Reckless Heart

by Madeline Baker

  “Here, let me do that,” I offered, and then, realizing he didn’t understand English, I reached for the needle.

  And screamed as his hand grasped my wrist in an iron grip. There was no mistaking the lust blazing in the Arapahoe’s deep-set black eyes, or his intent as he ripped my dress down the front and began fumbling with his breechcloth. More frightened than I had ever been before, I struggled against the leering warrior with all the strength I possessed, but try as I might, I could not free myself from his iron hand.

  Grinning expectantly, Bear Tree flipped me over onto my back and straddled my legs, and I cringed as his exposed manhood brushed my thigh.

  “No, please,” I sobbed, and when I saw there was no escape, I squeezed my eyes shut and heard myself senselessly babbling, “No, no, no,” as the panting warrior lowered himself over me. His breath was hot in my face, and I screamed with terror and revulsion as he forced my legs apart…

  “Bear Tree!”

  Shadow’s quiet voice rent the dusky stillness like a knife. Bear Tree jerked upright as if pulled by a string. Sullen-faced, he rose slowly to his feet and turned to face his chief. Shadow’s countenance was terrible to behold, and the Arapahoe warrior trembled visibly before the deadly menace in Shadow’s slit-eyed stare.

  “Have you anything to say?” Shadow asked coldly, and Bear Tree shook his head, knowing that words would not save him.

  “So be it,” Shadow rasped, and the rifle in his hands breathed fire and smoke, and Bear Tree fell backward, blood spilling freely from a hole in his chest. Once, twice, he twitched convulsively—then lay still.

  The gunshot brought the others running, and I covered my nakedness with a blanket as they gathered around the lean-to. The scene that met their eyes was easily read, and they asked no questions.

  “Throw that carrion to the wolves,” Shadow ordered curtly, and two men moved quickly to obey.

  Sensing our need to be alone, the rest of the warriors left the lean-to.

  Shadow came to me then. His face was grim as he pulled me to my feet, yet his hands were gentle as they brushed the tears from my eyes.

  Taking me in his arms, he asked hoarsely, “Are you all right?”

  “Yes,” I whispered. “Oh, Shadow, I was so afraid.”

  His voice was heavy with self-reproach as he said, “I have been a fool to leave you alone. And a bigger fool to keep you here. Tomorrow I will take you back to your own people.”

  “No!” I cried. “I won’t go. You’re my people.”

  “Hannah, be reasonable.”

  “I won’t be reasonable! And I won’t let you send me away unless…unless you don’t want me anymore.”

  “You know better than that,” he murmured, drawing me closer, and I knew I had won.

  By late summer there were three separate patrols searching for Shadow and his band of hostiles. There was a price on Shadow’s head now—a hundred dollars, dead or alive, preferably dead. Later, the bounty rose to two hundred dollars. And then three.

  With discretion being the better part of valor, we quit the broad, grassy plains of Dakota and headed for the southwest, home of the Apache. Shadow’s warriors had suffered some heavy losses in their last skirmish with the Army, and we were down to less than forty men when we crossed the border into Arizona.

  The Apache homeland appeared to be a barren wasteland populated by little more than sand and snakes. Vegetation was scarce, and what there was seemed hostile. Saguaro, catclaw, creosote, prickly pear, ocotillo—everything seemed thorny or spiny. Later, when I saw the desert in bloom, it was like a different world. And as we crossed the country, I discovered there were canyons rich with game and water, green meadows lush with grass, and mountains heavy with timber. But my first impression was one of endless desolation, and I wondered how the Apache had managed to survive so long in such a harsh environment, and why they wanted to hang on to it. I sorely missed the rolling green plains and timbered hills of the Dakotas with the sparkling waterfalls and verdant valleys alive with color.

  We had not been in Arizona long when warriors began trickling into our camp, eager to join their wild brothers. Mescalero, Jicarilla, Chiricahua, Coyotero, Mimbreno—they slipped in a few at a time until Shadow’s fighting force numbered close to seventy. A handful of these were old warriors, with iron in their hair and the scars of many battles emblazoned on their copper-hued torsos. But they had fire in their eyes and a young man’s desire to die fighting like a warrior rather than waste away on the reservation.

