All you have ever desired . . .
"Hannah." He whispered her name as the two birds climbed into the sky to disappear into the sun, and then he loosed a terrible cry of rage. Hannah was all he had ever desired, and she was dead.
Pain knifed through his heart as he remembered the first time he had seen her so long ago. Even as a child she had been lovely, special. He remembered how he had taught her to hunt and track and fish, and how pleased she had been when he praised her efforts. He recalled the day he had eaten the raw heart of a buffalo calf and how embarrassed she had been when she threw up all over him.
Time telescoped and Hannah was sixteen and so very beautiful. Her hair was as red as flame, her eyes a soft warm gray, her mouth ever curved in a smile that was his and his alone. He remembered the day he had seen her bathing in the river back in Bear Valley, her skin sleekly wet, her breasts full, her hips nicely rounded, her legs long and shapely. He had known from that moment that she would be his. Their love had blossomed into a rare and beautiful thing, undimmed by hardship or the passage of time.
He remembered how she had ridden valiantly at his side when they had gone to war against the whites even though they knew it was a fight they could never win. He remembered how she had nursed the wounded, grieved for the dead, comforted the dying. He remembered how beautiful she had been the day Elk Dreamer had made her his wife at the war camp on the Rosebud River.
Hannah. She had endured much to be with himhunger, cold, war, the death of a child. And now she was dead, because of him . . .
The next several days melted into one another. Waking, he drank frequently from the river, his thirst increased by the amount of blood he had lost. He ate wild licorice and blackberries and once, a snake that passed too close. He chewed the raw meat slowly, the simple task of eating making him weary.
Asleep, he dreamed of Hannah, always Hannah. Sometimes she was young and vibrant, her smile warmer than the summer sun at midday, her dove-gray eyes merry with laughter as she played with Mary. And sometimes he saw her as he had seen her last, lying still and silent upon the ground, her lifeblood staining her breast. At those times he woke in a cold sweat, her name a cry on his lips . . .
The wound in Shadow's arm healed quickly; the wound in his side took longer. His legs seemed to grow weaker with the passing of each day, and he knew he needed meat to strengthen his limbs. Roots and berries did not provide the nourishment a man required.
With great effort, he trapped a rabbit, and then another. The meat restored a part of his strength. He waited at the river one whole day, waiting patiently for the game that came to drink there each evening. At last, three doe made their way to the water's edge. Holding his breath, Shadow hurled his knife at the one doe that didn't have a fawn at her side. The blade caught the animal in the throat, killing it almost instantly. The other doe bounded away from the river, their tails flashing white as they ran.
Lacking the strength to drag the whole carcass to his shelter in the thicket, Shadow sliced the hindquarters into sections. He made three trips to the thicket, storing the meat high in a tree. The fourth time he returned to the carcass, he found several vultures tearing at the deer's remains.
Wavings his arms wildly, Shadow spooked the big black birds long enough to take the last hunk of meat. The birds and the wolves could have what was left.
While he waited for his body to heal and his strength to return, he fashioned a bow of hickory wood. Deer sinew served as the bowstring. It was not as strong as a bowstring made from the large tendon of a bull buffalo, but it would do.
That night, he sat under the stars, his eyes gazing into the distance. It was quiet on the plains. Once, the buffalo had covered the land like a great brown blanket. Once, the Indians had roamed the endless prairie, their conical lodges dotting the landscape, their vast horse herds grazing on the thick buffalo grass. Once, the sound of drums had filled the air. But now a great silence filled the earth. No more did the buffalo migrate across the plains, their hooves churning up clouds of yellow dust, their bellows echoing like thunder. No more did the Indian move across the land, following pte. No more did the hills ring with the happy sound of a free people. There was only silence, and a vast emptiness.
VII
Samuel Kincaid sat at his daughter's bedside, his large calloused hand enveloping her smaller one. For ten days she had lain in bed, drifting in and out of consciousness, her breathing shallow and uneven. Miraculously, the bullet fired by Mattlock had passed through Hannah's body without striking any vital organs. However, there was a large lump on the back of her head, sustained when she fell, that was causing much concern.
