Reckless Love

by Madeline Baker

  I smiled proudly at my son as he showed me the fat gray rabbit he had killed.

  "You have done well, little warrior," I said, beaming.

  Heecha grinned from ear to ear as he held up the rabbit so I could see it better. My son was a handsome child, all Indian this day. He was dressed in buckskin pants and a buckskin vest. Moccasins hugged his feet, a beaded headband held his shoulder-length hair from his face.

  Heecha gazed at the rabbit in his hands. "I set a trap to catch it," he boasted. "My father taught me."

  "I am proud of you both," I said solemnly. "I am the most fortunate of women, to have two fine hunters in my lodge."

  Heecha nodded gravely as he thrust the limp carcass into my hands. "Skinning and cooking are squaw work," he declared with just a hint of male arrogance.

  I stared into his darling face, choking back the laughter that bubbled in my throat. He sounded just like his father! I glanced up at Shadow and saw that he, too, was remembering the day he had spoken similar words to my mother.

  "You shall have the rabbit for dinner this very night," I told my son. "But now it is time for you to water your father's horse."

  Heecha smiled as he ran toward the peeled pole corral located behind our lodge. Caring for Shadow's spotted stallion was a chore our son dearly loved. Already, he could ride like a seasoned Cheyenne brave.

  Scooping Mary into my arms, I walked back to our lodge beside Shadow. I went inside and placed Mary on her bed, then went back outside to skin Heecha's rabbit while Shadow butchered the deer.

  "The man will never learn," lamented a male voice, and I turned to see Calf Running and Flower Woman approaching our lodge while their son, Nachi, ran off to join Heecha at the river.

  Calf Running was a Chiricahua Apache. He was short and stocky, as were many of his race. He had dark skin and coarse black hair. A long scar, souvenir of a Comanche blade, ran the length of his left cheek. He had a deep and abiding hatred for white men, who had murdered his family in cold blood. Calf Running had been but a boy of twelve at the time, but he had tracked the men who slaughtered his family and killed them all while they slept. He was a proud warrior, a ruthless fighter, a kind and gentle husband and father.

  "More and more I find him doing squaw work," Calf Running went on. "I fear Hannah's influence has weakened his manhood."

  Shadow scowled at his long-time friend as he sliced off a section of deer haunch and began to skin the hide from the meat.

  "Look at him," Calf Running continued, shaking his head in dismay. "He does not even have the decency to look ashamed."

  "I would welcome a man who was not afraid to lend a hand with the butchering and the skinning," Flower Woman remarked. "I find it a fine quality in a husband."

  "Do you?" Calf Running accused with mock anger. "Perhaps I should sell you to Two Hawks Flying."

  "Perhaps you should!" Flower Woman retorted. Her words were harsh, but her eyes were filled with laughter.

  Shadow stood up, wiping his bloody hands on the sides of his buckskin pants as he looked from Calf Running to Flower Woman. "I am very fond of you, Flower Woman," he said gravely. "But one wife is all I can handle."

  Flower Woman nodded. She was a pretty woman, with a slender figure, long black hair and luminous black eyes. ''I understand," she said with feigned regret, "but if you ever change your mind . . ."

  She broke off, giggling, as Calf Running caught her to him, his good arm pulling her close. His left arm, shattered by a cavalryman's bullet years ago, hung limp and useless at his side. It was, he had once told me, a small price to pay for freedom.

  With a smile, Calf Running planted a kiss on Flower Woman's cheek. "Never mind, woman," he growled. "I have decided to keep you after all."

  "I think you are all mind-gone-far," I said as I skewered Heecha's rabbit and placed it over the fire to cook.

  "I think you are right," Calf Running agreed good-naturedly. "Come, woman, let us go to our own lodge. I am hungry."

  "He is always hungry," Flower Woman remarked with an exaggerated sigh. "Some day he will be as big and fat as an old buffalo."

  I smiled as the two of them went off toward their own lodge, which was set up a short distance from ours. They were a happy couple and very much in love. I knew many white people thought the Indians incapable of love and laughter, but Calf Running's lodge overflowered with both.

