by Karen Kay
Luckily, the young boy whom the man had called brother remained with them, somewhat easing Anna’s nerves.
In signs she asked the lad, “What is happening?”
He answered her in the same manner. “We will split up into different groups now. It is the best way to lose those warrior-whites who will seek to follow us.”
She asked, “But wouldn’t it be better to stay together, united? The more of you there are, the less likely you are to be hurt.”
The youngster gave her a considering glance. “Why should you care about what happens to us? You are white.”
Anna shrugged. “It is only that I do not understand.”
He nodded and answered, “To lose an enemy, it is necessary to be able to disappear. One cannot do that easily in a large group, but splitting up into smaller and smaller units, one can at last lead the trail into nothing. In this way we will lose the warrior-whites.”
Anna still could not grasp the sense of it and so she asked, “But if you do that, what is to keep them from coming after our party instead? With the children, we will not be able to move very quickly.”
“E-tse-ena’estse-hapo’e-eestse-ve, hova’ehe eohkesaapo’ nohtsestahenovo.” With these words, the boy appeared exasperated. Patiently, however, the boy signed, “My brother will lead us and I will cover our trail. Do not worry. We will lose them.”
Again she shrugged. “I do not worry.”
Bringing his closed hands in front of him, with his thumbs outstretched, and moving them to the right and then to the left, the youth gave her the sign that their talk was finished. Yet within only a matter of minutes, he asked her, “Why did you come to my rescue, back there on the fire wagon?”
Anna allowed herself a slight smile. Ah, he meant the train. She signed, “You are too young to be treated in such a manner.”
“I am not too young!” came the instant signs. “I am a warrior, as brave as any other. I would gladly die for my brother and for my people.”
Again Anna smiled. She signed, “Perhaps you misunderstand. I do not believe that anyone of any age should be handled in such a manner. And you are right. You are a warrior, true.”
“Humph!” the boy uttered, and left her to go to the rear where Anna could see the youth working to conceal their trail.
Anna did not know why it was so important to her to appease this young lad.
Hadn’t this group killed every other white person on the train? Weren’t she and the children even now the unwilling captives of this boy’s relative, the tall brave?
Yet this boy had saved their lives and he had not been a part of the mass killings, she reminded herself.
At least, she thought, she and the children were alive. They had a chance. It was enough—at least for the time being.
Chapter Four
“Damn!” War Cloud muttered, as he trod along the path he had set, using—and quite aptly, too—the English curse word. Had his own descriptive language carried a few of its own choice words, he might have used them also—and gladly—so sour was his mood. As it was, he had to content himself with English.
“Na’neha, my brother, what does this word, ‘damn,’ mean?” Lame Bird’s tongue slid over the blasphemy as he hurried along beside his elder.
War Cloud growled, but answered nonetheless, “It is a bad word and means to speak about the white man’s God in a critical way.”
“You would do that?” asked the youngster. “You would speak of this God in a harmful manner?”
“He is not the same god as the Cheyenne Creator,” justified War Cloud. “What do I care about how I speak of Him?”
The younger brother shrugged, but said nothing, though he did slow his gait.
Meanwhile, War Cloud turned his mind to the problem at hand: a party of whites—he was leading a party of whites to safety—and he, a Cheyenne Dog Soldier…who should be killing these people, not helping them. Had this same incident happened only yesterday, and without the interference of his brother, these whites would be lying dead along with the others. Such was his right as well as his duty to the spirits of his family.
A life for a life. It was the justice of Indian law. And as the Great Spirit must surely know, War Cloud still had many more lives to take before he could fully atone for the injustices done to him and his kin.
“Damn!” War Cloud muttered once more.
“Do you use that word because of the white woman?” asked the boy who had once more hurried to War Cloud’s side.
War Cloud did not answer. Of course his ill mood had everything to do with the white woman and these children, he thought. But he would not tell his younger brother this. To do so would be a disgrace. For such a confession would be a form of criticism, an insult to the youngster’s judgment. It might also serve to cloud the young man’s decision making in the future.
No, Lame Bird had made a resolution. War Cloud would try to honor it. Still…
“She is a brave woman,” said the boy.
War Cloud grunted.
It was a true statement, but War Cloud would not easily admit it, not even to himself. All he could think of at present—all he could consider—was how he had come to this.
Lame Bird lapsed into silence and War Cloud chided himself. He should show more approval for his brother’s decision.
At length, War Cloud admitted, “She is indeed a brave woman. And perhaps that is what worries me.”
“What do you mean?”
“You know what I would do if we were to meet another Indian party. You know what would happen if they wanted the white woman’s and her children’s scalps…”
“I would fight them,” said the boy.
“I would not,” War Cloud uttered. “Why should I? What have those white people done for me?”
“She, and she alone, defended me from some men who wanted to kill me,” said the youngster. “When they came after me, she hid me from them.”
War Cloud cursed beneath his breath.
