Reckless Love

by Madeline Baker

  "Sure, son, run along," Fred Brown said, giving the boy an affecionate slap on the rump before turning to Shadow again. "Yep, that was some show. I don't know what Stewart paid you to wear them chains and strut around the stage pretending you were Two Hawks Flying, but it wasn't enough."

  "I was not pretending," Shadow said quietly.

  Fred Brown's face went gray, as if he had just been punched in the stomach. "Two Hawks Flying." He breathed the name aloud. "I'll be damned."

  Two Hawks Flying. The name drew everyone's attention and all other conversation around us came to a halt as people turned to stare at Shadow.

  Two Hawks Flying, war chief of the Cheyenne.

  Two Hawks Flying, one of the Indians responsible for the Custer massacre.

  Two Hawks Flying, a name that stirred fear in the hearts of men and women.

  "He killed Custer!" Helen Sprague jabbed an accusing finger in Shadow's direction. "I read his name in the newspaper. He was there!" Her voice rose hysterically. "He'll kill us all!"

  "Calm down, Helen," Horace Bannerman advised curtly. "The man isn't even armed." Bannerman shot an inquiring look at Fred Brown. "What the hell's going on, Fred?"

  "Nothing. I, uh, I was just surprised to learn that Shadow, here, is really Two Hawks Flying. I didn't mean to start a ruckus."

  Horace Bannerman's gaze shifted to Shadow's face. The name Two Hawks Flying had been prominent in the newspapers back east when General George Armstrong Custer was killed at the Little Big Horn. There had been a lot of speculation about which Indian had killed the general. Had it been Crazy Horse or Gall, Sitting Bull or Two Hawks Flying? Had it been Rain-in-the-Face, who, according to one grisly rumor, was said to have cut out Custer's heart and eaten it?

  I knew for a fact that none of the Indians usually credited with Custer's death had actually killed him. While living with Shadow's people, I had heard it said that a young warrior named Hawk had killed Custer, while the Sioux claimed one of their braves, Flat Hip, had killed the general.

  It was my opinion that no one really knew who ended the flamboyant career of George Armstrong Custer. He had cut his long yellow hair prior to the battle and without his well-known trademark to identify him, he probably looked like any other white man. It was my guess that the Indian who killed Custer didn't even know it was Custer.

  In the years since the Custer massacre, other theories had come to light. One theory held that Custer committed suicide, another contended that the body identified as George Custer had actually been the body of his brother, Tom, and that Custer had been captured alive by the Sioux and tortured to death. Another theory claimed that Custer had somehow managed to escape from the battlefield and was even now living in obscurity in some little town, afraid to come forward for fear of being branded a coward.

  But none of that was important now. What mattered was the way our neighbors were staring at Shadow, wondering if he was the man who had killed a legend. Custer had been a hero in the eyes of many whites, a man whose life had been held in high esteem.

  Horace Bannerman cleared his throat as he took a step closer to Shadow. "Did you kill Custer?"

  Was I imagining it, or was everyone holding their breath?

  The night grew suddenly still, as if the whole world was waiting for Shadow's reply. I saw Pa move closer to the end of the porch, his face set in angry lines, and I knew if trouble started, Pa would step in and take a place at Shadow's side.

  "Well?" Horace Bannerman said, his voice sounding loud in the quiet of the night.

  "I did not kill Custer," Shadow answered with regret. "But I was at the Little Big Horn the day he died." Shadow stood up, his dark eyes sweeping the crowd. "I am Two Hawks Flying of the Cheyenne," he announced proudly. ''I am not ashamed to be Indian. I have killed many white men in battle, but that is over now. I have come to this place to live with my wife and her family. If my presence is going to cause trouble, say so now, and I will leave."

  There was a moment of silence, then everyone began talking at once.

  "No need to leave," Fred Brown said emphatically. "The war's over as far as I'm concerned."

  "That's right," Lydia Bannerman agreed. "There's room in the valley for everyone, red or white."

  "We're happy to have you here," Ruth Tippitt said, laying her hand on Shadow's arm. "Sounds to me like you've had some bad experiences with white folks in the past, but we're not all like that."

