Feather in the Wind

by Madeline Baker

  Cavalry life had seemed much more interesting and romantic in the movies, Susannah mused as they walked along. Men in neatly pressed dark-blue uniforms, crisp red and white guidons snapping in the wind, smiling women in brightly colored calico dresses and wide-brimmed sunbonnets, high-stepping horses. Reality was much more…gritty.

  “There aren’t many women here,” she remarked.

  “No,” he agreed. “It’s a hard life for a woman. Not many take to it.”

  “I noticed an Indian chopping wood yesterday.”

  Carter grunted softly. “Tate Sapa.”

  “Is that his name?”

  “Yes.”

  “What does it mean?”

  “Black Wind.”

  The name hit her with the force of a blow. The man who had sold her the picture had told her the Indian’s name was Black Wind. “What did he do?”

  “Killed a cow.”

  “That’s all? He’s in chains, doing hard labor, for stealing one cow.” And even as she said the words, she remembered saying almost the same thing to the man at the reenactor workshop.

  “He’s lucky they didn’t hang him.”

  “Is he? Maybe he was hungry.”

  “I’m sure he was. Most of them are, now that the buffalo herds are dwindling.”

  “How long has he been locked up?” Susannah asked, remembering that Brightman had told her Black Wind had been sentenced to three years hard labor.

  “I’m not sure. About six months, I think.”

  “I think it’s horrible, treating him like that.”

  Carter shrugged.

  “Why was he whipped?”

  “Insubordination.”

  “I’d like to go back now,” Susannah declared, and began walking briskly back the way they had come.

  “Miss Kingston! Susannah, wait!”

  She stopped abruptly, her arms folded over her chest. “What do you want?”

  “I didn’t arrest him. I didn’t beat him.” Carter took a deep breath. “And I don’t understand your concern. He’s just a damned savage.”

  “He’s a human being!”

  “I could argue that with you, but I won’t.” He smiled at her as he offered his arm. “Don’t be angry.”

  She glared at him a moment, then, with a sigh, she took his arm. She didn’t agree with what he’d said but, given the time and the place, she could understand it. “I’m sorry.”

  “Forget it.”

  “I want to thank you again for the bed and the other things you brought me.”

  “My pleasure.”

  “I appreciate it.” Carter had showed up at her hut that morning, along with four other soldiers. They had set up a bed, carried in a small table and a chair, a couple of lamps, rugs for the floors, a few dishes and utensils.

  “The other women were glad to give you what they could.”

  “It was very nice of them.”

  “You’ll meet them all tonight. The colonel is celebrating his anniversary, and the officers and their wives have been invited. He asked me to invite you as well.”

  “Oh.”

  “With your permission, I shall call for you at eight.”

  Susannah nodded. “Eight.”

  He walked her to her door, bowed over her hand. “Until tonight, Miss Susannah.”

  “Thanks for the walk.”

  “My pleasure.”

  She watched him as he walked briskly away, thinking she really didn’t want to go to a party at the colonel’s. For one thing, she wasn’t comfortable meeting strangers; for another, she didn’t have anything suitable to wear. But she had the feeling that an invite to the colonel’s was like a command from the king.

  * * * * *

  The O’Neills’ hut was as different from Susannah’s as sunlight from moonlight. Thick carpets covered the ugly wooden floors, colorful paintings brightened the drab walls. The furniture was comfortable but elegant. Pictures of the O’Neills’ children and grandchildren were everywhere.

  Mrs. O’Neill reminded Susannah of a bird. She was small and quick and cheerful, an amazing contrast to her tall, rather staid husband. She welcomed Susannah with a smile and a hug and made her feel as if they had been friends for years.

  “My husband tells me you don’t remember how you got here,” Mrs. O’Neill said. “Well, don’t you worry, I’m sure it will come back to you. And in the meantime, it’ll be nice having another woman on the post. Come along and meet the others.”

