In the Shadow of the Hills

by Madeline Baker

  “Yeah,” Willie Ryan agreed. “The west won’t be a fit place to live until every Injun is planted in the ground or penned up on a reservation.”

  “Willie, that’s enough,” Phillips cautioned.

  “Willie’s right,” Fish Hansen chimed in. “This here is a free country. We’ve got as much right to be out here as they do.”

  “More,” Ryan asserted. “They aren’t even citizens. Shit, they can’t even own land, and they’re trying to keep us off.”

  “They were here first,” I said, unable to keep quiet any longer.

  “Well, now we’re here,” Bob Gless muttered. “It’s time they moved aside.”

  Willie Ryan nodded. “That’s right. Haven’t you heard about Manifest Destiny? It’s our Christian duty to civilize this land, make it safe for decent people.”

  “And the Indians aren’t decent people, is that what you’re saying?” I fired the words at him.

  “That’s right! They’re nothing but godless savages, and the sooner they’re wiped out, the better!”

  I glared at Ryan. He was only nineteen, but he was built like a Brahma bull. He had the biggest hands I had ever seen. He was traveling west with his mother and two sisters, and he sailed through his chores and then did most of theirs, as well.

  He was a good-looking kid, with sandy-colored hair and mild brown eyes. His only fault was not knowing when to keep his big mouth shut.

  Laurie had remarked that no one in the wagon train knew anything about me, but that wasn’t entirely true. She just hadn’t asked the right people. Phillips and Ryan both knew I was a half-breed, but only Phillips knew I had been a hired gun. Phillips had figured that might be a plus if we ran into trouble. Thus far, both men had kept the knowledge about my Indian heritage to themselves. But Willie Ryan was about to change all that.

  “Willie, I think you’d better apologize to Mr. McKenna,” Phillips suggested.

  Ryan glanced at Phillips, angered by the wagon master’s reprimand. But then a red flush crept up the back of Ryan’s neck as he saw the angry expression on my face.

  “Apologize for what?” Frank Roberts asked, baffled. “We all share the same opinion about Indians, don’t we?”

  “Do we?” Ryan muttered defiantly. “I doubt it, since McKenna, here, is half Cheyenne.”

  His words confirmed what some of the men had suspected all along, but, until now, no one had made an issue of it, partly because I kept to myself, and partly because they had been too busy surviving to worry much about me. But the cat was out of the bag now, and I could hear Bob Gless, Frank Roberts, and Fish Hansen and the others murmuring behind my back. I didn’t like what I heard.

  “A man’s entitled to his opinion,” Ryan declared, glancing at me out of the corner of his eye. “Ain’t that right?”

  “You’re entitled,” I agreed curtly. “But if I ever hear you refer to an Indian as a red-assed nigger again, I’ll beat the shit out of you.”

  Willie Ryan didn’t like the sound of that. But he didn’t have the guts or the experience to do anything about it.

  “That’s enough,” Phillips said. He looked directly at each man. “I knew Mr. McKenna was a half-breed when he joined the train, and I don’t want to hear any more about it. He hasn’t caused any trouble and until he does, he stays. Is that clear?”

  The men from the wagon train nodded. Phillips was the wagon master, and his word was law.

  Nothing else was said about the ill-fated hunt. One young buffalo cow divided amongst the sixty-nine people on the wagon train wouldn’t last very long. But that night there was something in the stew besides potatoes and broth.

  The fact that I was a half-breed was no longer a secret. I knew Willie Ryan and Frank Roberts were bad mouthing me to anyone who cared to listen, but, as yet, no one had dared say anything derogatory to my face.

  A couple of nights later, after everyone else in camp had turned in, Lucy Stoddard came out to sit with me.

  “Nice night,” she remarked.

  “Yeah.”

  “It’s been real nice, having meat in the stew for a change,” Lucy said, smiling at me. “I didn’t think I’d care for buffalo meat, but it isn’t half bad.”

  She looked at me, waiting for a reply, and when none was forthcoming, she shrugged and stared out at the darkness beyond the circled wagons.

