I knew there was a lot of speculation about me, people wondering who I was, and why I was traveling west alone. Some said I was a gambler headed for one of the honky tonk towns mushrooming wherever there was the faintest whisper of gold. Others opined that I was on the dodge, and hiding out in the wagon train. A few thought I was a Pinkerton man using Stoddard as cover, while several of the older ladies were certain I was running away from an unhappy love affair.
I hadn’t bothered to buy a wagon. I had no furniture to move, to wife to consider, no belongings other than the clothes on my back, a couple of extra shirts, and a few odds and ends packed in my war bag. I slept outside under the stars where the weather was fair, shook my blankets out under the Stoddard wagon when it rained.
I didn’t sleep much the first few nights on the trail. It had been a long time since I had slept under a wide prairie sky, and I lay there, fully awake, all my sense alert as I listened to the soft sounds of the night. Overhead, the vast expanse of the Milky Way stretched away to infinity, and I imagined by ancestors riding over the Great White Path on their journey to the Land of Many Lodges. I wondered if Quiet Antelope and my father had found peace in the After Life, and if Clarissa and Angela were there, too. Did the red man mingle with the white in the After Life? It pleased me to think so, to imagine my daughter and my father together, to think of Quiet Antelope and Clarissa looking on, smiling.
The rich scent of pine and spring grass tickled my nostrils as I lay there, mingling with the pungent aroma of wood smoke and sage, reminding me of my childhood, and of the carefree days when I ran wild and free across the high plains with Little Tree. Days when the Red Man was the undisputed master of all he surveyed.
But those days were gone. No longer did the Indian rule the land west of the Missouri. Settlers, trappers, soldiers, buffalo hunters, all had swarmed westward, seeking gold and glory, coveting the vast untouched prairie, the rich black soil, the crystal clear rivers thick with beaver, the virgin forests crowded with game.
And with the white man came log cabins and split rain fences. And then towns. And then soldiers came to protect the towns. Eventually, minor skirmishes had arisen between the Indians and the settlers. And the Indians lost. Whole tribes had been wiped out, crushed beneath the awesome power of the white man’s weapons of war, or killed by insidious diseases against which the Plains tribes had no resistance.
Overwhelmed by the strength and numbers of the pale-skinned invaders, many of the tribes had ceased fighting and gone in defeat to the living hell of the reservation. Others, like the Crow, made friends with the white man. Their warriors scouted for the Army, guiding the soldiers against the Lakota and the Cheyenne.
Now, only the Lakota and a few scattered bands of Cheyenne roamed the Great Plains, stubbornly clinging to the old ways as they resisted the intrusion of the vehoe. Even now, even knowing they would lose in the end, Crazy Horse and Sitting Bull were riding the war trail. Far off in the Southwest, Geronimo and a handful of renegade Apaches were raising hell, looting and raiding indiscriminately on both sides of the border.
I knew the Indians would never win, knew they would eventually go down in bitter defeat. And yet a part of me longed to be riding with them, fighting for a way of life that had been doomed since the first mountain man set foot in the Shining Mountains.
Muttering an oath, I stared at the wagons outlined in the darkness. Thirteen wagons in a tight circle, loaded with brass beds, chairs and tables of carved oak and rich red mahogany, trunks filled with fine china and delicately woven linens and lace. Fifteen men, eighteen women, and thirty-three boys and girls under the age of sixteen, all headed West in hopes of finding a better life; not caring, or perhaps simply not knowing, that their coming would crowd the Indians off land they had lived on for hundreds of years.
Lemuel Stoddard’s dry hacking cough interrupted my musings, and I listened to his wife, Lucy, murmur soft words of comfort and encouragement to her husband.
As I had surmised, the Stoddard’s were headed west for Lemuel’s health, hoping a warm dry climate would cure his cough. I thought it a slim hope at best. Stoddard was only twenty-eight or so, but he looked like a walking corpse. There was little meat on his bones; in spite of hours in the sun, his skin was the color of old parchment.