Lame Bird asserted, “You say you would not defend her and yet you sent the rest of our party on toward Tall Bull’s camp. You must have been thinking of shielding her then.”
War Cloud did not answer.
And the lad went on, “If this is so, it is good, for this shows that, despite your need to avenge yourself, you would honor me.”
Again, War Cloud remained silent.
Lame Bird continued, “We should avoid all Indian parties, as well as the whites, at least until you have decided what to do with these people. Do you have a plan yet?”
A low growl was the boy’s only answer.
But if the lad noticed, he cheerfully ignored it. Instead he fell back into silence while War Cloud checked his surroundings.
He had no choice, War Cloud decided. He had to go north. Even now the warrior-whites swarmed over the Kansas frontier, making it difficult for any well-trained warrior to travel safely or to make camp in this country, let alone to attempt it in the company of a band of white children. A band of white children, he might add, who were most likely inexperienced in the ways of the prairie.
After a time, Lame Bird scooted up closer to War Cloud’s side and asked, “Do you think Ten Bulls and the others will return and try to do harm to the woman and children?”
War Cloud shrugged, saying, “Hova’ahane, I do not think so.”
“And if they do…?”
War Cloud squinted his eyes and looked away from the boy. He said, “You know that I cannot take up arms against my own people. Especially when most of our people have lost a son or a daughter, or some other relative to the treasonous guns of the white man. Let us hope that we do not meet anyone upon the trail so that our loyalties are tested.”
“But—”
“Did the white man stay his hand when the Cheyenne came to him in peace? Did the white man show mercy? Twice the warrior-whites invited our people to pitch our camps close to him, and each time the white man spoke only of peace. Yet, our people who trusted, our people who believ
ed him, have been slaughtered under the guns of the white man’s ‘peace talks.’”
“But she is not the same as those.”
“She is white. She is an enemy. I will not endeavor to help her overly much.”
“But—”
“Is it not bad enough to lose a loved one in an honest battle? But to have one taken from you when we were promised only peace… You must know that after Sand Creek and the Washita, even those wise men who had been for reconciliation with the whites have begun to reconsider. Those massacres would not have occurred had our chiefs not been trying to make those peace talks.”
Lame Bird remained silent. After a pause, he said, “Still, I would let her go before I would let you kill her.”
“She would die if you released her. Do you think she would know how to find food? How to find the white man’s villages?”
“Then I would stay with her.”
“Eaaa!”
“Na’neha, my brother,” said Lame Bird, “I, too, do not wish to have to test my loyalty against my own people. Could we not avoid them and all other parties?”
“We could,” said War Cloud, “we can, if I decide that is the best thing we can do.”
Again, Lame Bird became silent, while War Cloud kept his own counsel and deliberately increased his pace.
With the weight of the train fight behind him, he had to put distance between himself and that battle. He also had to think.
What he had told the boy was true. At the start of the trouble, only a few Cheyennes had been for war. Armistice should have been an easy thing to obtain, for the peace chiefs had exerted their influence over the people. Only the Dog Soldiers had spoken the war-talk, but no one had really listened.
It had been a hard thing to realize, for within the memories of the people there was no incident by which to compare this thing. Lies had been told to the people in order to get them within fighting distance. Peace had been promised them, yet under the cover of darkness, the Cheyennes had been murdered, killing almost all—leaving no exceptions, not even sparing the women and children. Never could anyone remember such treachery.
It seemed so pointless, too. Had peace been kept, had the white man honored his word, the Dog Soldiers would have been disgraced, the Cheyenne people would have deserted the Dog Soldier camps, and as the peace chiefs had planned, harmony would have come to this country.
War Cloud snorted. He recalled a time when he had been for peace, when he had been amongst Black Kettle’s friendly band. But that had been long ago, before Sand Creek, before the Washita.
Now, barely a day went by that did not see War Cloud either considering revenge or exacting it.
He called Lame Bird once more to his side, saying, “I have decided what we will do with these people.”
Lame Bird remained silent.
“We will take them to the North, into the Lakota camp of Spotted Tail. I am told that these people live in relative harmony with the whites and that their Indian agent is a man sympathetic to our cause.”
“That is a good plan.”
War Cloud nodded. “But do not be mistaken. If our people discover us with these whites, I will not keep my friends from avenging themselves upon these white people. It is their right.”
Lame Bird nodded.
“You will scout,” said War Cloud and then, as if the thought had only occurred to him, he asked, “Do you think that all these children are her own?”
Lame Bird hesitated, then asked, “Does it matter?”
Did it? Of course not. Still, War Cloud could not account for the discontentment that swept over him.
“You go now to these white people and tell them to give me no trouble. You direct them to be quiet and you instruct them that if they do not do as I ask, I will kill them all.”
Lame Bird nodded. “I will ensure they will obey you.”
“Humph!”
And would they? Would they comply with his wishes? War Cloud decided he did not care. So great was his frustration, he knew he would not hesitate to follow through on his threat if the opportunity presented itself.