  We sat there, not speaking, for about five minutes before the silence got to her. That was one thing I had noticed about the vehoe. Silence made them edgy and uncomfortable.

  “You don’t talk much, do you?” Lucy remarked.

  “Reckon not,” I answered succinctly, and we both laughed.

  “It’s a big country, isn’t it?” she said wonderingly. “I had no idea it would be so big, or so empty. It makes me feel small, insignificant somehow. Even the sky seems bigger here than it did back home.”

  “It’s a big land, all right,” I agreed. “But it’s not empty. There’s game aplenty. And people, if you know where to look.”

  “Indian people,” Lucy said with a shudder. “And you know where to find them, don’t you?”

  “Yeah,” I said with a sigh. “I know where to find them.”

  “I heard about what happened between you and Willie Ryan. Doesn’t that kind of thing bother you?”

  “It bothers the hell out of me,” I admitted. “But there’s not much I can do about it.”

  “You could have punched him in the nose.”

  “I can’t punch the whole world in the nose.”

  “Is it as bad as that?”

  “Yeah, most places it is.”

  “You know Lemuel and I don’t feel that way. We’re very grateful to you for all you’ve done. We’d never have made it this far without your help. And Jimmy idolizes you.”

  “He’s a fine boy.”

  “Yes. Lem and I have high hopes for him...”

  Her voice tailed off as Stoddard began coughing. Quick tears of worry and concern filled her eyes. She tried to wipe them away without letting me see them.

  “He’s getting worse, isn’t he?” I asked gently.

  “Yes. Oh, John, I’m so afraid he’s not going to make it. What’ll I do? We sold our house back east, everything we own, to make this trip. The doctor said a change of climate was his only hope, and now...I’m so afraid.”

  I don’t know how it happened, but suddenly Lucy was in my arms, her head buried against my shoulder. The body inside the loose-fitting calico dress was firm and slender, and I caught the faint scent of soap and fresh-baked bread.

  “Don’t worry,” I said, brushing a wisp of hair from her cheek. “I’ll make sure you get settled all right.”

  “Would you, John? I’d be ever so grateful.”

  I held her for a long time, sitting there by the dying fire, while she let the tears she had been holding back flow freely.

  Lucy Stoddard was a pretty woman in a quiet sort of way. She had wavy brown hair and luminous brown eyes. I had always thought of her as being a lot older than I was, but in reality she wasn’t more than three or four years my senior. Holding her in my arms, I found myself having thoughts I had no right to be having.

  Gently, I put her away from me. “You’d best be turning in,” I suggested. “It’s getting late.”

  “It is late,” she murmured. “Thanks for listening.”

  “Any time. Goodnight, Missus Stoddard.”

  “Goodnight, John,” she replied softly. And continued to sit there, watching me.

  I frowned, confused by the invitation shining in her eyes. Lucy Stoddard was a married woman, and I knew she loved her husband. Yet there was no mistaking that wanton invitation. I’d seen it too many times before in other eyes. I knew all I had to do was reach for her, and she would be in my arms, warm and willing.

  I drew in a deep breath and let it out in a soft sigh. I’d received that same silent invitation numerous times in the past. Women, be they naughty or nice, seemed to find me attractive. I didn’t know why, only that it was true. I
wasn’t overly handsome, so I’d always figured it was my Cheyenne blood that attracted them, or maybe the fact that I was considered off-limits by decent folk.

  I guess Lucy Stoddard knew what I was thinking because her cheeks turned scarlet and she refused to meet my eyes.

  “I’m so ashamed,” she whispered. “I love my husband. I really do. But he’s been sick for so long...” Her voice dropped even lower, so that I had to lean forward to catch the last few words. “I’ve been watching you since the first day, as love-sick as any school girl.”

  She looked so forlorn, sitting there with her head bowed and her cheeks flushed, I couldn’t help myself. With a sigh, I pulled her into my arms. And she came to me readily, just as I’d known she would.

  The camp was quiet, the cook fires cold. My bedroll was under the Stoddard wagon and somehow we wound up there, our bodies pressed close together. She was all fire, Lucy was. It had been a long time since her man had satisfied her. And it had been a long time since I’d held a woman. Lucy wasn’t the least bit shy in bed and our coupling was as passionate and intense as anything I’d ever known.