  I felt my heart swell with gratitude as our neighbors flocked around Shadow, urging him to stay, assuring him that he was welcome. Only the Spragues remained aloof, their faces showing their disapproval.

  There was a new feeling of friendship in the valley after that night. We got together as often as possible to sing and dance or just talk about crops and cattle and kids. We had a barn raising for the Tippitts when their old one burned down, and after the work was done, we had a party to celebrate.

  I was pouring lemonade in the Tippitt's kitchen when I overheard Helen Sprague and her husband talking outside the window.

  "Kind of strange, that barn burning down," Helen said.

  "Not so strange when you think nothing like that ever happened until that redskin moved into the valley," Porter Sprague replied.

  Helen Sprague smiled maliciously. "Why, that's right. I'll bet he did it out of pure cussedness."

  They moved away from the window, their heads together as though they were plotting some mischief. I didn't mention the incident to Shadow. I didn't want to spoil the day for him. He was having a good time, talking and laughing with the other men while they ate the dinner the women had prepared. It was good to see him enjoying himself instead of remaining apart from the crowd, good to know that, except for the Spragues, our neighbors had accepted him as an equal.

  It was shortly after the barn raising that the trouble began. Horace Bannerman found one of his bulls with its throat cut. The Tippitts went out to their chicken coop and found three hens missing. The Spragues announced the loss of one of their goats. Fred Brown complained that someone was stealing his milk. Leland Smythe lamented the loss of one of his prize roosters.

  It was at one of our gatherings that Helen Sprague pointed out that our place was the only one that hadn't been bothered.

  "I think that's awfully strange," she remarked, staring at Shadow. "Don't you?"

  "It is odd," George Tippitt agreed, "but it probably doesn't mean anything. The Kincaids live quite a ways out from the rest of us."

  "I think it could mean a lot," Porter Sprague argued.

  "Just what are you hinting at, Porter?" Pa demanded angrily.

  Porter Sprague glanced at Shadow, his eyes filled with accusation. "I'm not stealing my own goats," he said with a shrug. "And I know Bannerman didn't slit his bull's throat. Why hasn't anything happened at your place?"

  "I don't know," Pa answered testily. "But I'd be damned careful before I made any accusations I couldn't prove if I were you."

  Porter Sprague swelled up like an angry gobbler. "Is that a threat, Kincaid?"

  "You're damn right!" Pa said. "And don't you forget it."

  Sprague looked at Shadow. Apparently he did not like what he saw reflected in Shadow's eyes because he didn't pursue the matter further. But the damage had been done. Even though no direct accusations had been made, I knew our neighbors were wondering if Shadow was guilty of stealing livestock and killing Bannerman's bull.

  In the next few weeks, there were more thefts. Porter Sprague bought a new shotgun and threatened to shoot anything that moved in his yard after dark and ask questions later. Three families, all from Philadelphia, moved into the south end of the valley. They had no more than gotten settled when they began to notice things were missinga harness, a spotted calf, a pair of shoats, a new Winchester rifle.

  It was in the midst of this turmoil that my third child made its entrance into the world. I was alone in Pa's cabin when my labor began. Pa and Rebecca had taken Heecha and Mary and gone to Steel's Crossing to pick up some supplies. They wo
uld be gone several days. Shadow had gone hunting early that morning, but had promised to be back before dark.

  I tried to ignore the pains as I finished a batch of bread and washed up the breakfast dishes. About noon, my water broke and the contractions grew harder. I had forgotten how bad the pain was, and I groaned softly as another contraction left me breathless.

  When it passed, I went into the spare bedroom and stretched out on the bed, my fingers worrying the bedclothes as another pain came, and then another.

  It was going on five o'clock in the evening when I began to suspect something was wrong. The contractions were coming closer together, but no matter how hard I pushed, the baby would not be born. I was sobbing now, and badly frightened, my fears intensified by the gathering darkness and the fact that Shadow had not returned home.

  I crawled out of bed during a lull in the pains and made my way through the dark rooms toward the kitchen. If I was going to die, I didn't want to die in the dark. I was groping in the cupboard for a match when the worst contraction of all knifed through me and I fell to the floor, my arms folded across my stomach as I cried Shadow's name.