The Army doctor came every day. And every day there was no change in Hannah's condition.
Kincaid prayed as he had never prayed before, begging God to spare the life of his only child, if not for his sake, then for the sake of his grandchildren. Heecha spent hours at his mother's side, his dark eyes sad and brooding. Mary clung to her grandfather, her gray eyes, so like Hannah's, filled with bewilderment.
''Namshim," Heecha said, using the Cheyenne word for grandfather, "will my mother die?"
"I don't know, son," Kincaid answered. "It's in God's hands."
"Whose God?" Heecha asked. "The white man's god, or Heammawihio?"
Kincaid knelt down so that he was face to face with his grandson. "They're the same God, Heecha. It doesn't matter by what name you call him."
"I do not believe that."
"But it's true nonetheless. There's only one God, or Great Spirit, and he loves all his children."
"My father's friend, Calf Running, said the white man's god was stronger than the red man's god. He said Heammawihio was displeased with his children and that was why the Indian was being driven from his land."
Sam Kincaid let out a long breath. How did you explain gold and greed and Manifest Destiny to a child?
"If I prayed to the white man's god, would he hear me?" Heecha asked hopefully.
"Yes, son, he'd hear you."
"Will he make my mother well again?"
"I don't know. But it wouldn't hurt to ask."
"Can we ask him now?"
"If you like."
"Me, too," Mary said. "I want to pray for nahkoa."
Sam Kincaid blinked back his tears as the three of them knelt beside Hannah's bed to pray.
Another week went by, and Heecha's faith in the white man's god began to dwindle. He had expected a miracle, and nothing had happened.
When two weeks passed without any improvement in Hannah's condition, Kincaid decided to take her back east. The Army sawbones was good at sewing up torn flesh and mending broken bones, but he was at a loss to know what ailed Hannah. Perhaps a city doctor would know what to do.
Sunbird understood why Sam was leaving, but she would not go with him. She belonged with her own people, in her own land. Kincaid did not argue. He left Shadow a letter, telling him that they were going to New York City to find a doctor who could help Hannah.
As he signed his name to the short note, Kincaid wondered if Shadow were still alive.
They went by flatbed wagon to the nearest railhead. Kincaid booked a private car for Hannah so they could travel alone and undisturbed. He did not want people staring at her, wondering what was wrong, wondering why she stared blankly into the distance.
Sitting beside her, Kincaid looked out the window as the train began to move. He was glad to be leaving it all behind. He should have taken Shadow's advice years ago and left Bear Valley before it was too late, before the Indians claimed the life of his wife and destroyed their home. But for his stubbornness, Katherine Mary Kincaid would still be alive, and Hannah would not be lying beside him as still and silent as death . . .
VIII
Shadow It was on a dark moonless night that Shadow started across the prairie bound for the reservation. It was a strangely eerie feeling, walking across the yellow grass, alone. Nothing moved on the face of the land, not even the wind.
It was lon
g past midnight when he padded quietly toward the small cabin that belonged to Hannah's father. He knew, even before he stepped inside, that it was empty.
Outside once again, he rounded the west corner of the house to where a single lodge made a dark outline against the darker night. He scratched softly on the hide near the entrance and in a few moments Sunbird lifted the flap. She did not seem surprised to see him.
"Welcome," she said, gesturing for Shadow to enter the lodge. It was roomy and comfortable inside and Shadow breathed deeply, relishing the scent of sage that rose from the fire.
"Where is Kincaid?" he asked. "Where are my children?"
Sunbird nodded her head as she pulled a white envelope from beneath her sleeping robe and handed it to Shadow. "Kincaid, he is a good man. He left this for you in case you came back."
The letter was brief, but no words had ever thrilled Shadow more. Hannah was alive! Alive but not well. He quickly read on.
"I don't know if you have survived your wounds," Kincaid wrote, "or if you will ever read this. However, I have taken Hannah to New York City to see a specialist. I cannot tell you where we will be staying, for I have no relatives in the city and have not been to New York in over 40 years. The children are well. I pray God you are the same."