  When they were out of sight, I turned to face Shadow, troubled by something Calf Running had said.

  "Do you mind helping me with the butchering?" I asked, frowning. "Does it offend your manhood?"

  Shadow grinned as he took me in his arms. "Do not make sounds like a foolish woman," he chided, kissing my eyes and the tip of my nose. "I am a Cheyenne warrior. Skinning a deer cannot change that."

  "I love you," I murmured as I lifted my face for his kiss.

  "Do you, Hannah?" he asked, only half kidding. "Have you never regretted the kind of life we live? Have you never longed for your own people, your own customs?"

  "Never," I said firmly. "You are my people. I have never been sorry that I chose to live with you and follow your ways."

  Shadow's smile warmed me through and through. It was so good to see him smile. There had been many times in the past when we had little to smile about. There had been the awful days when I had ridden the war trail at his side, the times when we had gone without food or shelter, times we had huddled together, shivering, in the rain and snow. Deep in my memory lingered the faces of the dead warriors we had left behind, the tiny unmarked grave in Arizona where our first son was buried. A son I had never seen. Even now, six years later, I could remember how my arms had ached to hold my firstborn child, the tears I had shed when I stood at his tiny unmarked grave. And yet, for all the misery of the past, I knew I would gladly live it all over again to be here now with the man I loved.

  Shadow and I stood together for several moments, our bodies pressed close as we remembered the bad times that made the good times all the more sweet. Then Mary emerged from the lodge, clamoring for her father's attention, pulling on his pant leg until he lifted her in his arms. Mary squealed with pleasure as Shadow swung her high in the air. She was a pretty little thing, with dark brown hair and fair skin. Her eyes were gray, like mine. No one, seeing Mary, would ever guess her father was an Indian. Not so Heecha. He was the spitting image of Shadow, with the same black hair, the same copper-hued skin, the same black eyes. No one, seeing my son, would guess he was anything but pure Cheyenne.

  Shadow's dark eyes glowed with pleasure as he tossed Mary in the air, then caught her safe in his arms, and I thought what a beautiful picture the two of them made.

  Heecha returned shortly and demanded to be tossed in the air, too. He shrieked with delight as his father continued the game, tossing him higher and higher.

  When Heecha and Mary tired of that game, they began to wrestle with Shadow, jumping on his back, pulling on his arms and legs in an effort to hold him down. Shadow's deep laughter filled the air as he grabbed a child in each arm and lifted them off the ground. Heecha and Mary wriggled and kicked to no avail and finally declared Shadow the winner.

  "Dinner's ready," I called, and Heecha slid out of his father's grasp, eager to taste his first kill. Heecha generously shared a bite of the rabbit with each of us, and we all agreed it was the best rabbit we had ever eaten.

  After dinner, Shadow played with Mary and Heecha while I washed the dishes and banked the fire for the night. While I put the children to bed, Shadow went outside for his evening walk.

  I was changing into my sleeping gown when I heard it, the faint melodical notes of a Cheyenne courting flute. I paused, everything else forgotten, as I listened to Shadow serenade me.

  The Indians were a musical people. There were songs and chants for every occasion: religious songs, prayer songs, healing songs. There were songs of mourning and songs of bereavement.

  There were love songs and war songs. There were soft lullabies and rousing songs of joy. There were animal
songs, some prayerful in nature, others a plea for good fortune. A particular song, known as the horse song, could be sung over a favored horse to make it strong and sound for a particular fight or journey. There was a morning song hummed by the men upon awakening. Often, it was the first sound heard in our lodge.

  In my many years of living with Shadow, I had heard them all, yet none was more beautiful than the melancholy notes of Shadow's flute. The music permeated our lodge, surrounding me like invisible arms, telling me that I was loved.

  When Shadow entered our lodge, I was standing beside the fire, a red blanket draped around my shoulders. He had told me once that when a man was courting a woman, he would play his flute outside her lodge in the evening. Later, if the girl was interested in the man, she would stand outside her lodge wrapped in a big red courting blanket. If she looked with favor on the man, she would hold out her arms, inviting him to stand inside the blanket with her and they would stand close together, the blanket over their heads and bodies, lost in a warm red cocoon. Now, as Shadow walked toward me, I held out my arms. He smiled, the expression spreading to his eyes when he saw I was naked beneath the blanket.

