I flatly refused to wear the pants, the underwear, the shirt, or the shoes.
“Suit yourself,” she said calmly. “But you’ll wear those clothes, or nothing at all.”
I gave in after a while. After all, I couldn’t very well go parading around stark naked, and it was that, or spend all my time confined to the house, wrapped in a blanket.
That battle won, Katherine decided I needed a civilized haircut. “After all,” she argued, “you’re not a wild Indian any longer, and well-bred young men don’t go around with their hair hanging down to their waists. It isn’t seemly.”
“No haircut,” I said stubbornly.
“You’ll need a new name, too,” she went on, as if I hadn’t spoken. “Black Wolf just won’t do in New York City.”
“I like my name,” I remarked, knowing I was wasting my breath.
“Let’s see,” she mused aloud. “How about John? I always liked that name. John Jacob McKenna. Yes, that has a good solid ring to it,” she decided, pleased with her choice. “Don’t you think so?”
“I think it stinks, like meat left too long in the sun.”
But there was no arguing with my mother once she had her mind made up, and so it was that I found myself named after a pair of Biblical characters and an old man I had yet to meet.
I stubbornly refused to let my mother cut my hair, but, in the end, Katherine had her way about that, too. That night, quiet as a Cheyenne warrior stalking a deer, she crept into my room and snipped a great hunk of hair from the left side of my head. In the morning, I agreed to let her cut the rest.
I thought frequently of stealing a horse and running away. I would have no trouble finding my way back to Black Kettle and the Cheyenne. Yet even as I contemplated leaving, I knew deep down that I would not go. My mother was my only living kin, and though I felt little love for her, I could not leave her. I was tied to her by the blood in my veins, a bond I discovered was stronger than love, more enduring that hate.
Katherine felt it, too. It was the reason she had stayed with my father when he had said she could leave the village with Rusty Johnson all those years ago.
I had not understood then. But I understood now.
Chapter 7
It was a dreary, fog-shrouded morning when Katherine and I boarded the train that would carry us east.
She was going home, and her face fairly glowed with excitement as we walked down the narrow aisle to our seat.
I felt numb inside as I glanced out one of the windows and realized that I would probably never see my home again.
People stared at us as we made our way to the back of the car. I was dressed pretty much like any other vehoe boy on the train, and yet no one, seeing me up close, would ever mistake me for anything but what I was: a half-breed. My skin was too dark, my features too decidedly Cheyenne, to ever let me pass for lily-white.
I wondered what people thought when they looked at us - a prim young woman clad in an emerald green dress, and a sullen-faced half-breed wearing an ill-fitting black suit and boiled shirt. The words “stinkin’ Injun” and “dirty half-breed” were whispered around us, but my mother ignored them and admonished me to do the same.
There was a shrill whistle, the sound of grinding wheels, and the train lurched forward. Outside, people waved, hollering last-minute farewells and blowing kisses to loved ones. The moment of departure had come.
“Well,” my mother said, patting a stray lock of hair back into place, “we’re finally on our way home.”
Her blue eyes sparkled at the very idea, and I thought again how young she looked. Back in the village, I had never given her age any thought. Dressed in shapeless doeskin, her hair in braids, her face in a perpetual scowl, she had seemed old. But now I was struck anew by how young she really was. And when several men turned to stare at her, I realized she was a beautiful young woman.
Needless to say, I did not share her enthusiasm for the trip. I was not going home. I was going into enemy territory and with every mile that went by, I felt a little more lost, a little more cut off from the only life I had ever known. I had ridden fearlessly into the land of the Crow to steal horses. I had faced a charging grizzly armed with nothing but a knife and my own courage. I had endured the agony of the Sun Dance. I was not a coward, and yet the thought of going to the land of the vehoe filled me with a strange cold fear, the likes of which I had never known.