  I listened one night as Calf Running and his Apache brothers reminisced about the old days, when the Apaches, roaming the desert highlands, were masters of all they surveyed. Wide-eyed, I listened to tales of courage and cunning as they spoke of Mangas Coloradas, the great chief of the Warm Springs Apache. His name was Mexican in origin and meant Red Sleeves. When I asked how he acquired such a name, Calf Running smiled and explained that the Mexicans had given it to him long ago because he liked to dip his hands in the blood of his victims. But Mangas was dead, shot down in cold blood at Fort McLean. They spoke reverently of Cochise, the greatest Apache leader of them all, and his ten-year battle with the white eyes. But Cochise was dead, too. They spoke of Gokliya, better known as Geronimo, who was raising hell down in Mexico, and of Old Nana, still riding the war trails though he was well into his seventies.

  I learned a little about Apache religion, too. They had a story that closely paralleled the story of the Virgin Mary and Jesus. Only the names were different. Their virgin was called White Painted Lady and her child, conceived immaculately by the Great Spirit, was called Child of the Waters.

  I learned that the Apache would literally starve to death before they would eat fish which, according to their beliefs, was related to the snake and therefore cursed. Another thing I learned about the Apache was that they never said “thank you”. Instead, they raised their eyes toward heaven, silently acknowledging Usen’s hand in all things.

  The most peculiar thing of all was the curious relationship between an Apache brave and his mother-in-law. For some reason which I never quite understood, once a man was married, he was forbidden to ever set eyes on his wife’s mother!

  Shortly after our arrival in Arizona, one of Shadow’s scouting parties returned to camp leading three prisoners, two blue-clad troopers and an Apache tracker. These were the first prisoners Shadow’s men had ever taken, and the atmosphere in our camp fairly crackled with anticipation as the luckless captives were stripped naked and staked out on the hard, unyielding ground. Calf Running was all for slitting their throats then and there, but the other Apaches wanted to torture the prisoners—especially the Apache tracker, who was considered a traitor.

  One of the troopers was little more than a boy, and he began to cry softly as the Indians argued back and forth, some urging a quick death, some holding out for something a little more exciting, like skinning the prisoners alive or staking them out over an ant hill. The smell of fear was strong on the boy, and the warriors laughed with contempt as he pleaded for his life.

  The second trooper was older, and judging by the hash marks I’d seen on his uniform shirt, had been in the service for more than fifteen years. His eyes shuttled nervously from the Indians calling for torture to those arguing for a quick death. Sweat rolled freely from his pores, and he began to shiver spasmodically as fear and tension took hold of him.

  The Apache tracker paid no heed to the voices rising and falling around him. With a face impassive as a canyon wall, he stared at the dying sun and quietly chanted his death song.

  Afraid that the Indians favoring torture were going to win, I went to Shadow and begged him to release the prisoners.

  “I cannot,” he said evenly. “My warriors must make this decision for themselves. Many of them have seen their wives shot down in cold blood. They have seen their old people trampled beneath the uncaring hooves of the soldiers’ horses. They have seen their little ones slaughtered. I know what is in their hearts, and I must let them take
vengeance if they so desire.”

  And desire it they did. A tall, hatchet-faced warrior known as Black Elk stepped forward, knife in hand. Squatting beside the veteran trooper, he raked the sharp blade across the prisoner’s pallid torso. The trooper began to moan as Black Elk’s blade went ever deeper, cutting through meat and muscle.

  The lust for blood was a tangible force in our camp. Two warriors, chanting softly, suddenly drew their knives and chopped off the prisoner’s hands. The prisoner screamed as blood poured from his wounds—a long, agonized scream that ended abruptly as a Blackfoot brave slit his throat.

  As one, the warriors turned toward the boy. There was a sudden stench as the prisoner voided his bowels. Eyes wide with fright, the boy rolled his head back and forth and in so doing spotted me. He stared at me for several moments; then, recognizing me as a white woman, he cried, “Lady, help me! For God’s sake, do something!”

