by Judith Pella
“So you are at peace with the white man now?”
“Who can say? We were at peace with the soldiers when they attacked our camp on Sand Creek. Black Kettle hung the flag of the white soldiers and a white flag in front of his lodge to show we were friendly, and still they attacked.” Broken Wing’s voice momentarily grew hard and tense. “Sixty warriors were killed and almost a hundred squaws and babies. My mother was among them. Black Kettle’s wife was shot nine times by soldiers, though she did not die.”
“That’s terrible, Broken Wing. I am sorry.”
“You were not there; you have no reason to be sorry.”
“I suppose just the color of my skin gives me reason enough. It shames me.”
“And Black Kettle feels shame because he thinks he betrayed our people by trusting the white man.”
“And still he makes another treaty?”
Broken Wing’s voice filled with deep pride as he spoke. “He is the great peace-chief of our tribe. He believes peace is possible.”
“But you don’t?”
“I will follow Black Kettle. It is the only way. The white men are many; we are few. They have many guns.”
****
That night Broken Wing took Deborah to a large lodge situated close to the center of the camp. He told her that in summer the sides of the tepee were often removed so everyone in the village could gather and hear the council of the tribe’s elders, but the cold weather made that impractical tonight.
This night’s meeting did not include all the tribal chiefs, for the tribe was divided into some ten bands scattered all over the plains. This was an informal gathering of some of the chiefs present at the recent treaty signing, including Seven Bulls, Black-White-Man, and Bull-That-Hears. Also crowded into the lodge were many of the warriors from this Bluff Creek camp, some Arapahoe, and a few braves from nearby camps. Many of them looked exceptionally dire and hostile, especially toward her. Deborah felt as vulnerable and helpless as ever, this uneasiness only heightened when she considered the fact that all that stood between her and those dangerous savages was Broken Wing, a man whom she hardly knew and whose friendship she had accepted only at his own word. Perhaps he had lured her in here so these wild men might sacrifice her to some heathen ritual.
But when she was presented to Black Kettle, he was notably civil with her. He was a man in his late fifties who radiated a sage and benevolent image, though not without a liberal mix of shrewd cunning in his intelligent eyes. She suddenly found herself thinking of the Texas Ranger, Sam Killion, and what he had once said about being “gentle as a dove and wise as a serpent.” This certainly fit Black Kettle, peace-chief of the Cheyenne.
Speaking in the Cheyenne tongue with Broken Wing translating, he welcomed her and expressed his pleasure at her surviving her illness. Then Black Kettle sat in the circle of chiefs and warriors, motioning for her and Broken Wing to join them. There she sat, with Broken Wing quietly interpreting the proceedings.
The first order of business was the passing of the pipe. It traveled around to everyone present and when it came into Broken Wing’s hands, Deborah began to worry. He inhaled deeply from the long wood pipe, blew out a stream of smoke then, much to Deborah’s relief, passed the pipe to the next man. The smoky fumes filling the lodge were beginning to make her head reel as it was; what would actually smoking the thing do to her? She realized it was honor enough to be included in this predominantly male council and could not restrain an inward smile as she imagined Caleb’s and Leonard’s outrage over even that. But she was not the only woman in the place; two or three squaws were seated toward the back, one an elderly woman who must have been ninety years old. The women were silent throughout the meeting and Deborah had no problem with doing the same.
Soon the talk began. Broken Wing tried to translate, but it quickly exceeded his incomplete knowledge of English. He shrugged about halfway through, looking frustrated, and fell silent. Before he gave up, however, she caught the gist of the interchange between the chiefs and warriors.
Black Kettle spoke first. “One winter ago, before the snows came, I sat in council with white man chief, Evans. This is what I told him: ‘We have come with our eyes shut, like coming through the fire. All we ask is that we may have peace with the whites; we want to hold you by the hand. I have not come here with a little wolf’s bark; instead, I want to speak plainly with you. We must live near the buffalo or starve. When we came here we came free, with no worry, to see you; and when I go home and tell my people that I have taken your hand and the hands of all the chiefs here in Denver, they will be glad.’ The white chief accused us of starting the war and did not take our hand of peace. The one truth he spoke was that soon the plains would be covered with white man soldiers as they now are covered with buffalo. He advised us to help the soldiers by controlling our young warriors. I said we were willing to do this. We were told we could camp on the big bend of the Sand Creek and our young men could hunt and be safe.”
When Black Kettle paused a younger warrior spoke. “And the white man lied, as always!”
“It is true,” Black Kettle continued. “The soldiers attacked our camp. I put my big flag of the stripes and stars in front of my lodge with a white flag of truce. But the soldiers did not heed it. Sixty warriors fell that day and more than that of our women and children. It was a black day, like traveling through a cloud.”
Another warrior spoke. Broken Wing whispered to Deborah that he was one of the Dog Soldiers, who were like the military police of the tribe. The man had several scars on his face that, with his flaming eyes, gave him a ferocious appearance. “And still you go again to make peace with the whites?” he said in a challenging tone. “What promises do they make now with their double hearts and forked tongues? The Dog Soldiers will not make peace. I have given my word to fight with the whites. To fight and kill the whites is the only way to make peace.”