  Later, I held her close while she cried bitter tears of shame. I suppose she spent a guilt-ridden night. I know I did. Lemuel Stoddard had been good to me, letting me bed down under his wagon, sharing his food, trusting me to help him out, and I had repaid him by sleeping with his wife. I hadn’t meant for it to happen, and I didn’t intend for it to happen again.

  Lucy was cool toward me the next day, but there was a faint flush in her cheeks whenever she caught me looking in her direction, and I knew she was embarrassed at what had happened the night before.

  Later that evening, I managed to catch her alone. “Listen, Missus Stoddard...Lucy...I’m sorry about last night...”

  “Please, John, let’s not talk about it. I want to forget it ever happened.”

  “Sure. You want me to move my gear elsewhere?”

  “No...”

  I was stretched out under the Stoddard wagon late that night, almost asleep, when Lucy slipped under my blankets, clad in nothing but her chemise.

  “John,” she whispered huskily. “Tell me it’s all right for me to be here.”

  “Lucy...”

  I guess she heard the uncertainty in my voice, because she quickly placed her hand over my mouth.

  “I couldn’t stay away,” she said. “I’ve been thinking about you, about this, all day.”

  I’d sworn never to touch her again, but damn, I wasn’t made of steel and all my good intentions evaporated like the morning dew as her arms went around my neck.

  When she tiptoed back inside her wagon, I vowed never to touch her again. And I made that vow every morning for the next two weeks.

  And broke it every night.

  Chapter 18

  I left the wagon camp before dawn a few days later, needing some time to be alone with my thoughts. Cuckolding Lemuel Stoddard filled me with self-disgust, and yet I couldn’t seem to keep my hands off Lucy. I had been a long time without a woman, and she had been a long time without a man.

  Lost in thought, I rode straight across the trackless plain, always heading west. Out here, alone, I was part of the land. Senses dulled by years of city living and months behind bars suddenly grew sharp again, and I absorbed the sights and sounds and smells without conscious thought. I was riding a big Appaloosa mare, and she moved tirelessly beneath me.

  As we went on, I saw a deer grazing in a thick stand of timber. Later, I spied a grizzly scratching itself against a rock. The Cheyenne believed bears possessed spiritual power and were able to heal themselves, and other bears.

  Still later, I saw an eagle soaring overhead, his wings widespread as he drifted through the air, lazily searching for prey. The Cheyenne believed that eagles, ravens, hawks, owls and magpies possessed power in matters of war. Because of this belief, their feathers were often attached to shields.

  Riding out there alone, things I had been taught long ago began to come back to me. Coyotes and wolves were considered sacred, and were not to be killed. It was believed that the feathers of the blue hawk could protect a man in battle.

  The grassland rose and fell in gentle swells and I moved cautiously, ever aware that a mounted war party could be lurking in any fold of ground. Yet I sensed to danger, and I rode on and on, thoroughly enjoying my solitary ride.

  About noon, I turned back, reluctant to join the wagon train, yet equally reluctant to ride off and leave Lucy Stoddard and her family to fend for themselves. Lemuel was growing weaker with each passing day. He rarely left his bed inside the wagon now, and I knew he couldn’t hold on much longer. Lucy knew it, too. Stoddard coughed almost constantly now, often spitting up blood. He had lost so much weight in the last few days, he looked more like a skeleton wearing a thin layer of skin than a man. Death was in his eyes, but Lucy kept hoping for a miracle.

  I rode back at an easy lope, feeling guilty for leaving Lucy to drive the wagon.

  I cut across the plains, planning to catch up with the train in time to unhitch the team and gather wood for the fire. I met up with a band of Sioux warriors instead.

  These braves had had better luck hunting than the last bunch I’d seen, and their paint ponies were heavily laden with game. I didn’t see Kills Quick among them, but I did see another familiar face. It was the warrior from the circus, the one with the scar on his cheek.

  “Ho, brother,” he said warmly. “It is good to see you again.”

  “Yes. I see the hunting was good today.”

