by Judith Pella
“Hello,” Deborah said. “I’m feeling better now.”
The woman replied in her Indian language, but Deborah did not understand. Using signs that were almost more expressive than words, the woman made it clear that Deborah should not be walking around, that she should return to her bed.
“But I am better,” said Deborah, accompanying her statement with her own attempt at signs. “I believe I have you to thank for caring for me.”
The woman shrugged her lack of understanding, then called one of the children and gave him some instructions, upon which the child dashed away. Turning back to Deborah, the woman firmly nudged her back into the lodge and to her bed. Not wanting to cause a stir at this early date, and feeling she owed the woman that much at least, Deborah obeyed. She was starting to feel rather shaky, anyway.
The woman brought Deborah a bowl of food, a thick soup with bits of meat and roots that tasted like turnips. Deborah tried to sign a request for a spoon, to which the woman replied with an encouraging nod. Deborah waited for a moment, but no spoon was forthcoming. The woman continued to nod, apparently urging Deborah to eat. Finally Deborah realized she was expected to use her fingers. She had done worse things since her wanderings had begun and was too hungry to bother about niceties, so she dug in, picking up the larger chunks with her fingers, drinking the rest. Whatever it was, it was tasty and she nodded and smiled her approval. The woman recognized the compliment and seemed pleased by it.
While Deborah was finishing her soup, the child the woman had spoken to returned, spoke to the woman, then skipped away. The woman tried to explain something to her guest, but when Deborah shook her head, apologizing for her ignorance, they both gave up in frustration. The woman took the empty soup bowl and, through signs, urged Deborah to sleep. This she did willingly, for though she had been awake less than an hour, she was fatigued. Another hour passed before she was wakened once more from her slumber, this time by muted voices in the lodge.
She peeked out from under her buffalo hide covers. Daylight still shone outside, and Deborah could clearly discern three figures in the lodge, all seated in a semicircle by the low-burning fire. With the woman from before were two men. One appeared older than the woman by several years; his wide brown face, which Deborah saw only in profile, was creased by many more lines and wrinkles. His left eye, which happened to be turned toward Deborah, was distinguished by a scar that traced its way along the brow and down the outer corner, making the eye droop in a somewhat sinister fashion.
The other man—younger, perhaps in his early twenties—glanced toward Deborah, and she saw a striking face that immediately impressed her with its unusual mingling of honest sensitivity and fierce strength. His large broad nose reigned like a conqueror over softer, expressive dark eyes, earnest lips, and a firm jawline. The face was framed with shining black hair, one side flowing freely over his buckskin-clad shoulder, the other bound in a braid wrapped in fur and ornamented with a silver disk attached to a lock of hair, much lighter in color than the man’s own.
Though he did not smile when he saw that she was awake, he seemed pleased. He motioned to his companions. The older man was talking, and he stopped immediately. He nodded approvingly, nudging the younger man, giving him a smug, almost conceited look. The older man spoke, and though Deborah could not understand him, she had the distinct impression he was taking credit for her recovery.
Deborah pushed aside her covers and started to rise, but the woman began to protest, hurrying toward Deborah. For the first time Deborah became a bit alarmed. This woman’s protectiveness seemed somewhat out of proportion to necessity. Was she merely concerned for Deborah’s welfare, or was she actually afraid her prisoner might escape?
The younger Indian spoke for the first time. “Gray Antelope Woman wishes you to rest.”
Deborah raised startled eyebrows. “You speak English?”
“I spent my childhood with white mountain man,” answered the young warrior in somewhat stilted English.
“Would you tell … Gray Antelope Woman that I am much better,” said Deborah. “Also, thank her for caring for me.”
The young man conveyed this message, but it was the older man who replied, apparently disgruntled about something.
“Gray Antelope Woman accepts your gratitude,” said the young warrior, “but it is her husband, Crooked Eye, you should also thank. He is great shaman … medicine man. He brought you back from Hanging Road.”
Deborah turned to the medicine man and bowed her head respectfully. “Thank you, Crooked Eye. I am in your debt.” This the young warrior translated, to which the shaman beamed in reply, the alarming scar on his eye now taking on an almost benevolent appearance.
Deborah again addressed the warrior. “What is your name? And where am I?”
“I am Broken Wing,” said the warrior, seeming to draw up more erect and proud, if it were possible, than he was before. “You are with Tsistsistas … ‘The People.’” He paused in thought as if trying to find the right words in the foreign tongue. “The white man knows us as Cheyenne. We are of the southern Cheyenne, in Black Kettle’s band.”
“My name is Deborah. And again, I am grateful to you all.”
Broken Wing studied Deborah for a long, somewhat disconcerting moment, and she found that though his eyes were sensitive, they could also be incisive and shrewd.
“You have no fear?” he said at length, with no small astonishment.
“You have given me no reason to fear,” she answered.
An amused glint briefly sparked in his eyes, though it did not quite reach down to his solemn lips. “You are welcome in this camp as a guest.”
“Thank you.”
“When you are well, you are free to leave.”