His heart filled with joy, Shadow bid the old woman farewell and ducked out of the lodge. Hannah was alive!
Noiseless as the night, he made his way to where several horses stood hipshot in a peeled pole corral. Taking a bridle from one of the posts, he slipped into the enclosure, speaking softly to the horses. Gently, he slipped the bridle over the head of a good-looking calico mare and led the horse out of the corral.
Once clear of the corral and the nearby Indian lodges, he swung onto the horse's back and headed east. New York City, Kincaid had said. Shadow knew little of the cities of the white man, only that there were many of them across the wide Missouri. He had seen some of them when he was an attraction in Hansen's Traveling Tent Show. He had thought them noisy, overcrowded places populated by countless peoplepeople of all colors, people who had come to the carnival to gawk at him: little yellow men with strange eyes, big black men with kinky hair, Mexicans, mulattoes, Germans, Irishmen, Swedes. But no Indians, he mused wryly, save for one half-naked Cheyenne warrior in chains and feathers.
It was a part of his life he rarely thought of, a time of humiliation and shame. He had been mocked and laughed at, poked and prodded. And whipped, he mused ruefully. His back still carried the scars. Finally, he had escaped. Though badly wounded, he had killed the three men who had kept him in chains. He had dipped his hands in the blood of the last man, and it had been a good feeling. It was the last thing he remembered before he blacked out. When he woke, he was in the house of a white woman and her daughter. The woman's name had been Rebecca Matthews, and she had saved his life. She had been afraid of him at first, but later she had come to his bed, wanting him in the way a woman wants a man. And he had obliged her because she had saved his life and he had nothing else to give.
That night, bedded down near a shallow waterhole, Shadow thought of Rebecca. Perhaps she would help him find Hannah.
IX
"Hannah. Hannah, wake up. We're here."
The sound of a man's voice penetrated the mists of darkness and I opened my eyes. Turning my head, I saw a big man with broad shoulders and curly brown hair smiling down at me. He was dressed in dark blue twill pants and a white shirt.
"How are you feeling, honey?" he asked, giving my hand an affectionate squeeze.
"Fine," I answered, wondering who the man was, and where I was.
"Good. Your dress is hanging on the door. Your, uh, underthings are there, too. Let me know when you're dressed. I'll wait outside. You can, uh, call me if you need help."
"Get ready for what?" I asked, frowning.
"We're at the train station, in New York. I've got a carriage waiting."
I stared at the man. New York? A carriage? "Excuse me," I said politely. "But who are you?"
"Who am I?" The man looked at me strangely. "I'm your father."
"He's dead," I said softly, wondering why I could remember that and nothing else.
"Is he?" the man asked. "How did he die?"
"I don't remember."
The man's brow furrowed and a look of worry spread over his face. "Do you know who you are?"
Slowly, I shook my head. A faint stab of fear pierced my heart. I didn't know who I was. Or where I was. New York, the man had said. I glanced out the window. People milled about the station: ladies in fancy dresses and wide-brimmed hats decorated with fake flowers and colorful plumes, men in suits and ties and derby hats. A Negro porter walked by, several bags under his arm. In the distance, I could see houses and carriages and a few shops.
"Hannah." There was a barely concealed note of despair in the man's voice. "Your name is Hannah . . ." He paused, a deep frown puckering his forehead.
"Hannah what?"
"Berdeen," he said heavily.
"Berdeen." I repeated the name slowly. It meant nothing to me, nor did it sound the slightest bit familiar. "Who are you?"
"I'm your father, Samuel Kincaid."
"Kincaid?"
"Yes. You were married, but your husband died. You have two children."
"Children!"
"Yes, Heecha and Mary."
"Heecha? What a strange name?"
"It's an Indian name."
I laughed humorlessly. "Why would I give one of my children an Indian name?"
The man sighed heavily, as if he wasn't sure what to say, or how to say it. "It's a long story, Hannah, and quite complicated. Let's save it for later, when you're feeling better. Why don't you get dressed now? The train will be pulling out soon."
