Open Road

by M. M. Holaday

  The graying Arapaho closed his eyes, suspending time. Win waited.

  Finally, Gray Wolf opened his eyes. “We all must follow where our hearts tell us to go. I am grateful for your friendship.” He didn’t say anymore, but offered his pipe to smoke.

  As Win prepared to leave, Gray Wolf summoned one of the women, who brought a supply of aspen bark, dried sumac berries and leaves, and piñon seeds and pine nuts for Meg, who had learned from the Arapaho how to use them for medicine and tea.

  Win stayed for two weeks at the Dawson ranch. Meg became weepy near the end of his stay, saying it was hard on a heart to say good-bye so much. Win said he agreed, but, in truth, it was even harder to stay.

  Jeb rode with Win to the edge of their property. They rode in silence for a while, giving the emotions that surfaced during the farewell a chance to settle again.

  After a bit, Win said, “You’ve got yourself a fine family, Jeb.”

  “What about you? Have you met a woman that could settle you down? Is there anyone out there who could tame that wandering spirit of yours?”

  On the tip of Win’s tongue was You already took her, but he knew it was inappropriate and didn’t want his visit to end badly. Instead, he just laughed. “There have been a few women who wanted to share their blanket with me, but I managed to escape unscathed. I think I’m destined to wander awhile.”

  And wander he did. Whether he sensed truth in the old prediction that the frontier would be closed in his lifetime, or was simply brokenhearted that he’d lost Meg, Win disappeared into the wilderness.

  CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE: JEB

  Dawson ranch, three years later, 1876

  Deep in the woods, Jeb and Gus wrapped a chain around a fallen black walnut tree to drag back to the ranch. Black walnut made fine wood for furniture.

  “This ain’t gonna be another cradle by any chance, is it?”

  “No such luck, Gus. I wish we knew what the trouble was. She just can’t keep them. No, I thought Meg might like a writing desk.”

  “That’s a tough road. You have my sympathy.”

  The gunshot blast interrupted him. A second report three seconds later signaled trouble.

  “Something’s wrong.” Gus dropped the heavy chain and grabbed the rifle he’d propped against a tree. Jeb abandoned the mule and headed for Galen.

  Racing around the corner on the trail back to the house, Jeb saw Meg thrash through the brush and emerge onto the trail directly in front of an Indian on horseback. He had five of their horses in tow. The Indian’s horse—which was actually one of theirs—reared up in surprise, and in the close quarters of the thick forest, a tree branch knocked the rider from his mount. He lay motionless on the ground.

  Meg rushed over to him.

  “Meg, don’t!” Jeb shouted, but he wasn’t quick enough with his warning. She had gotten too close. The Indian jumped up and grabbed her, pulling her in front of him for protection. Her rifle fell from her grasp. He held a knife to her throat. Jeb and Gus rode up and Jeb raised his rifle, aimed at the horse thief’s head.

  “Let her go,” Jeb demanded, but the Indian only held on to Meg more tightly.

  “You speak English?” Gus asked.

  “I speak English.” The Indian sounded more nervous than angry.

  “Then you understand me. Let her go.” Jeb anchored the rifle butt into his shoulder, ready to shoot. The Indian tightened his grip.

  Gus held up his hand. “Think about this. You stole our horses, and horse thieves hang. If you hurt her, we aren’t going to care why you stole ’em; we’re just going to kill you. If you let her go, we’ll let you live. You give that some thought.”

  Jeb could see that the Indian was giving quite a lot of thought to his situation. He probably hadn’t expected Meg to chase after him when he stole their horses, not knowing the ferocity of her protective nature. And, he certainly couldn’t have predicted that he’d run into two armed men on his escape route.

  “I am already dead,” the Indian said. Meg struggled. Loose strands of her hair blew in his face.

  Jeb felt a trickle of sweat run down his back. “Easy, Meg.”

  “Meg, don’t try to get free. Give this man a chance to do the right thing.” Gus spoke calmly.

  The Indian furrowed his brow, confused. “What is your name?” The Indian turned his attention toward her.

  “Meg Dawson. Please don’t hurt me. I have children . . .” she whispered.