“I have no place to go.”
Broken Wing’s eyebrow cocked upward at this unexpected response. “You have no one?” Deborah shook her head. “All dead?”
“I suppose you could say that.”
“When I found you, I saw no signs of others.”
“You found me?”
Broken Wing nodded. “You are alone. How did this happen?”
Deborah sighed but hesitated only momentarily before answering. “It is a very long and complicated story. For now, I can only tell you that when I started out I was alone and I am still alone. I have no family, no one to go to.”
Broken Wing pondered this for a long while, finally replying, “You may stay here.”
“Thank you. The others won’t mind?”
“Why should they?”
“Because I am white.”
“Some white men are our enemies, it is true, but some are our friends.” Broken Wing stopped abruptly and rose to his feet. “Now, you rest. Gray Antelope thinks you are tired.”
“She is very kind.”
“She is concerned for the baby.”
“I am most grateful.”
“She wants the baby.”
“What?” Another mild alarm sounded in Deborah’s head, but she was certain she had merely heard wrong.
“Do not worry,” said Broken Wing matter-of-factly. “She will not take the baby without your leave.”
“Well, I—I … couldn’t—”
“It is well. She understands.”
“Oh.” Deborah wasn’t sure she understood, but it seemed safe for the moment to let it pass. The woman who had nursed her to health seemed harmless.
“I go now,” said Broken Wing, turning toward the flap.
“Please!” called Deborah quickly after him. “Will you be far? How will I communicate with Gray Antelope Woman and Crooked Eye?”
“My lodge is not far.”
He turned and left the tepee. Gray Antelope followed him.
The warrior and the shaman’s wife walked several paces from the lodge. Broken Wing paused when he realized Gray Antelope Woman wished to speak with him.
“What did the white woman say?” Gray Antelope asked.
“She said she has no family, no place to
go. She is alone.”
“So far from her people?” queried the Indian woman. “Why was she out there?”
“I don’t know. But I think she wishes to stay here.”
“Here?”
“She is not afraid of us.”
“This is not like any white woman I have seen.”
“I have told you, Heammawihio sends her.”
Gray Antelope nodded her head. The warrior’s story seemed more and more credible.
Broken Wing spoke again. “This is good for you, Gray Antelope.”
“Why?”
“The white woman has no family, no place to go. If she remains, she will need a lodge, a family.”
Gray Antelope Woman brightened considerably as the full implications of Broken Wing’s words dawned upon her. She considered herself too young to be a grandmother, yet she did see that such a ready-made family could fulfill some of the void her childlessness had left in her life. But she immediately questioned Broken Wing’s generosity. Yes, he was generally a thoughtful, considerate man, but surely he could not be willing to turn his captive, or whatever he considered her, over to her free of charge.
“How many horses do you want for her, Broken Wing?”
“I will take three, which I will return to you if I decide to court your new ‘daughter.’”
Gray Antelope smiled. “I see now why you do not take her into your own lodge.” She paused, but only for effect; her decision had been made the moment Broken Wing had set forth his proposition. “You will come now and look at my horses and the horses of my husband and choose any three you wish.”
25
The next day Deborah was much improved, and even Gray Antelope Woman consented to allow her to be up and around. The Indian woman escorted Deborah about the village, introducing her with great pride to her friends. They managed to communicate, at least on a rudimentary level through a rather crude sign language, but Deborah had many questions that simply could not be answered without language.
Late that afternoon while Deborah was watching a woman cure a buffalo hide, Broken Wing appeared. She was glad for the prospect of some verbal communication in her own language.
“You are well,” he said. She couldn’t quite tell if he meant the words as a statement or a question.
“Yes, I am.”
“It is good. Do you wish to talk?”
“Thank you, I would.”
“Come.”
He reached a hand down and helped her to her feet. They walked together toward the camp perimeter. A chilly wind blew over them, and though Deborah had for the most part lost track of time, she sensed it was still too early for snow. Yet it would come soon, she knew.
“Where exactly are we, Broken Wing?” she asked.
“This is Indian Territory, the most north part. We are camped by Bluff Creek. The white man’s fort called Dodge is to the north.”
“When I was alone out there,” said Deborah, “I saw no sign of white settlements, or of any settlements at all. I suppose I didn’t have too much farther to go.”
“I carried you a full day’s journey from where I found you to our camp. Alone, you would have died before you came to the fort, which was a journey of perhaps four days for a strong man on foot.”
“I am lucky you came along, then.”
He said nothing in reply, and they walked in silence for some time. The rocky ravine of the creek stretched out to their right within a stone’s throw of where they walked. The water shimmered as it caught the reflection of the setting sun’s rays; amber, orange, and coral wove into the shadows of the bare cottonwood branches overhanging the water’s edge. The wind stirred the scene enough to give it a kaleidoscope effect, very vibrant and alive in spite of the proximity of winter. In the silence, Deborah tried to put her current circumstances into perspective with all that had happened to her thus far. Was she once again thrust into a position of helplessness, under the control of forces stronger than herself? Surely her futile wanderings after her separation from Griff only proved her inability to survive alone in this country. And now, here she was at the mercy of more strangers. Was she doomed ever to be in such straits?