  I smiled up into his darkly handsome face as I wrapped the blanket around the two of us. "If we were courting, would you still offer my father many horses for my hand in marriage?"

  "That is a silly question," Shadow said, his hands caressing my back. "Surely you know the answer."

  "Yes, but sometimes a woman likes to hear the words."

  "I can offer you more than words as proof of my love," Shadow said huskily. His hands cupped my buttocks, drawing my hips against his strongly muscled thighs. "Shall I show you how much I love you?"

  "Yes, please," I murmured, and lifted my face for his kiss.

  Shadow's mouth closed over mine as he lifted me in his arms and carried me to our bed. He placed me gently on the soft robes, then stretched out beside me.

  How wonderful to lie in Shadow's arms, to know he loved me as deeply as I loved him, to know that tomorrow would bring the same happiness as today. Time had not dulled our joy in each other, or lessened the thrill that erupted in the center of my being whenever Shadow caressed me. Sometimes we made love tenderly, with Shadow caressing me with light and gentle hands, as if he were afraid I might shatter at the slightest touch. At those times, he made me feel as if I were the most cherished woman in all the world. He coaxed me and petted me, holding back his own release until he was certain my wants and needs had been satisfied.

  At other times, he took me boldly, dominating me, exerting the strength and masculinity I so adored. He was masterful then, demanding, arrogant. His hands roamed my body, kneading my flesh, molding my shape to his as his tongue boldly raped my mouth, firing my blood until I thought I should explode or melt in his arms.

  This night, I gloried in the subdued strength of his hands as he stroked my breasts and thighs. His lips and tongue traveled over my face and neck, nibbling, tasting, scorching my skin like a dancing finger of flame.

  I moved restlessly beneath him, begging him to make me his, to satisfy the yearning he had created.

  But he was in no hurry this night. Drawing back, he let his gleaming black eyes wander over my body, his long brown fingers following the same path as his eyes, until I was on fire for him.

  Wanting him, eager for him to possess me, I rolled over on my side, my fingers stroking the hard wall of his chest, moving slowly, purposefully, toward his flat belly, down toward the thick nest of black hair between his thighs.

  I grinned triumphantly as Shadow's desire flared to match my own, his need as great now as mine.

  Whispering my name, he covered my body with his. My hands moved restlessly up and down his back, reveling in the muscles bunching beneath my fingertips. I grasped his buttocks as he surged into me, drawing him closer, closer, knowing I could never get enough of him.

  I closed my eyes as he moved inside me, lost in the wondrous pleasure of my husband's embrace.

  Shadow whispered love words in my ear, the phrases coming in a mixture of Cheyenne and English as he told me he loved me, needed me, wanted me. I was caught in the web of his voice, loving the sound of it, deep and husky with passion as he cried my name.

  I returned his love with every fiber of my being, giving all I had to give, wanting to please him, to pleasure him in every way.

  Later, wrapped in his arms, I drifted into a peaceful sleep, never dreaming that the future would hold anything but the same blissful contentment as today . . .

  II

  Summer-Winter 1883

  The summer days skipped by one by one, each as long and serene as the day before. Shadow and Calf Running roamed the wooded hills every day, hunting meat for the coining winter. Flower Woman and I sewed the skins into warm shirts and leggings and moccasins for our husbands and children. We made tons of pemmican, that tasty Indian dish concocted of dried meat, animal fat and berries ground together, as well as jerked deer meat.

  One lazy afternoon in late summer, Shadow ran into camp, smiling hugely. He had sighted a small herd of buffalo! This was indeed cause for excitement, for the buffalo that had once roamed the prairie in vast herds had been hunted almost to extinction by the whites.

  Moments later, we were mounted and riding toward the herd. Heecha and Nachi were fairly bursting with excitement as they waited for their first glimpse of the great shaggy beasts which the Cheyenne called pte. The boys had grown up listening to their fathers tell of hunting the buffalo. Their eyes had grown wide as they heard stories of warriors who had been crushed beneath pte's cloven hooves, of horses who fell and were pounded into the dust.