  It was the worst moment of my life. I felt Shadow’s hand on my shoulder. “There is nothing you can do to save the boy,” he said quietly. “Neither is there any reason for you to stay and watch him die. No one will think the less of you if you leave.”

  Wordlessly, I shook my head. I was here of my own free will. I had fought at his side, shared his grief when one of our warriors died. I would share this, too, though it sickened me to watch.

  They did not torture the boy long, and when they were through with him, they turned purposefully toward the Apache tracker.

  The things they did to him are too horrible to relate. Suffice it to say that when they were through, the prisoner no longer resembled anything human. Through it all, the Apache’s black eyes burned with defiance. And only at the very end did he utter a sound, and that was the war cry of his people.

  I could not sleep that night. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw the bloody remains of the prisoners. Yet I could not fault Shadow’s men for their actions. I knew what they had suffered at the hands of the whites. I knew all about Sand Creek and the Washita, about all the treaties made and broken. Nevertheless, I was glad that Shadow and Calf Running had not taken part.

  The bodies were gone the next morning, and only a few scattered bloodstains remained to show there had been violence in our camp. The warriors spoke ill of the two soldiers, saying they had died badly, but they all agreed, if grudgingly, that the Apache tracker had died well for a traitor.

  Shadow never made mention of what had happened, but that afternoon he told his men there would be no more prisoners.

  In September, seven trail-weary Hunk-papa Sioux joined us. With them they brought sad news. Crazy Horse was dead, killed by soldiers at the Red Cloud Agency. Shadow’s men stared at each other in stunned silence. Crazy Horse, Tashunka Witko, the mighty war chief of the Oglala Bad Face band, the heart of the Sioux Nation, was dead at the age of thirty-three.

  I was sorry to hear of his death. He had been such a vital, magnetic human being, that it was hard to believe he was dead, hard to imagine that boundless energy forever stilled. But there was no time to mourn his passing.

  Early the next morning a small detachment of cavalry rode into our camp, led by a Crow scout and headed by a fresh-faced shavetail who introduced himself as Lieutenant Miles Freeman. His words were brief and to the point. The Grandfather in Washington was willing to let Shadow’s warriors return to their respective reservations in peace if Shadow would surrender to General Crook no later than November fifteenth. If they refused, every soldier in the Southwest would be mustered against them and they would be hunted down and killed to the last man. It was strong talk, and an angry buzz rose from the listening warriors.

  “Kill the blue-coats and send them back to the Grandfather as our answer,” Tall Horse said disdainfully.

  “Let us take their scalps,” Calf Running said eagerly. “I have not taken a scalp in a week.”

  “Let us stake them out over an ant hill,” Black Elk suggested. “That is always entertaining.”

  “Enough!” Shadow snapped. “They are here under a white flag.”

  “My parents were shot down under a white flag,” Calf Running remarked bitterly.

  “Is it your wish to be like the white eyes?” Shadow asked quietly, and Calf Running shook his head and spoke no more.

  “You have heard the Grandfather’s offer,” Shadow said, speaking to his men. “Is it your wish to accept?”

  As one, the assembled warriors shouted, “No!”

  “You have our answer,” Shadow told the lieutenant. “Go now.” Shadow’s dark eyes bored into those of the Crow scout. “If you ever lead the white man against us, I will cut out your miserable heart and feed it to the coyotes!”

  The Crow warrior’s face turned ashen. Swallowing hard, he wheeled his pony around, dug in his heels, and raced out of our camp as if pursued by a thousand devils. The soldiers followed, though at a more dignified pace.

  The warriors were quiet around the campfire that night, and I wondered if they were having second thoughts about surrendering. But then Calf Running began to speak, and I knew, somehow, that he was speaking for all of them, that each warrior present could have related a similar experience. His voice was low and unemotional, as if he were telling a story about someone else. And as he talked, I saw the other braves nod with sympathy and understanding.