But so far, it had not. No, at present the most he could do to vent his rage was to utter another well-chosen “Damn!”
Lame Bird flinched, but War Cloud took no note of it. Instead he set his course to the north and west, toward the south fork of the Republican and Smoky Hill area.
Turning to Lame Bird, War Cloud ordered, “Go and tell those whites what I have said. Then you must leave to determine whether it is safe to journey to the North. We will meet again in three days.”
Lame Bird nodded and, turning, trod off in the direction of the woman and her children.
Chapter Five
Dusk had fallen all around them. The children sat huddled close together. Every now and again one of the younger boys would speak, but only so very softly. They were too afraid, most of them, to do anything else. At least not since the young Indian boy had warned them about making any noise.
He had also cautioned them that they were to obey the tall Indian, if they wanted to live.
Anna did not think she would have any trouble doing that. The man, as well as her duty to these children, scared her into being silent.
It was daunting to think that she, and she alone, would have to carry on the mission to place these children, if that were even still possible. She could only hope that it was.
That these thoughts made her wonder what the tall brave had planned for them, caused her yet another worry. Did she dare try to discover his intentions? Would he kill her if she broached the subject?
Somehow Anna doubted it. That his younger relative, his brother, had come to their aid had made the tall brave reconsider his actions, and perhaps that still gave her protection. She had to remember that the tall brave had not yet killed them, and she did not think he meant to do it at all—she hoped.
Anna tried to remember again the accounts she had read of white people in Indian captivity. She seemed to recall noting somewhere that if an Indian didn’t kill his victim, he might intend to rape her. Is this what the tall brave had planned for her?
It seemed plausible, but again, she could not envision the tall Indian committing such a deed. Might he, however, arrange to give her to someone else in his camp who would think nothing of committing that act?
And the children. What would he do to the children? With something akin to horror, Anna realized that she was going to have to discover this man’s intentions. Not only that, if those plans did not bode well for herself and her orphans, she was going to have to convince him to change his mind.
And so it was that, upon this note, Anna decided to seek out this savage warrior. She took in a deep gulp of air and, leaving the children with the oldest of them, ventured out of their camp, toward their captor.
As she sauntered toward him, she observed that darkness had begun to creep over the grassy Kansas landscape, bringing with it the evening song of crickets. She stopped to listen for a moment, their familiar chant soothing to her spirit.
Swallowing nervously, she padded up to the tall brave. Since he had stationed himself atop their small hill, she hadn’t far to go.
“Excuse me,” she began, trying to capture his attention. The man turned a sharp eye on her and in reaction she caught her breath. Goodness, she thought. The extent of this man’s masculine beauty had escaped her notice. How had this happened?
Her head spun slightly with the observation. She hadn’t expected that. Not really. From the horrid accounts she had read of the Indians, she had expected to find them little more than savages, more animal than human. Certainly she had not thought to discover a man amongst them who more resembled a Grecian sculpture than a brute.
But perhaps the fault was not hers. The man had only recently washed the paint from his face, and maybe it was the war paint that had lulled her into the belief that she had been accompanying a mere savage. However, she needed to rethink her attitude, for with the brilliance of keen intelligence gleaming fr
om his eyes, it took no great effort on her part to observe that this man was no barbarian.
It was strange, because for a moment she wished that the good Lord had given her body more of an eye-pleasing appearance. Yet even as she thought the idea, she knew this wasn’t quite right. She was happy with herself, had long ago put away her dreams of knights in shining armor and of romance.
Besides, with only the children to keep the two of them company here on the prairie, she knew she should be thanking the Lord for her limitations, not wishing for more. Still, as she gazed steadily at this man, inspecting him much as he had done to her earlier, she spared a moment to do nothing more than admire him. Surely there was nothing wrong with that, was there?
With a firm set to his jaw, full lips and a slightly aquiline nose, he presented quite a picture of untamed and rugged masculinity. His eyes were dark, almost black, and his brows were heavy, set in a face that was perhaps only a few shades darker than her own. She knew she shouldn’t stare; it was a most improper thing to do, yet so stunned was she by him that she seemed little able to do more than that. Even now, as she gaped at him, a few strands of his hair fluttered forward in the wind, and with the last streaks of the sunset behind him, it created a natural-looking halo effect.
Anna felt like pinching herself, for there was a dreamlike quality to this.
But, she cautioned herself, as she finally grasped back control, she digressed. Remembering the children and her mission, she set her observations of this man aside and stiffened her resolve. Once more she voiced, “Excuse me.”
However, she was dismayed when the tall brave did not look up at her or acknowledge her in any way. It was also daunting to her since she had been admiring him and had sat herself down in front of him where he would have no choice but to see her.
Taking a deep breath, she tried again, this time adding sign language to her words. “Hello,” she began. “I would like to thank you for sparing our lives.”
But she was unprepared for his brisk response. Grunting in a most unusual guttural manner, he arose and, turning away from her, strode out onto the prairie…without a single word or a by-your-leave.