Lucy Stoddard did most of their chores, and did them without complaint. I helped Lemuel with the really hard work; occasionally, I drove the wagon to give him a rest. As yet, I hadn’t done much to earn my keep, but I had a hunch that would change before we reached the end of the trail.
The Stoddard’s boy, Jimmy, did what he could to help out, but he was only five or six. Still, he was an eager worker, always anxious to help his mother in any way he could. Jimmy Stoddard followed me around like a lost puppy, big brown eyes watching my every move. His hands were quick to imitate mine, reminding me of my little brother.
The days passed quickly out there on the prairie. The pioneers were busy from sun to sun. Wagons broke down, wheels had to be greased and repaired, oxen took sick and died, horses went lame. Some days we traveled without mishap; other days we were lucky to make ten miles. And sometimes we bedded down within sight of our last campfire.
As with most pioneers, these people knew tragedy. Milt Jacoby’s wife died in childbirth, leaving him to look after their six other kids ranging in age from eighteen months to nine years, as well as a newborn infant. Lucy Stoddard offered to care for the baby, though she already had her hands full just looking after her own family. Mrs. Jacoby was buried alongside the trail with only a pile of rocks to mark her grave.
But there were good times, too. Mae Ellen Knowland gave birth to twins, a boy and a girl. Fish Hansen and Carrie Webber decided to get married when they reached Fort Bridger. The Knowland’s grandmother celebrated her 90th birthday. That night several of the women whipped up a couple of birthday cakes, and the camp buzzed with the excitement of a party.
After dinner, Seth Thomas broke out his fiddle and before long, everybody was singing and dancing and having a high old time. Grandma Knowland was still spry in spite of her years and she insisted on waltzing with Al Phillips, the wagon master. Phillips wasn’t much of a dancer, but he twirled Grandma Knowland over the hard ground and looked like he was having a good time.
I sat in the shadows, filled with a kind of envy as I watched the couple dance by. Clarissa and I had danced well together, and my arms ached with the longing to hold her just once more, to see her lovely green eyes sparkle with pleasure as we dipped and swayed to our favorite waltz.
“May I have this dance, Mr. McKenna?”
Startled, I looked up, half-expecting to see Clarissa standing before me. Instead, I saw Paddy McDougal’s oldest daughter, Laurie. She was a pretty thing, with soft auburn hair and a figure that went in and out in all the right places. Arms outstretched, she smiled down at me.
“Come on,” she coaxed. “You never seem to have any fun.”
I started to say no, but she looked so young, so eager, I just didn’t have the heart to refuse her. So I took her hand in mine and led her into the midst of the whirling couples.
She reminded me of Clarissa, Laurie did. The same pert nose, the same winning smile. She was about Clarissa’s height, too. But the most striking resemblance of all was her eyes. They were the same incredible shade of vibrant, emerald green.
When the dance was over, I thanked her and turned to walk away, but Thomas announced a square dance, and Laurie grabbed my arm and pulled into the nearest set. Grandma Knowland and Al Phillips were in our square, along with the Stoddard’s’, Fish Hansen and Carrie Webber. It was a lively group, and I found myself smiling and having a good time in spite of myself.
After that, it seemed like the most natural thing in the world for Laurie and I to sit down together over cake and apple cider.
“I just love to dance!” Laurie exclaimed. “Don’t you? Sometimes I think I could dance for days and never get tired.”
“I feel like I have danced for days,�
� I muttered, but she only laughed and made a face at me.
About then, Seth Thomas began sawing on his fiddle again.
“Are you game for the Virginia Reel?” Laurie challenged. “Or have I really worn you out?”
“Tonight I’m game for anything,” I said. And hand in hand, we ran to take a place in line.
It was late when I walked Laurie back to her wagon. She seemed in no hurry to go inside. And since I was in no hurry to crawl into my lonely bedroll, we stood together in the moonlight, staring out at the dark land.
“I had a good time tonight,” she whispered. “I hope you’re not angry with me.”
“Angry? Why should I be angry?”
“Because I made you dance with me when you really didn’t want to.”
“Listen, honey, I haven’t done very many things I didn’t want to since I was eighteen, so don’t lose any sleep over it.”