The man looked suddenly old as he left the compartment and closed the door behind him. I got up slowly, feeling weak and a little lightheaded. My mind was in turmoil as I pulled on the underthings hanging on the door and then slipped into a dress of flowered blue muslin.
"Hannah." I said the name aloud, but it struck no chord within me. I felt so strange. I could walk and talk and think, but I could not remember a single thing. It was odd and a little frightening.
The man was waiting for me when I stepped out of the car. Two children stood beside him. The boy was handsome, with straight black hair, black eyes and dark, coppery skin. The girl was a charming little thing, with wavy brown hair, wide gray eyes, and a fair complexion. They both stared at me uncertainly, and I guessed the man had told them about my condition and warned them not to say anything.
''Ready, Hannah?" the man asked kindly.
"Yes."
He handed me into the rented carriage, lifted the children into the opposite seat, and flicked the reins over the backs of the two-horse team.
It was a big noisy city. The streets were crowded with people, and they all seemed to be in a hurry. There were uniformed policemen on horseback, Chinese men in long flowing robes. Negroes driving beer wagons and fancy carriages. It was a bustling town, and I had a vague memory of a childhood dream that involved New York and a dark, faceless man.
Mr. Kincaid drew the carriage to a halt before a large hotel. The building was painted white with dark green shutters on the windows. Two large potted palms stood on either side of the entry. A patterned carpet covered the floor of the lobby. Several sofas and chairs, all covered in dark burgandy velvet, were placed at intervals. A large chandelier hung from the middle of the ceiling.
In a matter of moments, Mr. Kincaid had secured a suite of rooms and we were climbing the staircase to the second floor.
"You rest, Hannah," Mr. Kincaid said, patting my hand. "I'll look after the kids." Pulling a silver watch from his pocket, he checked the time. "It's four o'clock now. I'll pick you up at six for dinner."
I nodded, content to let him make the plans. Feeling suddenly tired, I sat on the edge of the bed and removed my shoes and stockings. Sighing, I fell back on the bed and closed my eyes. Gradually, the so
unds from outside faded and I drifted to sleep, and sleeping, began to dream . . .
I was wandering through a dark land, alone. Ahead of me, through a hazy gray mist, I could see a man. Deep within my heart, I knew I would never be happy unless I could reach the mysterious man who loomed ahead of me. I ran and ran, but I could not close the distance between us. Once, he paused on a low hill. Turning, he looked in my direction. I peered into the murky darkness, trying to discern his face, trying to call his name. But his face was in deep shadow, and no sound emerged from my throat. Abruptly, he turned away and was gone. A great sadness filled my breast as I lost sight of him. Bereft, I traveled for miles and miles through the deepening darkness, but I could not find him . . .
When I woke, my face was wet with tears.
Mr. Kincaid came for me a half hour later. He looked quite handsome in a dark brown suit, white shirt, and plaid vest.
"Are you ready?" he asked.
"Yes," I said, smiling tentatively. "Where are the children?"
"I've hired a woman to care for them. You needn't worry about their safety. Mrs. Clancy has good references."
"I wasn't worried," I replied, "only curious."
Mr. Kincaid chewed the inside of his lip and I knew he was concerned over my lack of maternal interest in the little boy and girl.
We ate dinner at a lovely restaurant. Heavy green drapes were pulled back from the tall, leaded windows. A green patterned carpet covered the floor. The tables were covered with snowy linen cloths, the chairs were green damask. Crisp linen napkins, sparkling silverware and flowered china dishes were laid before us. Mr. Kincaid ordered a large steak with all the trimmings for himself, a smaller one for me. I shrugged when he asked if I cared for champagne. I could not remember if I had ever tasted it and, if I had, if I liked it.
Mr. Kincaid seemed at a loss for words as we dined. Sometimes I caught him staring at me, a worried expression on his ruggedly handsome face.
Later, over dessert, he said, hesitantly, "Hannah, I've made an appointment with a doctor for tomorrow at eleven o'clock."
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