. Hopefully Clara’s lieutenant was still there. If he was, Henry could leave Clara with him then move on and locate William Bent for Standing Elk. If he wasn’t, Henry was faced with the fact that he’d given Clara his word to help her reunite with John Elliot when he was supposed to be on his way to locate William Bent.

  Clara lay under Henry’s wool blanket wondering what she would tell John. Or would he know everything just by looking at her? Would he see something in her eyes and turn away in disgust?

  She felt an irreconcilable mix of shame and anger. Everything she’d ever been taught pointed to Short Bull’s physical violations being her fault. She could hear her father’s condescending voice: “You acquired exactly what you went looking for, Clara. Did you even fight? Or did you give in easily like you did with that detestable Elliot pup?” There was another part of her that absolutely refused to accept the ignominy that accompanied Short Bull’s actions. She was a victim, after all, and neither deserved nor would accept any blame. This time it was her mother who spoke:

  “You’re like your father in so many ways, my darling. You’ve his mettle; the very thing that elevated him from a poor, farmer’s son to one of the wealthiest men in New York. It’s a hardness which many men of great worth possess but is uncommon in women. Keep it hidden, it will serve you at times. If you display it openly it will cause you nothing but grief.”

  Henry let an hour go by then stood. It was cold for June, and he’d given his bedroll to Clara. Better off to be moving, he thought. “Ma’am? We should be going.”

  Clara wanted to tell him to call her by her first name—he couldn’t be but a few years older than she was, and she liked him—but years of propriety couldn’t easily be shaken off. How would others react if she allowed a negro to address her by her given name? “Please call me Miss Hanfield, if you don’t mind. Ma’am is how you would address my mother.”

  “Yes’m…Miss Hanfield. We should be going.”

  5

  They ate a breakfast of dried elk—Clara ate her portion longing for an apple—and were moving before the sun was more than a promise on the eastern horizon.

  Shortly after noon they saw the riders.

  There were twenty-four by Henry’s count, and they were coming from the opposite direction at a leisurely pace. They were Indians, but they were too far away for him to tell what tribe they belonged to.

  “Shouldn’t we flee?” Clara asked fearfully.

  “We wouldn’t get far if they wanted to chase us. Pull that rifle out and hand it to me. I don’t think I’ll have to use it—I never have before—but better to be safe.”

  What Henry didn’t say was there was a chance that some of the Cheyenne Dog Men had gone out looking for Short Bull’s killer, making a circuit of the area, and were now heading back toward the lake.

  Clara handed him the Spencer. He laid it casually across his lap where it could be easily seen without it looking like he was spoiling for a fight.

  The Indians had obviously seen them; they corrected their course slightly to ensure their path would meet Henry and Clara’
s.

  He reached back and removed the field glasses from his saddlebags. “They’re Sioux,” he said a moment later.

  Henry kept Harriet at a slow walk. He felt Clara’s grip on his waist tighten as the small group approached. They stopped when they were about twenty feet away. Henry continued on until he was directly in front of them.

  The group appeared solemn. The men were not yet in their decline, but the eight or so women appeared ancient. Henry said “Hau,” and let his eyes rest on a man with two eagle feathers in his hair. The man held an intricately decorated calumet in his lap much in the same way as Henry’s rifle was resting in his. He raised his hand and said “Hau,” in return, then regarded Henry and Clara silently while one of the few young men with the group urged his horse forward until it was side by side with Harriet. The young brave nodded curtly at Henry, then looked curiously at Clara, who kept her eyes fixed on Henry’s back.

  The man with the eagle feathers simultaneously spoke and made the hand signs for I know you at Henry. Henry searched his memory but couldn’t remember ever meeting him. He was about to ask the man’s name in Sioux—of which he could speak and understand only a handful of words and phrases—when the man spoke in English: “You have tobacco?”