Broken Wing had told her she was free to go. How far away was Fort Dodge? It was quite possible that these Indians would give or lend her a horse to take her there; they might even escort her there themselves. But at Fort Dodge she would still be placed at the mercy of other strangers. And there, she would undoubtedly have to face tedious questions. It was even possible the legal authorities would have been alerted to her escape.
At least the Indians appeared willing to keep her—in fact, Gray Antelope seemed almost eager to do so. Broken Wing said the woman wanted Deborah’s baby. Could that mean danger to her? She sensed none from either of them. Perhaps Gray Antelope was anxious for her to stay simply because she hoped to have the child around to help with. Deborah judged that her time of confinement should be in less than two months; beyond that, she knew absolutely nothing about having babies or caring for them. The presence of a woman like Gray Antelope would be nothing less than a godsend when her time came. As strong and independent as Deborah desired to be, the thought of being alone or with crude, coarse men at such a time frightened her. In Virginia, she had once or twice been among older women when they discussed such matters. An elderly aunt, who had visited occasionally from her plantation in South Carolina, had tried to acquaint Deborah with some of the mysteries of womanhood. But for the most part these delicate subjects had been avoided among the genteel ladies. She supposed had she asked, she might have forced the information from a lady who pitied the poor motherless girl, but Deborah had never been too interested in anything except horses. From what little she had gleaned in these scanty conversations, and from what she had seen in her experience with animals, she knew that the child-birthing ordeal was not a pleasant one. It would be a comfort to have a woman, even an Indian woman, with her.
Yet, was she fooling herself about these Indians, allowing her harrowing experiences with her husband to blind her to other real dangers? If only half of what she had heard about the “savages” of the West were true, then she ought to be wary. Indians, perhaps these very ones, had been involved in massacres of settlers and pioneers. The stories of scalpings—that was certainly not Indian hair attached to the bauble in Broken Wing’s braid!—and other horrible atrocities could not be entirely fabricated. She shuddered to think that this man walking so placidly beside her, who appeared on the surface to have a sensitive nature, might have actually bent over a fallen white man and—
She could not even complete the thought, it was so repulsive. But she cast a covert, sidelong glance at her companion. Was she as naive and gullible as Griff thought her to be? Was she crazy to boot, to believe she could sojourn here with these Indians?
“You are troubled, Deborah?” said Broken Wing, his softly spoken query startling her from her appalling train of thought as if it were a blow.
“I’m sorry.” She did not know why she should apologize to him, but she almost felt as if he might have read her unkind thoughts. “I suppose I am concerned about my future.”
“You are welcome here. Gray Antelope Woman and Crooked Eye are willing to take you in.”
“Why?” She stopped walking and looked fully at him. “Why should you or they do this? Aren’t white people your enemies?”
“As I said before, some are, some aren’t.” He gave a shrug, though his words were by no means flippant. They were accompanied by a brow creased with introspection. This was a topic he had apparently wrestled with before. “Some Indians are my enemies also,” he went on. “The Pawnee and the Crow steal our horses and women and we steal theirs and fight them often. The Kiowa and Comanche used to be our enemies, but now we are at peace with them. Are you at peace with all your people?”
Deborah smiled ironically at this. “Hardly,” she replied. “That is why I am reluctant to go to the white settlements. I believe I may have more to fear from them than from you.�
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“Is your husband dead that he does not protect you from your enemies?”
My husband was my greatest enemy, Deborah thought bitterly. She said out loud, “Yes, he is dead.”
They started walking again. Deborah shivered, feeling the chilly air through her buckskin shift. She vaguely wondered what ever happened to Sid Miller’s sheepskin coat. The sun was low in the sky and radiating too little warmth to penetrate the wind.
Broken Wing noted her reaction to the cold. “Gray Antelope will make for you a warm winter robe.”
“I don’t understand why she would do this for me,” said Deborah.
“Gray Antelope has no children. This gives her …” He paused, searching for the appropriate English word. “It gives her reason … purpose. My stepfather, the mountain man, used to say often that he wished not to be ‘beholding’ to anyone. For this reason, he lived alone in the wilderness, depending only on his skill and the generosity of the land for his life. I tell you this because I think this is the white man’s way, and you might think the same. Feel not this way with Gray Antelope, for as she gives, she also receives.”
“It is a generous notion, Broken Wing. I think my debt will always outweigh hers, but it will help a little to keep that in mind.”
“Tonight there will be a council,” he said, changing the subject. “Do you wish to attend?”
“It is acceptable for women to attend such things?”
“Anyone may attend. Women do not often take part, but they have great influence. Women have wisdom, and it is good to hear them.”
“Well, I am sure I won’t have anything to say, but I would be honored to attend. Is the council being held entirely for my benefit?”
“Our chief, Black Kettle, has returned from big council with white soldiers and made treaty with them. We will learn tonight of these things.”