Laurie looked up at me, her head tilted to one side. “How old are you now?” she asked, bold as you please.
“Twenty-six.”
“Are you married, or anything?”
“No, I’m not married. Or anything.”
“Why are you headed west?”
“Damn, but you’re a nosey kid,” I observed. “Are you planning to write a book about my life?”
“I’m not a kid!” she retorted sulkily. “I’m seventeen.”
“Oh, pardon me, grandma.”
“Don’t patronize me, Mr. McKenna. I know a girl isn’t supposed to ask a man personal questions, but for goodness sakes, how am I supposed to find out these things if I don’t ask?”
“Perhaps by making discreet inquiries,” I suggested, smothering a smile.
“I tried that, but no one on the train knows a thing about you,” she said in a rush, then turned away, embarrassed. “You must think I’m shameless.”
“No, I’m flattered. And a little curious. Why the sudden interest in my personal life?”
“It isn’t sudden,” she admitted candidly. “I’ve been watching you for weeks, trying to catch your attention. Why, I’ve made up a dozen excuses to pass by the Stoddard wagon, hoping you’d notice me, but you never did.”
“I noticed you, Laurie,” I replied soberly. “No man born of woman could help but notice a girl as lovely as you.”
She dimpled at that, pleased by the compliment. And then she frowned.
“If you noticed me and never said anything, I guess I’m wasting my time,” she said morosely, and ducked her head so I couldn’t see the tears forming in her eyes.
“Laurie, I’m sorry.”
“I’m going in now,” she said abruptly, and before I could stop her, she scrambled into the back of the wagon, treating me to a quick view of white petticoats and one long shapely leg clad in black cotton.
Laurie avoided me after that. I told myself it was just as well. She was only seventeen and much too young for me, anyway. And besides, I didn’t care for her all that much, not really.
Nevertheless, I found myself looking for her when I walked through the camp.
Chapter 17
The air seemed sweeter, the sky more blue, when we crossed into Dakota Territory. I suppose it was only my imagination, but then, home always seemed better than any place else. And as far as I was concerned, the hills and prairies that stretched before us had always been home. It was here, in the shadow of the sacred Black Hills, that Mo’ohta-vo’nehe, the wolf, had appeared to me when I was fifteen. Here, too, where ugly old Heyoka had carried me to victory in one race after another. Here that I had become a man.
Those first few days passed without incident. The weather was fair, the skies a brilliant blue, and we traveled at a good pace. Once, far off, we saw a handful of Arapaho warriors. Bare-chested, their long black hair adorned with eagle feathers, they sat astride their calico ponies like so many mounted statues. I know their thoughts. More white men. More settlers come to steal their land and despoil their hunting grounds. They were too far away, and too few in number, to threaten us, and yet a nervous wave of fear and tension washed through the wagon train.
“Damn savages.”
“Heathen murderers.”
“Godless barbarians.”
Nothing but derogatory comments. Always, the vehoe thought the worst about the Indian.
“I think they’re pretty.”
I glanced down at Jimmy Stoddard, warmed by his words.
“Don’t you think so, Mr. McKenna?” he asked, looking up at me. “Don’t you think they’re pretty?”
“Yeah, real pretty.”
“Too bad they’ve got to die.”
I looked at Jimmy sharply. “Who told you that?”
“Willie Ryan. He said the West won’t be a fit place to live till the last Injun is dead and buried.” Jimmy looked up at me, his eyes troubled. “Is Mr. Ryan right? Do all the Indians have to die?”
“I don’t know,” I remarked, thinking the west would be a better place if the vehoe had never crossed the Mississippi.
“I just don’t know.”
“Did you ever meet an Injun?”
“Yeah, a few.”
“Are they really savages?”
“It’s all in your point of view, kid. The Indians think the white man is a savage.”
“Really? Mr. Ryan says...”
“Willie Ryan doesn’t know his ass from a hot rock,” I muttered, thinking I was sick to death of the name Willie Ryan.
Jimmy Stoddard frowned at me. “What?”