  Where was he? Why didn't he come home? Had he been hurt? I remembered the time long ago when Shadow had been badly beaten by our neighbors simply because he was an Indian and a new fear burned into my brain. What if Porter Sprague and some of the others had found Shadow and decided he was responsible for the thefts that had been taking place in the valley? What if they killed him?

  Fear for Shadow's life, combined with the awful pains tearing me in half brought fresh tears to my eyes and I curled up on the floor, sobbing, on the verge of hysteria. I tried to pray, but the pains were coming too fast and I couldn't concentrate, could only murmur Shadow's name over and over again.

  Lying there, unable to expel the child from my womb, I began to imagine that Death was all around me. He was lurking in the dark corners of the room. He was watching me from the doorway. He was watching me through the windows. Soon he would come for me and I would never see Shadow or my father or my children again. Soon, I would feel his cold clammy hand on my arm and there would be nothing I could do. I was too weak to fight, too tired to resist . . .

  I screamed as a hand closed over my arm.

  "Hannah, be still. I am here."

  It was Shadow. The sound of his voice chased all my fears away and I felt my body relax as he picked me up in his arms and carried me into the bedroom. There was a sudden light as he touched a match to the lamp on the bedside table. His face was dark with concern as he removed my dress and covered me with a clean sheet.

  "The baby," I gasped. "It won't come."

  "When did the pains start?"

  "This morning."

  Shadow mouthed a vague obscenity as he lifted the sheet, and I felt his hand probe gently between my thighs. I cried out as another contraction urged me to push, but pushing brought no relief.

  "Hannah, relax," Shadow's voice cut through the pain. "The baby's arm is over it's head. I am going to try and move the arm out of the way. Do not push."

  I nodded, but it was an effort not to bear down as the contractions kept coming. I stared at the top of Shadow's head as his hand slipped between my thighs. His hushed whispers reached my ears and I knew he was praying to the Great Spirit of the Cheyenne to let the child be born healthy, to ease my pain.

  I focused all my attention on the sound of Shadow's voice, letting the rich deep tone surround me like loving arms, comforting me, its strength giving me strength.

  Shadow gave a triumphant cry as he succeeded in moving the baby's arm so that it no longer blocked the birth canal.

  "Push now, Hannah," he urged when the next contraction came.

  I pushed with what little strength I had left and the child's head appeared. Moments later, my newborn child was cradled in Shadow's hands, whimpering softly.

  "It is a boy," Shadow said, his voice thick with emotion.

  He held up the child so I could see it and our eyes met. Whose child was it? I peered anxiously at the infant in Shadow's hands. The baby had a thatch of dark brown hair and dark blue eyes. Was it Shadow's son, or Joshua Berdeen's? There was no way to be sure.

  Shadow placed the baby on my stomach while he cut and tied the cord, then he washed the infant and wrapped it in a blanket.

  "It does not matter who fathered the child," Shadow said as he placed my son in my arms. "From this day forward, he will be my son, and I will be his father." Shadow smiled then, and I marveled anew at how handsome he was as he brushed a wisp of damp hair from my face. "Rest now."

  "I love you," I murmured sleepily.

  "Thank you for a beautiful son."

  I fell asleep with our child cradled against my breast."

  XX

  Spring Summer 1886

  I was on my feet again a few days after our son was born. We named him Samuel Black Elk, after his grandfathers, but everyone called him Blackie and as he grew older, and his brown hair turned the color of obsidian, it seemed a fitting nickname.

  Pa and Rebecca returned home nine days after his birth. Rebecca lamented the fact that she had not been present to help with the delivery, but I assured her that Shadow had been a perfect midwife.

  "Really?" Rebecca said. She grinned at Shadow, her brown eyes sparkling with amusement. "Perhaps Mary Crowley would like your assistance when her time comes."

  "Very funny," Shadow muttered. Mary Crowley was one of the new people from Philadelphia. She was rather plump, in her late thirties, and very pregnant.

  ''It might start a whole new trend," Rebecca went on. "You should think about it."