  The other women present took their cue from the colonel’s wife. All four of them came forward and introduced themselves to Susannah, saying she must be sure to let them know if she needed anything, inviting her to join them in their reading circle, which was to be held at the colonel’s house the following day.

  “We’re reading Les Miserables,” Barbara Nethington told Susannah. “Have you read it?”

  “Yes.” And seen the Broadway show, she thought, stifling a grin.

  “Do join us,” Lily Sweeney urged with a smile. “It will be so refreshing to have a new face to look at.”

  “And hear a new opinion,” Louise Riva replied with a wry grin.

  “I’d like to, thank you.”

  As in every gathering Susannah had ever attended, the women eventually ended up in the kitchen, talking about their husbands and babies, while the men sat in the living room. Susannah was surprised by the numerous ways the frontier wives had found to keep themselves entertained. There was an activity almost every day of the week. They had a reading group, a sewing circle, a day when they met to play cards. They went on picnics and nature walks with their children. Louise Riva was teaching them to speak French. There was a dance once a month.

  Dinner was served at eight. Susannah, who had always felt nervous and uneasy with strangers, found herself feeling right at home.

  After dinner, the men went outside to smoke while the ladies took sherry in the parlor. Later, they played charades, then everyone toasted the colonel and his wife, congratulating them on forty years of marriage and wishing them forty more. Carrot cake and champagne followed. Mrs. O’Neill insisted everyone take a piece of cake home.

  Lieutenant Carter walked Susannah back to her hut.

  “Did you have a good time?” he asked.

  “Yes, thank you.”

  “I’m glad. Do you think you could get to like it here?”

  “Yes, why?” she asked. But she already knew why. Women were scarce on the frontier. Barbara Nethington had told her that single women didn’t last long. Old or young, pretty or plain, they were inevitably quickly married. It was so hard to keep help that, in some instances, people looking for hired help advertised for homely girls in hopes they would stay single longer.

  They had reached her house now. Carter took her hand in his. “Miss Susannah, I know this is sudden, but I find you most attractive and I was wondering, that is, if you don’t mind, I should like your leave to court you.”

  With an effort, Susannah stifled the urge to bat her eyelashes. She couldn’t help it, she felt like she was caught up in an old B Western.

  “I’ve offended you, haven’t I?” Carter said, clearly mistaking her silence for rejection.

  “Not at all,” Susannah said quickly. “It’s just that, I mean, we’ve only just met.”

  “Then you wouldn’t mind?”

  “No, Lieutenant, I’d be honored.”

  “Thank you, Miss Susannah.” He squeezed her hand. “Good night.”

  “Good night, Lieutenant. Thank you for a lovely evening.”

  “My pleasure.”

  Smiling, she watched him walk away.

  For a time, she stood in the moonlight, pondering the twist of fate that had brought her here. And then, inevitably, she found herself thinking of the Indian. Black Wind.

  Before she quite realized what she was doing, she found herself walking toward the guardhouse.

  Chapter Five

  He came awake suddenly and knew, without knowing how he knew, that she was nearby.


  He stood up, grimacing as pain lanced through the half-healed lacerations on his back and shoulders. He chided himself again for his lack of self-control, for continuing to defy the soldiers who guarded him. It was foolish to do so, but he could only endure their ridicule and their insults for so long before his pride rebelled, before the urge to strike out against his enemies overcame his reason and rage smothered logic.

  In the past five months, he had been whipped on several occasions, denied food and water on others, but he refused to cower before them, refused to surrender his pride. It was the only thing of value left to him.

  The muscles in his back and shoulders ached from the hours he had spent felling timber late that afternoon.

  Feeling old beyond his years, he moved to the window and peered into the darkness.

  And she was there, walking toward him in the moonlight.

  He drank in the sight of her, wondering, as he did so, why her mere presence had the power to soothe the anger and frustration that tormented him.

  His hands curled around the cold iron bars as her steps slowed. Come to me, he thought. Let me see your face again, hear your voice again.