And so I sat beside my mother, hating her for taking me away from the land of my birth, from all that was familiar to me, yet tied to her by blood and a deep sense of filial loyalty that would not let me leave her. I did not want to go east. I did not want to live with her father, who was very rich in the way of the vehoe. I did not want to live in his house, or eat his food, or wear the stiff, uncomfortable clothing that hampered my every move.
But my mother had other plans, and I had come to realize she would eventually get what she wanted, one way or another. That knowledge was disconcerting because one of Katherine McKenna’s major goals in life was to turn me into a fine gentleman, to see me well-educated, and well-matched, when the time came.
Katherine tried several times to engage me in conversation, but I refused to answer. Sullen and withdrawn, I stared out the window, bidding a silent farewell to the land I loved - to the endless grassy plains and the incomparable splendor of the Black Hills.
On and on the train rumbled across the prairie, its mighty wheels humming over the twin silver rails, leaving great clouds of black smoke in its wake. I gazed out the window and wished I was out there, racing Heyoka across the endless miles of grass and timbered hills. Once, far off in the distance, I saw a small herd of shaggy buffalo standing with their backs to the wind.
Now and then we passed small towns that sprouted like weeds alongside the tracks. I stared at the squat, ugly buildings curiously, wondering why white men were content to live boxed up in little square houses; wondering, too, why they felt such a need to own a few acres of land. Didn’t they realize that no man could own the plains or the rivers or the mountains? Land could not be possessed. It was simply there, a gift from Heammawihio, to be used and revered. But the white man had to own it, and once he had claimed a patch of ground, he built a fence around it and fought to the death to keep it. Some said the Indians were fighting for land, too, but we were not fighting to own the land itself, only for the right to live where we wished, as we wished.
Our trip east was uneventful, and in due time we arrived in New York City, where we were met by Trevor Hamilton McKenna, my maternal grandfather. Old man McKenna was straight as an arrow, with iron gray hair and probing blue eyes that seemed to look right through me.
Conscious of the curious stares of the bystanders, McKenna and Katherine embraced briefly, and then we climbed into a fancy black carriage drawn by a matched pair of blooded gray geldings. Thirty minutes later we pulled up before a massive, two-story house surrounded by acres of green velvet lawn. Tall trees shaded wrought iron benches and small wooden tables that were scattered at intervals around the yard. Rose bushes of every color lined the brick walkway that led to the huge front door. Smoke curled from a red brick chimney. Sunlight glinted off the windows that overlooked the front of the house. Once, long ago, my mother had told me a fairy tale about a princess who lived in a castle. I knew now that she had been describing her own home. The only thing missing was a moat and a drawbridge.
Inside, the mansion boasted a large entry hall inlaid with white marble, a parlor decorated with gleaming mahogany tables and curved sofas covered in rich forest green velvet. There was a grand ballroom hung with shimmering crystal chandeliers and gilt-edged mirrors and a floor so shiny, I could see my face in it.
The formal dining room was large enough to accommodate a hundred guests comfortably. The kitchen, which I was forbidden to enter, was located at the back of the house and presided over by a stern-faced matron with sharp brown eyes and rust-colored hair. I glimpsed a library filled with hundreds of books, a den dark with walnut paneling
and heavy drapes that shut out the sun.
The McKenna mansion was reputed to be the largest, most elegant estate in the city, and I guess it was. Personally, I found the place dark and ugly and longed for the open air and sunlit skies of Montana, but my mother hurried from room to room, dragging me behind her, looking, touching, remembering.
The mansion had ten bedrooms. The one I was given was as big as four Cheyenne lodges. Nevertheless, I felt cramped within its walls. Looking around, I saw a big brass bed covered with a dark blue comforter, an ornately carved oak chest of drawers, a fireplace that took up most of one wall. Large leaded windows overlooked the spacious gardens behind the house.
An oval mirror hung above the chest of drawers. A thick blue carpet muffled my footsteps as I crossed the room and stood staring at the image reflected in the glass, seeing a tall, dark-skinned young man with brooding gray eyes, a wide full mouth, a slash of a nose, and high cheekbones. A man dressed in the clothing of the vehoe.