  “Very good,” he said proudly. “My warriors are the best hunters in the Nation. Come, let us talk. Kills Quick told me you were crossing our land with a group of palefaces.”

  We hunkered down around a small fire while a couple of warriors skinned a deer and began roasting the meat over the hot coals.

  The Indians were in a bad mood, but who could blame them? The whites had decimated the great herds of buffalo, leaving only a handful of the shaggy beasts where there had once been countless thousands.

  General George Armstrong Custer had discovered gold in French Creek in ’74, and gold always meant trouble. General Sheridan had sent a wire to General Alfred Terry, who had been head of the Department of the Dakotas at the time, ordering him to use all the force at his command to keep the whites out of Indian Territory.

  But it had been like trying to stop the incoming tide with a sponge, and prospectors had poured into the Black Hills, searching for gold, followed by whores and con men. Then the farmers and the cattlemen had come, lured west by Custer’s glowing descriptions of the land - abundant timber and grass and game - breaking the treaty that had promised the Black Hill stolen the Sioux and Cheyenne for as long as waters shall flow and the grasses grow.

  The Indians witting around me were talking war, but there was always talk of war on the plains. War with the settlers. War with the soldiers. War with the Crow and the Pawnee. Still, as I listened to these warriors voice their complaints, I had the uneasy feeling that they weren’t making idle conversation this time. Sitting Bull and Crazy Horse were stirring up the tribes. The Sioux and the Cheyenne were restless, and even now, many of the tribes were on the move, migrating toward the Old Bull’s camp.

  “Ride with us,” the scar-faced warrior said, handing me a slice of venison. “You will be welcome in our lodges.”

  It was tempting. Almost, I said yes. But then I remembered the Stoddard family, and I knew I couldn’t turn my back on them. Lemuel was counting on me to see his family safely settled.

  “Perhaps our paths will cross again in the near future,” I said, rising. “But for now I must ride with my white brothers.”

  “Go in peace then,” my friend said.

  Minutes later, the fire was out. Mounted now, we sat for a moment, enjoying the warmth of the sun on our backs.

  A warrior did not ask another warrior his name. It was not polite. But I felt a close kinship with these warriors and if I never saw them again, I wanted them to remember m
e, so I said,

  “To the whites, I am known as John McKenna, but among the Cheyenne, I am Black Wolf.”

  “I am Lone Bull,” my friend replied solemnly, and clasped my forearm.

  “May the Great Spirit guide your steps,” I said.

  “Amba washtay, le mita cola,” he replied. Goodbye, my friend.

  And with that, we parted.

  * * *

  I rode away from the wagon train again the next morning, ostensibly to look for game, though in reality I just wanted to be alone. The rolling land called to me, beckoning me with the promise of wide open spaces and sunlit prairies, reminding me of the days of my youth when I rode wild and free, unencumbered by responsibility.

  Riding across the grassland, with the mountains ahead and the scent of sage heavy in my nostrils, I felt all my worries drain away. For now, the only thing that mattered was the tall yellow grass brushing my pony’s underbelly, and the soft caress of the wind in my face as it whispered to me of days gone by.

  The mountains, the rivers, the animals prowling the hills and valley, they were all a part of me, a part I had sorely missed, and I drank in the sights and sounds, feeling my senses come alive, feeling my Indian blood stir with the excitement of exploring familiar country. The Cheyenne war cry rose in my throat and as the notes of the long, ululating cry died away, I laughed aloud. Damn, but it was good to be alive and riding the plains again!

  Cresting a small rise, I pulled the Appaloosa to a halt. For a moment, there was only silence, a great empty silence, as if the whole world was holding its breath. And then I heard the sound of hoof beats, muffled by the tall grass. Turning in the saddle, I saw Laurie McDougal riding toward me, her long auburn hair streaming behind her.

  I muttered an oath as she reined up beside me, breathless.

  “You little fool,” I scolded. “Don’t you know better than to be riding out here alone? Do you want that pretty hair of yours hanging from a Sioux lodgepole?”

  Laurie’s chin went up defiantly, her green eyes glinting like shards of bottle glass. “I know better,” she snapped, “but I thought you might like some company.”