Seven Bulls replied, “The white chief admitted the Cheyenne were forced to make war because of what happened on the Sand Creek. They saw the nine wounds on the body of Black Kettle’s wife, and gave him a good horse as recompense. They promised to restore our lost property and give us land.”
“And you believed them?” spat the Dog Soldier.
Black Kettle answered: “I told the soldier chief that I did not think their young soldiers would listen to them, that when I come to get the white man’s presents I am afraid they will strike me before I get away. I told them I could not speak for all my people. But our friend, William Bent, encouraged us to trust the white chief once more. Bent himself will winter in our camps to see that the white soldiers do not break the treaty. We must make peace with the white man, Bull Bear,” Black Kettle said to the angry Dog Soldier. The peace-chief’s tone was sad and sympathetic.
“My brother died making peace with the white man,” retorted Bull Bear. “And I believe I will die also in this way.” He folded his arms obdurately and said no more.
Several others voiced their agreement with the Dog Soldier. Others supported Black Kettle, and the debate around the council circle became a heated crossfire of reaction and opinion. Even though Broken Wing had not been able to translate the exchange, it didn’t take a knowledge of Cheyenne for Deborah to discern that whatever peace Black Kettle and the other chiefs had just made with the U.S. Army, it was a tentative one at best.
As she returned to the lodge of Crooked Eye and Gray Antelope, Deborah wondered if she was going to end up in the middle of an Indian war. She wondered, too, if that were the case, which side she would take.
26
The following weeks went unthreatened by imminent war, and Deborah dwelt in a tranquil security with the Cheyenne.
With the village at peace and the coming of inclement weather, many of the warriors remained near the camp. Thus, Broken Wing had more opportunity to spend his time with Deborah, who had asked him to teach her the language and Cheyenne culture.
By the end of November, she had learned enough of the language to
communicate, though somewhat clumsily, with Gray Antelope Woman and others with whom she was becoming acquainted. She was able to learn so quickly because she had much idle time on her hands. Her ordeal in the wilderness had robbed her of more strength than she had at first realized. She tired easily and once, while helping to carry water from the creek, she fainted. After that, Gray Antelope refused to allow her to do any other work. Thus, quickly growing restless, Deborah began to monopolize Broken Wing’s time.
During this time, one of the braves brought two captive white children to the camp. Deborah watched them with a sinking heart. She had come to trust her hosts, or at least believe in their good intentions. This incident stirred her earlier apprehensions. Agitated, she sought out Broken Wing.
He explained, “Red Feather bought the captives from the Kiowa.”
“But why?”
“Red Feather’s nephew is among Indian captives in the white man fort. He wishes to trade white captives for Indians. Very simple.”
“Simple!” sputtered Deborah. “I thought Black Kettle wanted peace, yet here are Cheyenne bartering in innocent children. How can you hope to convince the United States officials of your sincerity by such inconsistency?”
Broken Wing was puzzled at her outburst, for, to him, it was all quite logical. “We do not hurt the children. In fact, though we are at peace with the Kiowa, it is known they are not good with captives. The Cheyenne take better care of captives. So, this is good for the children.”
“And what of their families? What happened to them?”
“I do not know.”
“May I speak with the children? It might comfort them to see a white woman.”
“You are right. I will ask Red Feather.”
About an hour later, Deborah was taken to Red Feather’s lodge where the children were kept. She found them huddled closely together in a dim corner, fear etching their smudged, pathetic faces. One was a girl of about thirteen whose name Deborah learned was Mary; the other was her younger brother, Arthur, who was nine or ten. They were both shocked and relieved when they saw the yellow-haired white woman in Indian garb approach. The girl actually smiled.
“Are you being treated well?” asked Deborah, kneeling down beside them.
They nodded.
“We miss our mama, though,” said the girl.
“What happened to her?” Deborah wasn’t certain she wanted to know the answer. When she heard it, she was positive she didn’t.
“She’s dead,” said Mary, tears welling up in her eyes.
“The Indians?”
“They attacked our farm and Papa was killed. They took us and Mama captive. Mama said …” The girl paused as a sob caught her voice. She swallowed and continued tremulously. “Mama said she couldn’t stand being captured. She was afraid … that they’d force her to … to marry with them or something.”
“Did they do anything to her … or you?”
“No … they beat us sometimes and made us work, but we were always together until—” Tears spilled freely from her eyes. “Mama hanged herself.”
Deborah gasped. “Dear Lord, no! But she had no reason … ?” She wasn’t certain if she meant her words as a question, a statement, or a wishful hope.
“But she was powerful afraid.”
Deborah put her arms around the two children and drew them close. She knew of nothing else to say or do. It all seemed so senseless. She herself could have just as easily been in the same predicament, but when she found herself at the mercy of these Indians, she had been given no reason to fear. In all the weeks since her arrival, she had received nothing but friendship and kindness from them. Were all the present troubles with the Indians based simply on gross misunderstanding? The Indians would no doubt be blamed for the woman’s death, resulting in retaliations by the whites, followed by counter-retaliations by the Indians—back and forth until they exterminated each other. What would happen if other whites could have the opportunity to see the Indians from her present vantage? They had helped her, saved her. But they had also been directly responsible for orphaning these children. Of course, the Kiowa had done that, not the Cheyenne; but that distinction would not matter to most whites.