With a shock, I realized I was staring at the image I had seen in my vision.
I went cold all over. Truly, Black Wolf the warrior was dead.
* * *
Later that morning, I overheard McKenna and my mother talking in the library. Pausing near the half-open door, I peered inside. McKenna was standing with his back toward me, his hands shoved in the pockets of his trousers. Katherine stood in front of one of the high arched windows, facing him. She looked a trifle ill at ease.
“How was it, pet?” the old man asked. “Bad?”
“I’d rather not talk about it, Papa.”
But McKenna would not be put off. “Come, Katherine, we’ve never had any secrets between us.”
“Oh, Papa, there’s nothing to tell. John’s father attacked the stagecoach. He kidnapped me, and took me back to his village. I’ve been there ever since.”
“Did any of the other savages...did they...?” McKenna cleared his throat nervously. It was the only time I ever saw the old man at a loss for words.
“If you want to know if any of the other warriors violated me, the answer is no. Sun Seeker was very possessive.”
“I’m sorry, pet, but I want to know everything that happened while you were there. Everything.”
“I know, Papa, but it’s over now, and I just want to forget it ever happened.”
“Then you shouldn’t have brought that half-breed whelp home with you,” McKenna said curtly.
A slow flush crept into my mother’s cheeks, but her head went up and her chin jutted forward impudently, defiantly.
“He is my flesh and blood, Papa,” Katherine said stiffly. “What would you have had me do? Let Chivington shoot him down in cold blood?”
“It might have been the wisest thing,” Trevor retorted. “He’s certain to cause you a good deal of embarrassment.”
“And you, too, Papa,” Katherine replied, a mild edge of sarcasm in her voice. “Perhaps it would be best for all concerned if John and I live elsewhere.”
I couldn’t believe my ears. My mother had dreamed of returning to this house for as long as I could remember, had talked of little else. Yet there she stood, calmly talking about moving out if I were not welcome.
For the first time that I could recall, I felt a genuine rush of affection for the woman who was my mother.
She wasn’t bluffing. I knew her well enough to know that. And the old man knew it, too.
“Forgive me, Katherine,” he said gruffly. “Of course you were right to bring him home.”
The old man’s apology melted the barrier between them. With a small cry, Katherine rushed into her father’s arms and buried her face against his shoulder.
“Oh, Papa,” she sobbed. “It was awful! Just awful!”
“I know, pet, I know,” McKenna murmured soothingly.
“I was so afraid,” Katherine sobbed. “So afraid I would never see you again.”
Trevor patted her back and stroked her hair. “Come now, tell me all about it, and then we’ll never speak of it again.”
“Papa, I can’t...”
“You’ll feel better if you do,” the old man assured her.
“Truly, Papa?”
“Truly.” He reached into his back pocket and withdrew a crisp linen handkerchief. “Here now, dry your eyes and tell me all about it.”
I didn’t wait around to hear what she had to say. It was a private moment, and I had intruded long enough.
* * *
Katherine took me shopping the next morning. It was a humiliating experience. I did not like having fussy little men hovering over me, measuring the length of my arms and legs, remarking on the width of my shoulders, whispering about the color of my skin. I did not like trying on suits and coats and hats and shoes and gloves. I did not like the feel of starched linen or English tweed. But the long underwear was the worst of all. It was something I accepted in tight-lipped silence but refused to wear once we got home. It was the one item of clothing my mother couldn’t check on. Propriety, you know. And so, every day or so, I wrinkled a pair and tossed them on top of my other dirty laundry.
I hated the McKenna mansion. It was crawling with maids and serving girls and a variety of other servants, and they all stared at me with ill-disguised disdain. The butler, a rather portly individual with thinning black hair and a skinny little moustache, viewed me with open contempt. Though he never spoke to me in any but the most respectful tone of voice, I had the distinct impression that he thought it below his station in life to serve anyone of my ilk.