  “I will let her go,” the man announced, sounding urgent. “You do not shoot me.” He lessened his grip on her, but kept her in front of him.

  Jeb lowered his rifle an inch as a gesture of trust.

  The Indian let go of Meg and raised his hands. Meg slipped away and ran over to Jeb and Galen. “Do not shoot me,” the Indian said. “I know this woman with fire for hair. She is May-g. I did not recognize her, and I should have. I am Washaneekomosema.”

  Meg gasped and peered at him.

  The Indian nodded in response to her unspoken question. “I am boy with broken feet.”

  “Well, I’ll be . . .” Gus said under his breath. Jeb lowered his rifle.

  “You stole our horses.” Meg put her hands on her hips.

  “They stand still for me.” He whistled the tune Gus taught Meg. All the horses rotated their ears toward him.

  “Why so many? Are there more of you?” Jeb asked.

  “They are hiding in the mountains, waiting for horses. Soldiers chase us. They are coming.”

  Meg looked up at Jeb in a panic. “Gray Wolf.”

  “You go,” Gus said to Jeb. “We’ll get back to the house. I’ll take care of this fellow.”

  “Stall them as long as you can,” Jeb said. He turned Galen toward Gray Wolf’s village.

  Jeb shouted the warning as he got close to their camp. By the time he arrived, Standing Horse was already handing rifles to the women, as most of the men were away from camp, fighting with Crazy Horse. Standing Horse had seen the cavalry, too, and knew they were coming.

  “I’ll steer the soldiers away if I can get to them,” Jeb told his Arapaho friend. Standing Horse nodded and grabbed a box of ammunition.

  Jeb headed down the mountain to intercept the cavalry, but the blue coats turned suddenly and headed straight up the mountain on another path. They must have seen the Indians with Washaneekomosema, Jeb thought. He heard gunfire and rode toward the fighting.

  For years, Gray Wolf had tried to stay out of the fight and protect his family. He found a new home when his was taken away, he learned English, and he even lived as peaceful neighbors next to a white community. He had remained free of bitterness. His only crime had been his desire to live off the reservation. Now, finally, he and his people had to fight. When they heard the rumble of horses approaching, they took cover and raised their rifles.

  Jeb rode into the battle. He saw Gray Wolf, One Who Waits, Standing Horse, and Sharp Eye standing in front to protect the older women and children. Several young women stood bravely next to them, including Running Elk’s new young wife. She was a good shot, and even when a bullet nicked her shoulder, she did not flinch, but stood her ground. Those too old to handle a rifle huddled over the young to protect them. The battle was brief, but fierce.

  In the end, all the men in the small cavalry detail lay dead. Running Elk shot the last soldier just after the soldier shot his wife. The soldier fell from his horse and landed next to her. The tenacious Arapaho were victorious, but not without cost. Over half the tribe had been killed. Sharp Eye and One Who Waits were among the fallen.

  Jeb had never seen such carnage. Through the smoke, he saw an old woman clutching a baby tightly in her arms and realized she had died that way. The baby was alive, protected from harm by Sharp Eye’s wife, the baby’s grandmother. Mercifully, only one wounded Arapaho suffered for any length of time; life slowly ebbed from him as he lay in the arms of his sobbing wife. The Arapaho began to chant their death song.

  A breeze blew through the battlefield, swirling the sm
oke from the gunfire like ancestral spirits coming to escort the newly departed across the bridge they built with their song. He watched Gray Wolf chant, his eyes closed. Jeb wanted Gray Wolf to open his eyes so he could see the spirits at work, but guessed Gray Wolf didn’t need visual confirmation.

  Gus arrived and, together with Jeb, helped the Arapaho honor their dead and prepare them for burial. Then they set about removing the dead soldiers.

  Gray Wolf appeared as Jeb and Gus loaded a wagon with bodies. “I will help you.” The Arapaho leader looked old.

  “There’s no need. You’ve suffered a great loss.”

  “That is why I must help you. It will keep my heart from turning black. I must remember that I killed a mother’s son today, too,” Gray Wolf said.

  “I’m sorry we couldn’t stop it.”