Deborah smoothed back the tangled strands of the girl’s light brown hair. “I don’t think you need fear these Cheyenne you are with now,” she said soothingly.
“But they killed our pa!” blurted out the boy in a hard and bitter voice.
“It was other Indians, Arthur,” Deborah replied, “but I know how you must feel. Yet, try to understand that the Indians believed they were protecting their own land, their own homes.”
“How can you talk like that?” asked Mary. “Didn’t they kill your family and capture you?”
“No, they didn’t. They found me dying on the prairie, and they took me into their camp and cared for me.” She sighed. “I know it must be complicated for you to understand. It is for me also.”
At that moment, Broken Wing, who had been waiting outside, came into the lodge. The children instantly tensed and cowered fearfully against the lodge wall. This brought visible distress to Broken Wing. He stopped, coming no closer and seemed almost about to retreat when Deborah spoke again.
“This man,” she said to the children, “is the man who saved me on the prairie.”
The children looked up with disbelief at this tall, imposing, fierce Indian. To them he appeared one and the same with those that had attacked their farm and killed their father. Yet why should this kind white woman lie to them? It was confusing.
“The wife of Red Feather has food for them,” said Broken Wing in Cheyenne. He obviously felt awkward, keeping his eyes averted from the children.
“Children,” said Deborah, “I’m going to go while you eat, but I will come back soon. Don’t be frightened, all right? And if you need me, I will be nearby.” She thought about giving them her name, but if they did return to the army fort, there might be a slim possibility the wrong people could hear of her presence. It was still too soon after her escape from Stoner’s Crossing to be careless. She gave each child an embrace, then followed Broken Wing from the tepee.
“What will happen to them?” Deborah asked when they were outside. The cold air made her breath come out in a frosty mist. She hugged the buffalo robe Gray Antelope had given her close to her body.
“We will have council with white men and make trade,” said Broken Wing. “They will return to their people.” His voice was suddenly as cold as the winter air.
“What’s wrong?” She had gotten to know him well enough to recognize this abrupt change in his usual warmth.
“I do not like being thought ill of,” he answered.
“They are just children; they don’t know any better.” They conversed mostly in Cheyenne now, with an occasional smattering of English.
“I understand it is not their fault. They have been given these fears by others.”
“What do you expect when your people perpetrate ugly rumors by taking captives, or even buying them from other tribes? Or, by attacking farms and wagon trains?”
“I heard what you said to those children,” Broken Wing replied. “I give you the same answer. We are protecting our lives. The white man came and took our land, slaughtered our buffalo without even taking the meat. They did not ask, they just took. They make roads through our best hunting grounds. They do not care that we will die without the buffalo. Do you wonder that my people feel they must fight?”
“I am trying to understand,” Deborah softly replied as they walked toward the stream, now mostly frozen.
“I feel bad for the children,” he continued. “It is not good that they should suffer. I am glad you are here; it is a comfort for them.”
Deborah had said she was trying to understand, but could she ever? Or, was it merely her own part in what was happening that confused her? Perhaps the problem was that both sides were right. She had heard some men say that the land was big enough for all of them, and she could see how such a def
ense made sense on the surface. But the white men were taking all the best land. They had pushed many Indians out of the east until the tribes were left with nothing but what most whites considered barren wastelands. As much as Deborah herself appreciated the peculiar beauty of the plains she had traveled on, in the end they had little to recommend them to more profit-minded folks. Even the Indians had had to learn to adapt, changing from an agrarian people to a society of hunters, until, over the generations, they had become dependent on game and not crops. This was fine with the white man until he found a use for the plains. What were the Indians to do now? Learn to become desert dwellers? But then, sooner or later, the whites would find some use for the desert.
And there lay Deborah’s present perplexity. She knew both were not right. The lines might be fuzzy at times, but she was seeing more and more clearly the justification for the Indian grievances. If sides were ever drawn, she might not find herself in the middle as she feared, but instead set against her own people.
The sight of the white children saddened her and sickened her, but even that she had been able to justify. Deborah shivered, only partly from the cold.
“You are cold,” said Broken Wing. “We should go back.”
“Not yet. I’m not quite ready.” She didn’t want to have to see the children again.
“I think I know this confusion you feel, Deborah.”
She looked at him, a little surprised at his insight. He looked like an uncivilized, wild man, and this only reminded her again of the unjust misconceptions with which she had been indoctrinated.
“How could you, Broken Wing?” She sighed. “Your people have been good to me. Gray Antelope and Crooked Eye, and you have shown me more kindness than I have received from my own people in a long time. Yet those children are my people. How can I look at them, whose parents are dead because of the Indians, and say that their parents’ deaths were justified? How can I once more be at odds with my people? Yet that seems my lot in life.