  Henry smiled and nodded. He twisted around and reached past Clara to get into his saddlebags, and handed the young brave a small hide bag with a drawstring. The brave dutifully took the bag to the man with the eagle feathers. The man looked inside and nodded. “Philámayaye,” he said, and slipped the drawstring over his wrist. He clicked his tongue twice and moved past Henry and Clara without another look. The others followed.

  “What was he saying?” Clara asked as they rode away.

  “He said he knew me.”

  “Do you know him?”

  “Never met him, far as I recall.”

  “What would they have done if you hadn’t given them tobacco?”

  “Moved on, I reckon.” Henry still had the pipe that Black Kettle had given him, but he rarely smoked it. He usually kept some tobacco with him to use as small tokens, though.

  There was a very large tree in the distance. It drew their eyes with its unlikely presence on the featureless plain. As they got closer to its twisted and gray bulk, Clara thought she could see some color standing out against the weathered branches. “It looks like there’s something in that tree,” she said.

  “It’s the reason those people were here. It’s a burial tree.”

  “A burial tree?…That’s a body up there?”

  “Yes. We’ll stay away from it.”

  “Why would they put someone who died, in a tree?”

  “Indians keep to themselves about death…I think it’s so their soul can escape to the spirit world.”

  “Do you believe that?”

  “It’s not for me to say. It keeps the animals from getting to it.”

  “That’s a dreadful thought.”

  6

  “We should be there in another two hours, or thereabouts, ” Henry said, as he looked off into the distance. Harriet was drinking from a rapidly drying-up seasonal creek, and Clara was trying to walk off some of the nervousness she felt along with the soreness in her legs and backside.

  Clara had quickly grown comfortable with Henry and his calm and unexacting manner. She felt an icy stab in her stomach when she thought of facing other people, however. She looked at herself in her torn and filthy dress, and over-sized, hide trousers, and knew how everyone would look at her: with pity; with disgust.

  “I don’t think I can go into Fort Laramie like this.”

  Henry, who was leading Harriet back up to where Clara was standing, paused. After a moment, understanding dawned on his face.

  “What do you want to do?”

  “I don’t know…look at me…I can’t…you couldn’t understand.”

  “I reckon you’re right about that. But I’ll help however I can. There’s the sutler’s—run by some nice folks—where we could get you a new dress. I know a Cheyenne woman who lives by the fort, she’d allow you could stay there while I went on in. I’ll bring back the dress and some new shoes, and a horse with a proper saddle for you, then we could ride in together and look for your man. Begging your pardon, ma’am—Miss Hanfield, either way I have to get moving because I have other business that needs tending to as well.”

  “Yes. Yes, of course you do. But an Indian woman…” Clara trailed off, looking at her feet. After a moment she looked up at Henry. “Forgive me. If you trust this woman, then so shall I. And I will accept your offer, gratefully. I don’t know when I will be able to repay you or the shopkeeper for the cost of the clothing and anything else that needs to be purchased. I can only offer my word that it will be repaid.”

  Henry smiled. “It’s not much of a shop. Leastways not like they have down in St. Joseph or Independence—and, I reckon, New York. But they’ve got a fair amount of stock. It’s necessities mostly, but they have other things. And you don’t need to worry about the money, I get along just fine.”

  They arrived at the small camp of four lodges an hour later. Clara’s heart was beating fast.

  Henry pointed southwest and said, “The fort’s just over that rise.”

  There were two old women hunched over a large piece of hide. One woman was poking holes in the edge and the other was weaving a hide thong through them. They looked impossibly thin to Clara. Henry spoke to the women in Cheyenne. They looked at Clara curiously, then pointed out into the prairie.

  “Go ahead and get down,” he said to Clara, reaching his hand back to help her. After she had, he climbed down and retrieved his dwindling supply of dried elk from his saddlebags. He gave all of what was left to the two women. The women ejaculated in Cheyenne, and pawed at Henry. He said something softly, nodding his head reassuringly.

