by Mark Wildyr
When I reached him, I was dismayed to discover how young he was, likely only a few years older than Lone Eagle. Angered and saddened by the thoughtless cruelty of this youth and his companion, which resulted in the brutal rape of a young woman and the death of one or both of them, I sat beside his body and fought my emotions. What a waste of a life—of lives, probably. If only these people understood how little they could afford such losses. If only they could see what rolled across the vast prairie toward them.
At length I stirred and considered the idea of taking his scalp to prove Butterfly was avenged. Instead, putting that ghoulish idea aside, I gathered his pony, his weapons, and something he would never part with while he lived, the small medicine bag concealed in his breechcloth. There were not enough rocks to cover him, so I rolled his lifeless body into a depression and hacked clumps of dirt with his hatchet to make a thin grave covering. It would not protect him from animals, but it was the best I could do.
Then I retraced my steps, allowing Long to pick his own gait. Near sundown that evening, I approached the small creek I crossed earlier and spotted Cut heading north, trailing a strange pony behind him. He lifted a medicine bag, and I responded in kind. Butterfly’s rapists had paid for their crime.
We snared a hare and roasted it over an open fire while our ponies grazed and rested. The freshet pooled shallowly amidst a scraggly grove of locusts, so we stripped, each checking the other’s nakedness to see if it was as remembered, and then we sat in the water to soak away the day’s poisons.
“I fear you are too farsighted,” Cut observed with a sigh as he leaned against the bank and settled himself more comfortably in the pool.
“How so?”
“Many of the things you have foretold have taken place.” That cried out for no answer, so we sat in silence until he spoke again. “And the buffalo too?” he asked his perennial question in a low, half-believing voice.
I rendered my stock response. “Even the buffalo. If I could change it by denying it, I would do so.”
“I know, my friend. I know.”
We talked about our lives and the events beginning to shake this beautiful land, one of which had just seen its culmination. We spoke of everything except our personal desires. When I lay beside him in my blankets that night, my erection was painful. I wager his was no less urgent.
We made the village the following day. After bestowing the criminals’ weapons and ponies as gifts, Cut stood in view of all who were assembled and scornfully dropped the two medicine bags into a fire.
Butterfly lay inside Bright Dove’s lodge wrapped in a thin blanket even though the evening was not yet cool. Her bruised and battered face dispelled some of the regret I harbored over the death of the Santee. Her broken spirit erased the balance.
“She has been asking for both of you,” Bright Dove said quietly. “She will be all right physically, Cut Hand. It is her spirit that needs mending.” The woman laid a hand on her son’s arm. “Is it finished? Truly?” He nodded. She was, of course, asking if there would be recriminations from the Sioux.
Strangely, Butterfly drew as much comfort from me as from her brother, and since Cut’s duties made demands upon his time, it fell to me to console her. She slowly came out of whatever dark place her mind had gone to hide from the horror. Within a sennight I heard her laugh for the first time since the rape. It was a feeble effort, but it was something. That marked a watershed. The young women who visited her now returned to their true selves, laughing and giggling and gossiping shamelessly.
Morning Mist often left the infant, Dog Fox, with us, presumably to lift her sister-in-law’s spirit, but I sometimes could not escape the thought it was to free Morning Mist of caring for the babe. That judgment was likely pure spite on my part because it was clear Cut’s wife loved her child.
Butterfly’s face was still marked by dark bruises when she ventured outside on my arm. We walked to the river, where she sat watching the fast-moving stream. Some of the young men stopped to engage her in conversation, but she responded poorly, and we spent most of our time strolling alone. Her body recovered its strength, but her mind was still fragile.
Otter’s face expressed relief when I finally returned to Teacher’s Mead, and the youth promptly took off on business of his own. He had earned the respite. Otter remained at the house while I slept in the bachelors’ tipi during the girl’s recovery.
The morning after my return, my second swain appeared. This one was my own age or greater, someone I knew vaguely. He was pleasing to the eye and vigorous in his approach, but I did nothing to encourage him. He was patient, showing up at my door every day for a week, ignoring Otter, who was there all the time, and Lone Eagle, an occasional visitor. Both the boys got a laugh out of my discomfort. The last time he came, he left in evident confusion because Butterfly stopped by the Mead for a visit, and he walked in as I was holding her in my arms to nurse her through a weak moment.
His disillusionment must have been great. When I escorted Butterfly back to the village, word had spread that we were suitors. Cut emerged from his lodge with an eager look on his face. When the sly questions began, I looked at Butterfly, who returned my gaze and did not bother to correct false impressions. I would whisper in Cut’s ear later, but in the meantime any protection against unwanted romantics was welcome.
I never held that private conversation with her brother. She seemed favorable to the idea of a relationship, and it did not discomfit me unduly. A naturally happy woman, she began to bloom, leaving behind all visible signs of her assault. We even exchanged shy kisses and warm embraces.
Word came of buffalo sightings, and the village moved to replenish its larder. Though reduced, the great beasts’ numbers were sufficient to meet the Yanube’s needs—this year. To further confound matters, a party of Pipe Stem conducted its hunt within sight of our own.