  “We all hoped this day would not come.” Gray Wolf stared at the dead soldiers. “You will bring the dead soldiers to the fort?”

  “More soldiers will come looking for them if I don’t.”

  What to do with Washaneekomosema presented a problem Jeb didn’t know how to handle. He was Pawnee, and an enemy of the Arapaho. His people scouted for the cavalry, so it was a mystery why he was running from them. Gus left him alone with Meg because she said he was her friend. Jeb, Gus, and Gray Wolf followed the path back to the house, encountering the three dead Cheyenne Washaneekomosema was stealing horses for. They had been gunned down by the cavalry.

  When Washaneekomosema saw Gray Wolf, he explained how he knew Meg, how she helped him bind his injured ankles and let him ride her horse years ago. He said his father let her go because his mother had a vision that a woman with a head of fire would save his life. The vision frightened his mother, and his father feared Meg’s presence in their village would cause trouble. Having heard Meg’s version of the story, it intrigued Jeb to hear the Pawnee’s perspective.

  Gray Wolf asked why a Pawnee was so far from home. Washaneekomosema said he no longer had a home. His people were among the first to move to a reservation and, even as peaceful farmers, had not fared well. One by one, all of his family died from smallpox, including his wife and child. In his despair, he left the reservation. Cheyenne found him wandering the prairie. He fought them without fear. He was not afraid to die, he said. He released his anguish as wrath upon them until only one remained. He fought, knowing it would be to the death. For hours they fought, but neither one would die. He finally passed out from exhaustion and woke only when another party of Cheyenne stood over him. A warrior was about to put a knife into his heart when the warrior he had fought stopped him. “He told his brothers it would dishonor him to kill me,” Washaneekomosema said. “I was his to kill. But he was too weak to fight, so they brought us back to their camp, where a Cheyenne woman cared for my wounds and then asked for my life. I married her and learned Cheyenne ways.”

  Washaneekomosema said that even though he became Cheyenne, he still had to prove his loyalty and had joined the gathering forces under Crazy Horse, a Lakota warrior.

  Gray Wolf asked Washaneekomosema a question in language Jeb didn’t recognize. The Pawnee replied. Neither offered to translate.

  Washaneekomosema then said in English that he’d fought in a battle against the blue coat named Custer. He said he was proud to fight alongside men who had once been his enemy. Jeb told him the newspapers called it the battle of the Little Bighorn.

  The Pawnee turned to Meg then and said he never forgot her act of kindness, and although he hadn’t seen many white women, those he had seen reminded him of her. He said with earnestness that he’d never raided white settlers, and had fought only soldiers.

  In a move that surprised Jeb, Gray Wolf invited the Pawnee to live at the Arapaho village. He said a wandering man who had no place to return to, no tribe to call his own, and no family waiting for his return needed a home. Jeb thought Gray Wolf admired, maybe even envied, his resilient spirit and ability to survive change. Maybe spirits were at work, but Gray Wolf said there was little point in holding on to prejudices from a disappearing world.

  Washaneekomosema stayed, but not at the Arapaho village; Jeb hired him as a ranch hand. When Running Elk told Jeb that, with his wife dead, he saw no future for himself in the old world, Jeb hired Running Elk, too.

  The two Indians built a bunkhouse between the house and the barn and made it their home. Occasionally, Running Elk disappeared into the mountains to visit his mother, unable to give up his old life completely. Running Elk and Washaneekomosema were not instant friends; prejudices die hard, and arguments were settled with a wrestling match, but, eventually, Washaneekomosema went along with Running Elk when he visited his family.

  Both Indians transformed, perhaps because they saw change as the only way to survive. Washaneekomosema and Running Elk accepted white ways. They wore hats and boots like white ranch hands, they learned to ride with saddles, and spoke only in English, even to each other. Jeb couldn’t tell whether they were truly changing, or playing the role of a white person. Meg said it seemed like they were giving in, accepting defeat. But Running Elk said they could remain Indian and be hunted, or adapt to white men’s ways and live, perhaps even prosper. Jeb saw wisdom in their actions, as sad as it was to witness.