  “I was only a boy of twelve when it happened,” Calf Running began. “My father had decided to visit his brother, who was camped along the headwaters of the Gila River. My three brothers and their wives traveled with us. I remember it was spring and the desert was in bloom. We were in no hurry and covered only ten or fifteen miles a day before making night camp. We were three days from home when we saw the white men. Our women were afraid, but my father told them not to worry. ‘We are not at war,’ my father said. ‘They will know that when they see we have our wives with us.’ His words did not calm my mother’s fears, so my father tied a white flag around his lance and told my mother to stop worrying and go about her business.

  “When the white men saw our white flag, they tied one around the barrel of a rifle and rode into our camp. My father and brothers went to meet them. And were shot down in cold blood. My mother shoved me under her sleeping robes and bid me stay there. Then, grabbing my father’s lance—the one with the white flag fluttering from its tip—she charged the man who killed my father. They shot her many times in the head and chest. They shot my brothers’ wives, too, but not until they had violated them many times.

  “When it was dark, the white men left. But not until they had scalped the bodies of my family and stolen our horses. I saw it all from my hiding place beneath the robes. That night I buried my family where they had fallen. The next day I followed the white eyes. When I caught up with them, I killed them while they slept, slitting their throats as my father had taught me. And I have killed every white man who has since crossed my path.”

  The Army was as good as its word. Less than a month later two hundred troopers were riding across the desert with orders to wipe out, once and for all, the Cheyenne chief known as Two Hawks Flying, and all those riding with him. Shadow’s scouts were good—the best the Indians had—and we knew the Army’s every movement, every order, right down to the one that said they were to stay in the field until Two Hawks Flying was dead or in chains.

  In October, we knew we were in trouble. By then, it was obvious that the soldiers dogging our heels were veterans all, seasoned Indian fighters who knew what they were doing and how to do it. They did not make foolish mistakes, nor did they underestimate their quarry. They did not fall for the old tricks that had always worked so well. Our ambushes failed. When they saw a half-dozen Indians ride into view, they did not charge blindly after them as so many had done before.

  For the first time, I saw Shadow’s warriors begin to worry. Not only did the soldiers have us outnumbered almost three to one, but they were better armed and, with the exception of Red Wind and Calf Running’s rangy bay gelding, better mounted. Food, or rather the lack of it, became our bi
ggest concern. With the Army hard on our heels, the warriors had little time to hunt, and we were always hungry.

  One night Tall Horse, Two Feathers, and Yellow Deer said they thought they could sneak into the soldier camp and steal some food from the mess wagon. Shadow and Calf Running weighed our need against the risk and decided it was worth a try. Shortly after midnight the three volunteers ghosted out of camp. Unable to sleep, I pulled a buffalo robe around my shoulders and went looking for Shadow.

  I found him standing alone near the dying embers of our fire. He looked lonely and sad, there in the darkness, and I knew he was thinking of his father, Black Owl, and of the old days when the Indians ruled the land. I knew he was concerned for my welfare, and that of our unborn child, and for the three warriors who even now would be slipping into the soldiers’ camp. Wanting to comfort him, I went to his side and lay my hand on his arm.

  Wordlessly, Shadow put his arm around my shoulders. We stood thus for perhaps twenty minutes before Shadow said, “They should have been back by now.”

  The words were no sooner out of his mouth than three gunshots rattled through the darkness. All around us warriors burst from their sleeping robes, weapons in hand, eyes alert.

  A long quarter of an hour went by before Tall Horse returned to camp. He was alone, and the warriors exchanged apprehensive glances as they waited for him to speak.

  “There were two blue-coats hiding in the wagon,” Tall Horse said when he’d caught his breath. “We did not see them until it was too late. Yellow Deer killed one of them before he was shot. Two Feathers was hit as we jumped from the wagon. Three soldiers pounced on him as he fell. I put my knife into one of them as I ran.”

  “What of Yellow Deer and Two Feathers?” Shadow demanded. “Are they dead?”

  “I don’t know,” Tall Horse said thickly, then keeled over in a dead faint.

  Only then did we see the bullet wound in his back. A closer look showed the bullet had passed cleanly through his body. He was lucky, I thought as I bandaged his wound. A little higher and to the left and he would have been dead.