“He’s naught but a damned savage,” I heard him whisper to one of the maids. “A bloody damn savage. I can’t imagine why Miss Katherine brought the young pup home.”
Old Trevor, of course, was thrilled with my mother’s return. For sixteen years, he had thought her dead and now, miraculously, she was home again, all the more precious for the years she had been lost to him. He showered her with gifts: dresses of every color and design and fabric, from simple cotton day dresses to the finest silk and satin gowns; fancy hats adorned with feathers and flowers and silly-looking bunches of fake fruit; shoes with high heels and glittering paste buckles; gloves in every color imaginable; parasols and fans. Katherine had only to hint she wanted something: a string of pearls, a diamond bracelet, a dainty chestnut Arabian mare, and the item appeared as if by magic. Nothing she desired was too costly or too outrageous.
Here, in her own land among her own people, Katherine McKenna bloomed like a hot house rose. Her features softened, her voice grew less strident, laughter came readily to her lips.
Men clad in fine linen came to call. Some never returned a second time once they discovered she had a son who was half Cheyenne. A few, who seemed to forget they were gentlemen when they learned she had been an Indian squaw, were told never to call again.
The others continued to court her, bringing her flowers and candy, paying her extravagant compliments, escorting her to plays and cotillions, taking her out for carriage rides on Sunday, vying for her attention at parties, at church dances, at musicales.
Some of the women gossiped about Katherine behind her back. I often heard them speculating on the kind of life she must have led to have produced a half-breed son. Had my mother come from a poor family, I’m sure they would have cut her dead. But Katherine McKenna had the McKenna family fortune behind her, and the color of the old man’s money whitewashed a multitude of sins, including a brown-skinned son born on the wrong side of the blanket.
Trevor McKenna put up with me because he had no other choice, though it must have been extremely difficult for him to accept the fact that his only grandchild was a half-breed. I was a constant thorn in his side, an ever-present reminder that a Cheyenne buck had defiled his beloved daughter.
I had little personal contact with McKenna and rarely saw him except at meals. Still, his presence was always felt in the house, and I soon learned that he ran his domain with an iron hand. Servants jumped at his command, business associates deferred to his wishes, speculators sought
his financial backing, politicians curried his favor.
Trevor McKenna rose promptly at five o’clock every morning, rain or shine, holiday or workday. After a brisk two-mile walk through the park, he returned home and read the newspapers. He sat down to breakfast at seven sharp. Meals at the mansion were served on time, and if you were late, you didn’t eat.
McKenna went to his office in town at eight, conducted business until three. The rest of the afternoon was spent at his club. He returned home at six, read the mail, and sat down to dinner at eight.
The old man insisted we dress formally for dinner, even when there were only the three of us at the table. I was still grossly uncomfortable wearing city clothes. Every night I came down to dinner in slacks and a shirt worn open at the throat. And every night, the old man sent me back upstairs with orders to put on a coat and cravat. Even after I’d grown accustomed to dressing for dinner, I often came downstairs in my shirtsleeves just to annoy him.
If we had no social engagements, McKenna spent the evening in his study, reading, smoking his pipe, or staring at the large painting that hung above the massive stone fireplace. One of the maids told me it was a portrait of McKenna’s wife, and that he still grieved for her even though she had passed away almost twenty years ago.
Trevor McKenna demanded loyalty, honesty, and obedience from his servants. He demanded all that and more from me. Not only was I to be honest, loyal, and obedient, but I was to remember at all times that I was a McKenna, and act accordingly.
I was to be polite to ladies, respectful to gentlemen, wise in my choice of friends, and thrifty with the old man’s money. I was to be well-groomed at all times. Gambling was frowned upon, though betting the horses was acceptable, since McKenna owned several winning thoroughbreds.
I was strictly forbidden to enter the red light district, but if I felt the need of a woman, McKenna had a rather long list of discreet ladies of the evening I could choose from. But I had no desire for a woman. My heart lay miles away, buried with Snow Flower.
In the Shadow of the Hills Page 8