  Washaneekomosema even changed his name. He brought it up one day during the noon meal. He and Running Elk were sitting at the kitchen table with Jeb and Gus and the boys. Meg dished up their plates.

  “I have respect for those who gave me my name, but it is long for you to say.”

  “What does it mean? I’ve always wondered,” Meg asked.

  He and Running Elk talked to each other briefly, figuring out the best translation. “It means ‘He brings happiness to his mother and fills her soul with laughter.’ ”

  “Oh, that’s lovely,” Meg said. “It suits you.”

  “But impractical.” Gus never could get the Pawnee’s name right and seemed eager not to have to struggle with it. “How ’bout we shorten it to just Wash? You keep what was given to you, but it’ll be easier on all of us.”

  “But I want a new name—an English name,” Washaneekomosema said.

  “Wash could be short for Washington, too. That was our first president.” James entered the conversation. He rarely spoke words that weren’t worth listening to.

  The Pawnee broke into a huge smile. “Ai, ai, that is good.”

  Meg was concerned that they would lose their connection to their heritage, citing examples of lost language and customs from Win’s accounts in his letters. She asked Wash about the stories he learned as a child. She asked Running Elk to teach her the chant that was used by his people to connect with the spirit world. Jeb knew that she heard the sound of hooves in the wind, thundering across the plains. He was intrigued by everyone’s behavior. The farther the Indians moved away from their culture, the more Meg seemed drawn to it.

  CHAPTER FORTY-SIX: MEG

  Dawson ranch, 1876–1881

  Custer’s battle at the Little Bighorn River was only one of many the US cavalry fought against the Lakota and Cheyenne. Troops from Fort Robinson in Nebraska attacked Cheyenne at Warbonnet Creek, as other fighting continued in the Bighorn Mountains along the Powder River at Bates Creek and Ash Creek. The cavalry clashed with Indians throughout Montana and in the Dakotas. Crazy Horse died at Fort Robinson—some said because he resisted arrest; others said it was a misunderstanding. As he was led to a guardhouse, a soldier stabbed him with his bayonet.

  When Meg learned of his death, she slipped quietly into the forest to sing a death chant in private.

  Win wrote sporadically. His letters often included news clippings describing the savagery of the Indian massacres and the elevation of Custer to heroic levels. He would circle passages and write “Lies!” across the newsprint. Meg worried that he’d drift so far from their lives that he couldn’t return.

  However, with her worry came respect. There was satisfaction in knowing that even though they led far different lives, they were aligned in their sy
mpathies. They were on the same side. Meg understood the irony better than anyone when he wrote about the new job he had with Wes Powell and the Smithsonian Institute:

  A chance meeting with Powell has once again caused the winds of Fate to shift and my ship is sailing to new horizons. He confirmed a long-standing concern of mine: that equally destructive to the American Indian as white man’s military power and diseases is our industrial culture. Once modern conveniences are in anyone’s possession, it is difficult to do without them, and so it is with tribal communities who have so far survived the more transparent destructive forces. Powell claims those cultures that are not already extinct have been altered and diluted as they mix with one another and white civilization. It is not my belief that tools for comfort and survival should be kept from anyone—their existence merely hastens our efforts to record dying languages and preserve tribal lore. I will be among several crews recording and cataloging such treasures, as it is indeed like a treasure hunt. The only difference is the limited time we have before civilization eats away the cache.

  Wash and Running Elk were perfect examples of the dilemma the American Indian faced, so the urgency to preserve a dying world struck Meg at her core. Jeb was not unsympathetic; he had done more than most just by keeping Gray Wolf’s secret. But he also accepted people for who they were, and if two Indians chose to work and dress like ranchers, it was not up to him to judge.

  As peace and progress flourished in Colorado Territory, evidence of its original inhabitants disappeared. The year Custer was defeated at the Little Bighorn, Colorado became a state. Railroads already crisscrossed in a complex network and agricultural communities sprang up everywhere. Each new town seemed to have a newspaper. The Colorado School of Mines was established in Golden, and Colorado College was founded in Colorado Springs. A year after Colorado became a state, the University of Colorado held classes in Boulder. Opera houses opened. Soon, the first telephones operated in Denver.