As soon as the meat was put away, the hides prepared, and all other usable parts distributed, I cleaned myself carefully, held a long talk with Otter, and went to look up Cut Hand. He was taking his rest in front of his lodge.
“Cut Hand, I would marry your sister, if she will have me.”
“She will have you, old friend.”
“I can offer ten ponies and three new percussion rifles.”
“Is she worth all that?” He laughed, abandoning the hard bargaining usual in such an event.
“More, dammit! I’ll give twelve ponies, but that’s my limit!”
He roared with laughter. “If I say eight, will you increase it to fourteen? Agreed, William Joseph Strobaw. If she will have you, it is done.”
I frowned. “I… I thought you said she would.”
“She will. She will. Go ask her now.”
I proposed to Butterfly, sister of Cut Hand, Headman of the Yanube, on the riverbank in the full view and hearing of a dozen giggling, gesturing women. I was not so skilled as to attempt the love flute, but she did not seem to mind. She blushed prettily and said yes.
CUT GOT as drunk following my wedding as I did at his, but for different reasons. Before Butterfly and I escaped to Teacher’s Mead, I was scandalized to find Otter as inebriated as the rest of them… and him only fifteen!
They were not too intoxicated to cause mischief. The guard dogs drove us to distraction because of drunken Indians skulking around the premises. We endured endless whoops and hollers and falsetto shrieks of ecstasy. Recollecting the not-so-secret entrance, I placed heavy items on top of the trap and closed the door to the bathing room to bar Otter and Lone Eagle from spying on us. Since they once watched me bugger an army lieutenant, the two rascals would not be averse to seeing how I did with a woman.
But when I lay shyly at her side, Butterfly began shivering uncontrollably. I caught her to my breast, uttering soothing sounds. She froze against me until I assured her I could wait until she was ready.
“What if I am never ready?” she cried in anguish. “I love you, Billy, I really do. I have since Cut Hand brought you to us. I was jealous
of him for a long time. I’ve thought about doing it with you lots of times. But now….”
“What those men did to you is too fresh. When we make love, Butterfly, it will be right for both of us. I can wait.”
“But you want to, I can feel it.”
“I can wait,” I said again. And it was true. My pipe reacted, but the will behind the act was weak. I could have performed but was frankly relieved I need not, at least that night. “Butterfly, this will be between us and no one else.”
“Yes, my husband,” she said in a small voice.
She kissed me the next morning but scrambled out of bed when I came awake. We settled immediately into a pleasant routine. It was nice having a woman to cook. Butterfly revealed me as a coxcomb, a mere superficial pretender to the culinary arts. She mortified meat vigorously so even the toughest parts became tender morsels. She demanded I construct a hastener, a metal reflector, which cooked the dishes more evenly than I ever imagined. Both of these simple things, and a host of others she revealed, were beyond my ken.
After a week, she invited Otter back to his bunk on the other side of the double house. He took two more days to show up out of politeness.
It was another phase of the moon before we made love. I regularly kissed and touched her gently in private places, seeking to ease her fears. One night, when I moved away, she caught me back to her. I went slowly so as not to alarm her. Our union was pleasant… for both of us, I think. Before it was over, she grew more aggressive than was I. Was I afraid of hurting her and driving her back to that state following her abduction? Or was this the extent of my enthusiasm for the act? Finished, I hovered above her and gently wiped the sweat from her forehead.
“It was as I thought it would be, husband,” she murmured.
“It wasn’t too frightening for you?”
“No. I understand you are not like those other men. You only want to love, not to hurt. I am healed of that fear now.”
“Good. I love you, Butterfly.”
“Was I…?” She fumbled. I suspected she wanted to know if she was as good for me as her brother, but had not the way of asking.
“I took much pleasure in it.” In that statement, I did not lie, nor did I answer her implied question. No one would ever be as good as Cut Hand.
By the middle of the morning, I knew something was terribly wrong. She was sharp to Otter once but apologized immediately. Well able to read storm warnings, the youth nodded his acceptance and disappeared. It was past the middle of the day before she turned to face me, tears in her eyes. “I deceived you.”
“How so?” I asked. At least whatever was bothering her would now come out in the open.
“I am with child!” she blurted. “I knew it when I took you to bed last night.”
“That is no surprising estate, Butterfly. You are a lively young woman, and those were vigorous men who took you against your will. Nor is it of consequence so long as you took me because you care for me. It is natural to seek comfort in times of stress. But let me tell you one thing, Butterfly Strobaw, and you best hear me on this. When that child arrives, I will love him and treat him as if we conceived him together last night.” She clutched at me and cried tears of relief. Then I acted the typical husband. “And don’t you ever suffer something like that alone again! I am your husband! Tell me your cares before they become worries.”
“Can we speak of another thing?” I grew wary but consented. I am certain she could sense the reluctance through the tensing of my shoulders. “All agree this thing between you and Cut Hand was extraordinary. Do you love him yet?”
“As deeply as ever, Butterfly. But Morning Mist and I were wearing on him. In the end we would have destroyed him. She could not leave because she ensured he would lead the band. And with his leadership, they have the best chance of survival.”