  Shadow glared at her as he left the room, and Rebecca and I burst into gales of laughter. Shadow, acting as a midwife to an eastern-bred lady, it was too funny for words.

  A cry from Blackie sent us to his cradle.

  "He's darling." Rebecca crooned. "So sweet and soft. You forget how precious babies are when your children grow up."

  It was true, I thought wistfully. They grew up so fast. One minute you were carrying them in your arms, and the next minute they were exploring the world. I thought of my own children. Heecha was already eight, Mary was seven. Where had the time gone?

  Big changes were taking place in our valley now. Horace Bannerman decided to give up farming and build a blacksmith shop. It was how he had earned his living back east and he discovered he was not really happy doing anything else.

  George and Ruth Tippitt said the quiet life didn't suit them and they converted their new barn into a general store which they stocked with merchandise and provisions purchased from Steel's Crossing. Their store turned out to be a blessing for everyone in the valley, as it was no longer necessary to make the long trek to Steel's Crossing to buy salt, sugar, cloth, canned goods, or any of the other items we could not easily grow or produce ourselves.

  Clancy Turner and his wife raised pigs and chickens, adding a welcome change frm beef and venison. In their spare time, they printed a one-page newspaper carrying the latest news in the valley, as well as news from the east when they could get it. It was a popular paper; men advertised animals or crops for sale, women exchanged recipes and patterns.

  Christopher and Sarah Thorsen were another family from Philadelphia. Sarah was a retired schoolteacher; Christopher was an ordained minister in the Methodist church. Mr. Thorsen conducted his church services out in the open until Lydia Bannerman decided we needed a building to meet in and everyone agreed.

  Every family in Bear Valley contributed something to the building of the church, whether it was cash or labor or both. Mattie Smythe donated a beautiful silver candlelabra that had belonged to her mother. Ruth Tippitt crocheted a lace cloth for the altar that was as light and fine as a spiderweb. Horace Bannerman ordered a bell for the steeple.

  It was agreed that the building site should be near the river in a grove of aspens, halfway between the two outlying homesteads. When it was completed, it became a favorite meeting place for social gatherings.


  Late that spring, Pa and Shadow went to the railhead to pick up the herd of cattle Pa had bought from a rancher in Fort Worth. They were gone almost three months.

  I missed Shadow terribly even though I had Heecha and Mary and Rebecca for company. And Blackie, of course. He took up a good deal of my day so I rarely had time to fret. He was a darling child. At two months, he was already smiling and cooing. And since he was the only baby in the valley, for the moment, he was terribly spoiled. Ruth Tippitt was forever sewing him something new to wear; Fred Brown carved animals out of wood for him to look at; many of the women and older girls offered to sit with him if I felt the need of some time alone; Leland Smythe promised to give us the pick of the litter when his hound had puppies so that Blackie could have a dog to grow up with.

  It was on a beautiful day in early smmer when Pa and Shadow returned. I ran outside and threw myself into my husband's arms, crying and laughing in my happiness to see him again.

  As always, just looking at Shadow filled me with joy. He was so handsome, I was certain Man Above had created him as the perfect example of what a man should be. His skin was smooth and clear, the color of old copper. His hair, grown long again, was as black and sleek as a raven's wing. His eyes were as black as ten feet down, warm with love as he drew me close, his lips moving in my hair as he hugged me tight.

  Pa's cabin was filled with happy laughter that night as Pa and Shadow recounted their journey to Fort Worth and back, joking about the long drive, cattle that were not trail broken, and the lack of female companionship. Heecha and Mary danced around, waiting for the gifts they knew their father had brought them. They were not disappointed. With a grin, Shadow pulled three packages from his war bag. He handed the first to Heecha, and our son crowed with delight as he unwrapped his gift and found a new hunting knife and a whetstone. Mary was equally pleased with her gift of a new dress and a ribbon for her hair. The third present was a toy for Blackie.

  "Didn't you bring anything for nahkoa?" Heecha asked.

  "I would not forget your mother," Shadow assured the boy, and dipping into his war bag one more time, he withdrew a small square box and handed it to me.