  He took a deep breath, his nostrils filling with myriad scents—damp earth, sage, the stink of his own unwashed body, but, overall, the sweet fragrance of the woman.

  “Hi,” she said. A tentative smile played over her lips as she held out her hand. “I brought you something.”

  Slowly, he reached for what she offered. Unfolding the cloth, he frowned at the triangular-shaped lump in the palm of his hand.

  “It’s cake,” the woman said.

  He sniffed it suspiciously, his stomach growling at the thought of food. He was hungry all the time. In the morning, the guard brought him a bowl of mush and a cup of black coffee; at night, he received a hunk of well-done meat, a piece of dry bread and a glass of water. At noon, if he was lucky, he got meat and cheese and something to drink.

  “Taste it,” the woman urged, lifting her hand to her mouth. “It’s good.”

  He took a bite, smiled, wolfed down the rest and wished for more. “Pilamaya,” he said, and returned the cloth to the woman.

  “I wish you could speak English,” she said. “Not that we have anything to say to each other.”

  Tate Sapa remained mute. No one knew he spoke English, and he preferred to keep it that way. He had learned much by feigning ignorance of the white man’s language. But he was not thinking of that now. He watched the way the moon-dappled shadows played over her face. She frightened him, this woman from his vision, made him feel things he had never felt before.

  “Nituwe hwo?” he mused aloud. Who are you?

  Her beauty mesmerized him. She was small and delicate. Her skin was smooth and clear. He wished he dared touch her skin and discover for himself if it was as soft as it looked. He yearned to touch her hair, feel it curl around his fingers. He had never seen anyone with hair like hers before.

  She took a step closer, her gaze seeking his. “I wish I knew who you really were,” she whispered. “I know it’s silly, but I feel like you’re the reason I’m here. I wish…”

  Her words emboldened him. Knowing it was dangerous, knowing he would be severely punished if she betrayed him, he reached through the bars.

  Susannah’s mouth went dry as his calloused hand cupped her cheek.

  “Cocola,” he said, a note of wonder in his voice. Soft, so soft. And warm.

  She didn’t pull away, but stood there, her gaze locked on his, as he drew his knuckles over her cheek, then lifted a lock of her hair. He made a soft sound in his throat as her hair curled around his finger.

  Susannah swallowed hard, bewildered by the rapid beating of her heart. Her legs felt suddenly weak; there seemed to be butterflies dancing in her stomach.

  He ran his thumb over the curl of hair wrapped around his finger, then, with obvious reluctance, took his hand from her hair.

  “Su-san-nah.”

  The fact that he remembered her name made her feel ridiculously happy.

  “Tate Sapa,” she replied.

  He nodded, a faint smile touching his lips.

  Susannah felt her heart turn over. His hair was unkempt, his face streaked with dirt, but none of that mattered. He was the most handsome of men! Just the merest smile, yet it changed his countenance completely, softening the hard lines, erasing the bitterness from the depths of his eyes. No doubt a full-blown smile would render her unconscious, she mused.

  She looked at his hands, large capable hands that were wrapped around the bars, and yearned to feel his fingertips against her cheek once again.

  Heart pounding, she reached up and took one of his hands in hers. He had big hands, the palms calloused, the fingers long.

  Tate Sapa frowned, surprised that she would touch him of her own free will. In the distance, he heard one of the sentinels calling out the post number and the hour, reminding him again that he would be severely punished if anyone knew he had laid his hands on her. It wouldn’t matter that she had come to him. He would be the one to suffer for it.

  Susannah glanced at their joined hands, at her fingers entwined with his, and gently pulled away. “It’s late. I’d better get back.”

  “Ye sni yo,” he murmured softly. Don’t go.

  She heard the gentle pleading in his voice and wished she knew what he was saying. “Good night.”

  Tate Sapa watched her walk away, the gentle swaying of her hips making him yearn for things that could never be.

  “Su-san-nah.” He whispered her name into the darkness, and knew he would find no rest in his bed that night.