“Nothing, kid. Listen, I think you’d better skip on back and help your mother water the stock.”
I was scowling blackly as I watched Jimmy run back to the wagon. The hate between the whites and the Indians would likely last forever, or at least until men like Ryan and Polanski and Chivington had succeeded in wiping the Indians off the face of the earth.
A week later, we spotted a herd of buffalo off in the distance. It was a small herd, nothing like the vast herds of days gone by. Al Phillips signaled the train to a halt and picked six men to trail the herd. I was one of them.
We rode out twenty minutes later. I don’t know about the others, but I was tingling with excitement at the prospect of the hunt. My mouth watered with the thought of tasting some real meat again.
We rode at a walk, careful to stay downwind, keeping out of sight of the herd as best we could. The men talked in whispers, their eyes wide as saucers as they gawked at the great shaggy beasts. One of the men had an old Hawken rifle, and he wagered five dollars that he’d bag the biggest bull.
We were about thirty yards from the grazing buffalo when a line of horsemen trotted out of a fold in the hills. They were Ogallala Sioux, easily identified by the feathers in their hair and the cut of their moccasins. Twelve of them, warriors all, clad in buckskin clouts and fringed leggings.
They stared at us through fathomless ebony eyes, their copper-hued faces impassive as stone. I was glad to see they weren’t wearing war paint, and yet I knew that wouldn’t keep them from taking a scalp or two if they got the chance.
The men from the wagon trail spread out, eyes darting nervously from side to side, hands caressing their weapons. Red man and white, they stared at each other across thirty yards of sun-bleached grass. The air between them fairly crackled with hostility.
“What now?” Willie Ryan asked.
“They want us to leave,” I said quietly.
“Leave, hell!” Frank Roberts protested. “We came out here for meat, and I damn well mean to get some.”
“Yeah, I’m getting almighty sick of potato soup and cornbread,” Bob Gless muttered.
“For sure,” Ryan agreed. “And if you think I’m turning my back on a bunch of damn savages, you’re crazy!”
There were a few other, equally vehement outbursts before the settlers fell silent.
“Anybody mind if I go out and parley with ‘em?” I asked, and when nobody objected, I heeled my mount forward.
One of the Sioux braves rode out to meet me halfway
. It was Kills Quick, the angry-eyed warrior I had freed from the circus back in New York.
“Ho, brother,” I said, raising my right hand in the sign of peace.
If Kills Quick recognized me, it didn’t show on his swarthy features. “You are trespassing on our land, white man,” he said, rudely ignoring my greeting. “Go from here.”
“Our children are hungry,” I replied, waving a hand in the direction of the wagon train. “They cry for meat.”
“Our children cry, too,” Kills Quick answered stonily. “They cry for the land the white man is stealing. They cry for their fathers and brothers, killed by the soldier coats.”
“I, too, have wept for the loss of a loved one. My father was killed at Sand Creek.”
There was contempt in the warrior’s eyes as he said, “Yet you ride with the paleskins.”
“A warrior cannot always choose his own path. Sometimes it is chosen for him.”
Kills Quick grunted softly. “My brother speaks the truth. Hunt with us, and we will share the meat.”
“And the others?”
“They must go back.”
“Your offer is generous, but I do not speak for the others. I fear they will not heed my words.”
Kills Quick nodded sympathetically. When had the whites ever listened to an Indian?
“Then tell the white eyes my words. We have killed a young cow. Tell your people to take it and go in peace, or we shall stain the prairie with their blood.”
The settlers weren’t happy when I told them what Kills Quick had said, but one look at the faces of the assembled warriors convinced them that the Indians meant business. And so we took the cow and rode back to the wagon train.
Al Phillips rode out to meet us. He scowled when he saw the lone cow packed on the travois behind my horse.
“One buffalo!” Phillips rasped. “A whole herd out there, and you come back with one lousy cow?”
“We were lucky to get that one,” Bob Gless retorted sourly, and quickly explained what had happened, then ended by saying, “those damn redskins act like they own every buffalo in sight.”
In the Shadow of the Hills Page 20