  Flower Woman and I stayed downwind with the children while Shadow and Calf Running stalked the herd on foot. Shadow hunted with his bow; Calf Running used a rifle because he could not manage bow and arrow with one hand. Heecha and Nachi watched their fathers in awe as first Shadow and then Calf Running brought down a buffalo. The rifle shot spooked the herd and they broke and ran, their hooves churning up a great cloud of yellow dust. As always, I was fascinated by the sight of the buffalo with their great shaggy heads, black curved horns, and beady black eyes. A full-grown bull might weigh as much as two thousand pounds.

  When the dust cleared, Flower Woman and I began the monumental task of skinning the carcasses. It was hard, dirty work, but no one complained. All of us were eager to taste the rich red meat. The hides would furnish new robes, the hair would be woven into rope, the horns would be used for spoons or cups, the ribs, lashed together with rawhide, would provide a sled for use in the snow. The meat would see us through the winter. The small intestine would be filled with meat and made into sausage.

  That night we feasted on hump meat and tongue, laughing as we licked the rich red juice from our lips. Oh, but it was good to be alive on such a night, to gorge ourselves on food that Maheo had provided, to sit under a sky alight with a million stars surrounded by family and friends.

  Later, sated and content, Shadow began to tell Heecha, Nachi, and Mary of the old days, when the buffalo were numbered in the thousands. There were no white men in those days, save for a few trappers and mountain men. Those were the good days, the shining times, when the Indian ruled the land and Man Above smiled down on his red children.

  It was near midnight when Calf Running and his family returned to their own lodge. I tucked Heecha and Mary into their beds and then went out to sit beside Shadow, who was staring into the smoldering embers of the fire, a brooding expression on his face. He had turned strangely quiet and I wondered what had spoiled his good mood.

  ''Shadow, what is it?" I asked after awhile. "Is anything wrong?"

  "No, Hannah," he answered tonelessly. "I am only sad that our son will never know the thrill of stalking pte. I fear that, by the time he is old enough to hunt, the buffalo will be gone. Heecha will never know what it is like to be a warrior, to raid the Crow or steal Pawnee horses, to listen to the old men tell the stories of our people. He will never know the pain an
d the wonder of the Sun Dance. Our way of life is gone forever. When he is a man, perhaps the Indian will be gone forever as well."

  "Shadow . . ."

  "My heart is heavy for my people. I miss the land where I was born, where my ancestors are buried. I miss the buffalo hunts. I miss the warriors I grew up with. It all seems so long ago. Tonight I feel old, so very old . . ."

  "Are you sorry we did not go to the reservation with your father and the others?"

  "No," Shadow said quickly, firmly. "I would not want our children to grow up surrounded by soldiers, to never know any freedom at all."

  My heart ached for my husband. I did not fully understand what he was feeling; I could never really understand what it meant to lose everything you had known and loved all your life. True, I had lost my childhood home and my parents, but I had not lost forever the entire fabric of my life. I could always go back to my people and live like a white woman again, if that was my desire. I could celebrate the holidays I had always known, attend the church of my choice, come and go where and when I pleased. But Shadow's people would never again roam their homeland, would never again be free to live as they had always lived, to practice their religion as they saw fit. For the rest of their lives, the Indians would be imprisoned on a reservation, subject to the care and goodwill of people they considered the enemy.

  Not knowing what to say, I put my arms around my husband and drew him close. Shadow buried his face in my neck, his strong arms circling my body in a grip of iron, as if he would never let me go.

  "Hannah . . ." Shadow whispered my name, his voice thick with emotion. A long shuddering sigh ran the length of his body and I held him tighter, hoping the strength of my love would somehow help to ease his heartache.

  I thought of all the times Shadow had comforted me, of the many times I had turned to him for solace . . . the day my parents were killed, the awful days following the death of our firstborn child, the time when I had been a prisoner of the Army and one of the soldiers had raped me. It had been the strength of Shadow's unconditional love and support that had carried me through those trying times and made me want to go on living.