  * * * * *

  They came for him early the next morning, ordering him out of his cramped cell. Thrusting a shovel and a rake into his hands, they marched him to the stables and put him to work mucking the stalls that housed the officers’ horses.

  The chains that hobbled his feet rattled annoyingly with every move he made. His ankles were raw from their constant chafing.

  He worked steadily, removing soiled straw and replacing it with fresh.

  The smell of manure, old and fresh, filled the air, mingling with the odor of his own sweat.

  Thoughts of home crowded his mind—the sun-swept prairies, the clean scents of earth and sage and sweet grass, the aroma of roasting buffalo hump.

  The scent of flowers that clung to the hair of the white woman…

  Since the moment he had first seen her in vision, she had never been far from his thoughts. And now she was here. Again, he wondered who she was, and what had brought her to this place.

  Was it possible she had been sent here to rescue him? If so, she was truly wakán. He had tried twice to escape, and failed both times.

  He grimaced at the memory of the punishment that had followed: days of being chained to the wall, forced to stand for hours on end with his hands shackled high above his head, denied food or drink.

  He put his shovel aside and stroked the neck of the colonel’s big black horse. Mounted on such an animal, he could ride like the wind for home. No one would be able to catch him.

  He glanced at the shackles that hobbled his feet day and night. Save for the manacles, he would vault onto the animal’s back and make a run for it.

  And he would take the white woman with him.

  The thought made him smile.

  “Hey, redskin, get back to work!”

  Wiping the smile from his face, Tate Sapa took hold of the stallion’s lead rope and led the horse from the stall. Outside, he tethered the black to the hitch rack.

  He was about to go back into the barn when he caught a glimpse of Susannah. She was walking around the parade ground with several other white women, but he had eyes only for her. She moved with the grace of a young doe. He saw her smile, and then, like a gift from Wakán Tanka, the breeze brought him the soft sound of her laughter.

  “What are you doin’, starin’ at those women, buck?” The harsh voice of the duty sergeant grated on Tate Sapa’s ears even a
s the man’s crop fell across his back. “I told you to get to work!”

  Hands clenched, Tate Sapa went back into the barn, yearning for his freedom, for the chance to vent his anger on the white men who rode him so mercilessly, treating him as if he were some kind of inhuman creature without heart or mind or feelings.

  He stared at the pitchfork propped against one of the stalls. It would make a formidable weapon. But even as he considered it, he knew it would be suicide to strike out against his guards. They would shoot him down without question or qualm.

  And yet, maybe that would not be so bad. Surely he could kill or injure several of the wasichu before they killed him. He could die fighting, as a warrior should. Hokahey. Perhaps it was a good day to die…

  He shook the thought from his mind. Death would always be there, waiting. For now, he would bide his time. He might yet find a way to escape this place.

  * * * * *

  At dusk, Susannah stood at the window, listening to the company bugler blow retreat. Impossible as it seemed, she’d been at the fort a week now. She had made friends with the other women and actually enjoyed their company. They were a close-knit group, bound together by circumstances and proximity. It amazed Susannah that they managed to keep busy and seemed quite content to live in this dreary place.

  The bugle sounded again, drawing her attention back to the men. Attired in their dress uniforms, the entire garrison, save for those men standing guard, were assembled on the parade ground.

  She had learned much of army routine in the last few days. It seemed the bugle was constantly calling men to duty. She had never realized that the soldiers took turns cleaning the stables and working in the kitchen. They spent time on the rifle range, and time drilling on the parade ground. Something called guard mount took place every morning. The men detailed for duty were assembled in front of their company quarters, inspected by the first sergeant, then marched to the parade ground, in front of the guardhouse, where they were inspected by the sergeant major. When he was satisfied with the old and new guard formations, he reported to the officer of the day that the guard was formed. The officer of the day then inspected the guard, ordering them through the manual of arms. Passwords were given, and the new guard replaced the old for the next twenty-four hours.