“He still loves you too,” she murmured against my chest. “Sometimes I still get jealous. So does Morning Mist,” she added in a tone somewhere between a swipe and a stricture.
“No need. We have vowed never to lie with one another again. On the return from hunting the Sioux, we bathed together and slept without touching.”
Otter came back the next evening. I missed the little dickens when he was not around. Little! Hah! He was a lithe fifteen edging toward six English feet and not yet finished growing. The arrogance that shrouded Lone Eagle at this age was missing. Otter was a strange youngster. He showed none of the aggression of the born warrior, but he participated in horse raids and displayed unquestioned bravery in difficult situations. Lone Eagle tended to treat him as a younger brother, but when Otter had his fill, Lone Eagle knew better than to push. He might be bigger and stronger than Otter, but the older youth understood the dogged determination hiding beneath the boy’s placid exterior. And frankly, Otter was brighter than any of them. He read, wrote, and spoke English better than most fifteen-year-old American schoolboys and showed considerable skill at arithmetic and the basic sciences. He liked to learn.
I WAS probably not the enthusiastic lover Butterfly had a right to expect. I flanked her on a regular basis but without the joyful spontaneity of the lovemaking Cut and I had shared. Yet she seemed satisfied, and I came to love her in a true sense. I treasured her presence and her company and even her occasional fits of anger. While this was comfortable for both of us, that is all it was—the placid love of older folk, not the passion of people our true ages.
Nonetheless, I recall those as happy days. The homestead prospered. With Butterfly taking efficient care of the inside of the house, Otter and I tended the animals and the garden. In fact, we extended our planting area to the size of a true merestead.
Butterfly was quick with child the day she went down river with some of the women to dig sassafras roots shortly before the tiospaye’s winter move. Otter and I were picking some vine vegetables when he stood and motioned to the east with his chin. With growing alarm, we watched a rider thunder recklessly toward us.
Otter, quicker than I, ran for our horses while I stood frozen by an unnamed fear. Buffalo Shoulder was the herald this time. Butterfly was hurt. I ran for my bag of medicines and leapt to Long’s back from the porch. The three of us rode through the village at breakneck speed. My heart plummeted at the snarl of people gathered south of the campground. There was a stillness about them I did not like.
Throwing myself from my pony, I stumbled, regained my feet, and rushed forward. The crowd opened before me. Cut sat splayed on the ground with a limp Butterfly cradled in his arms. A large, headless rattlesnake lay a few feet away. With a moan, I fell before them and took her from her brother. She was dead. The creature that killed her was immense, a grandfather snake missing his rattlers and filled with venom to spare for a small woman like Butterfly.
Cut looked at me with pain-filled eyes. “It struck her in the neck. There was nothing anyone could do, Billy. Not even you. You couldn’t have saved her if you had been here. She went too quickly.”
“We’ll never know, will we?” I cried hoarsely.
The child was gone as well, of course. Too small for life on its own, it died when Butterfly’s heart froze from the poison. I carried my wife in my arms all the way to the campground, staggering drunkenly the last hundred paces. I laid her before her mother’s tipi on soft, silk grass blankets. The frozen mask of her agony softened, but one would never mistake her stillness for slumber. With a great shudder, I wondered if this was the retribution of Almighty God for my sins. But why take two innocent lives to punish me? And she was innocent. She never experienced an impure thought in her life. Earthy, yes. Given to moments of genuine anger at times. Yet spite and hate and deceit were not her way. There was no venom in her except that injected by the fangs of the serpent.
I insisted on a white man’s burial at the Mead and chose a spot with good drainage to the west of the house. The entire village came to watch the ritual of laying away a loved one. I prowled the plains for days afterward until I found a fitting free stone. Lone Eagle and Otter h
elped me lift it into the buckboard. I spent two days engraving her epitaph.
Butterfly Strobaw, Daughter of the Yanube
and Beloved Wife of William Joseph Strobaw,
Lies Here Together With Her Unborn Child.
1815-1836
May God Shine His Face Upon Her.
Chapter 16
OTTER WANTED to remain with me when the tiospaye moved to winter quarters, but he was needed to drive the Conestoga. The boy was so proud of making the four big blacks do his bidding, he neglected to consider the consequences of being the only Yanube capable of doing so—to say nothing of seeing to the care of the beasts and the repair of the prairie schooner itself.
I spent the first few days after the band crossed the river constructing a sturdy fence around Butterfly’s grave from my store of precious planking. I made the plot middling big since someday I would lie there. Perhaps Otter as well.
That done, I became a glazier, installing the glass quarrels brought from Yawktown last spring. I guessed well so the panes fit snugly, although some of the frames required a bit of chiseling. Almost immediately, the house grew warmer while the fireplace’s greed for wood abated.
The day after I finished, West made a moderate fuss over a heavily bundled figure standing at the fence surrounding Butterfly’s grave. Angered by the morbid interest of a stranger, I burst out of the house absent either coat or weapon and stomped across the rapidly freezing ground to discover the stranger was Carcajou. I should have taken my cue from the dog, who failed to put up a significant objection.