  “We’ll wait over here,” he said to Clara, taking Harriet’s reins and starting toward one of the lodges.

  “Why, they’re half starved,” Clara said, looking over her shoulder at the women.

  “Them and a lot of others.”

  “Why?”

  “They can’t hunt—not that there’s much game around here anymore—and the army hasn’t been delivering on most of what they promised. They have to walk all the way to Fort Laramie just to get turned away empty handed, or if they’re lucky, a small sack of flour. These women don’t have families, and what’s left of their band went north sometime back.” He stopped in front of one of the lodges, untied his bedroll, and released Harriet. “We’ll have to sit here and wait for Owl Woman,” he said, spreading out his bedroll.

  Twenty minutes later an old woman wearing a deerskin dress came up from behind the lodge. She carried a small basket with a handful of what looked like miniature turnips inside. Clara observed that she walked with a pronounced limp. Henry stood and the woman greeted him warmly. Clara followed Henry’s lead and also stood. Henry said: “Clara, this is Mestaa’ėhehe; you would say Owl Woman.” Then Henry said something in Cheyenne to Owl Woman, ending with Clara’s name. Owl Woman smiled and nodded.

  After speaking to Henry in length, the woman walked off to where the other two women were still working with the animal hide.

  “She’ll offer to feed you while I’m gone. Please eat it. They don’t have it to share but they’ll share it anyway. I’ll bring them back some food.”

  “I wish I had a book,” Clara said, sitting down on Henry’s blanket. Henry appeared not to have heard, and walked after Harriet who was munching grass some yards away.

  He came back with Harriet in tow, and he was holding something wrapped in a small piece of wool cloth. He handed it to Clara, who looked up at him questioningly before unwrapping the item.

  It was a book.

  Clara stared up at Henry with frank surprise. “A Christmas Carol! My mother read this to me when I was just a child, and I’ve read it several times since. Isn’t Dickens wonderful?…You’re educated, then?”

  “I can read and write well enoug
h.”

  “Tell me, what was your favorite part.”

  “The part where his dead friend, Marley, comes to visit.”

  Clara laughed and mocked a man’s baritone: “Business! cried the Ghost, wringing its hands again. Mankind was my business. The common welfare was my business; charity, mercy, forbearance, and benevolence were all my business. The dealings of my trade were but a drop of water in the comprehensive ocean of my business! ”

  Henry laughed. It was a rare occurrence.

  7

  Clara watched Henry ride away. He said she would be safe with the Indian woman, and she believed him, but she was still afraid. Although she’d only known him three days, she felt safe with Henry. And why not? Here was a man who had killed to rescue her, without knowing her or expecting any reward. He was kind, generous, and he appreciated literature. He was contrary to everything her father had ever said about negroes. How was a man like this regarded less than any other by the color of his skin? Yet, hadn’t she still been unable to invite him to address her as Clara?

  She looked over at the three women. They’d put the animal skin aside. Now they were stoking a small fire and preparing an iron cook-pot. Owl Woman limped here and there purposefully. Clara looked at the Dickens’ novel. It was well-read but in fine condition. She thought of John and hoped they’d soon be reunited. She wondered how she should tell him he was to be a father. Soon there was the smell of cooking.

  8

  Henry was tired. More tired than he’d been since waking up in Standing Elk’s lodge four years earlier. He’d slept fitfully ever since killing Short Bull. Clara wasn’t the only one haunted by the Cheyenne Chief.

  He let Harriet gallop for awhile—he’d always felt she was happiest when she was running—and it took him less than an hour to reach the sutler’s store at Fort Laramie.

  The store was a sprawling building consisting of several add-ons to the original adobe structure. The current proprietors were an English couple by the name of Alden. They had arrived several years before, intent on Oregon, but had been forced to stay behind with their daughter who was ill with cholera. The girl eventually died. Seeing opportunity in the business, the Aldens had purchased it from the previous owner.