by Judith Pella
Crooked Eye’s words made Deborah ponder once more her place with the Cheyenne band. At first it had simply been based on survival, but now that her child had been born and her health was back to normal, she was free to leave. She even had her own horse to carry her away.
It was summer now, a year since Leonard’s death, and nearly nine months since being separated from Griff McCulloch. It had been six months since Carolyn’s birth. Yet she felt no urgent desire to move on.
Why should she?
Perhaps it was possible for her to one day become a “squaw of important standing” in this tribe. Thus far they had accepted her fully, as if she were one of them, a fact that never ceased to amaze her. She doubted an Indian would find such acceptance among the whites. She thought of poor Jacob and Laban who were only half-Mexican, not even as lowly as Indians were considered to be, and they had been treated like nothing, especially by Caleb and Leonard, but to a slightly lesser degree by others in the community also.
Had Deborah at last found her place in life, here among the wild Indians of the Plains?
She still harbored some ambivalent feelings regarding the disparity between the sometimes savage customs of the tribe and the kind-hearted, honorable character she encountered more often than not among the people. Yet, day by day, her confusion was gradually being overcome by her sense of security and belonging. Through Gray Antelope’s patient guidance, she was learning how to tan animal hides, a major industry among the Cheyenne. They were not weavers of cloth, and thus, hides and other animal parts provided clothing, shelter and many of the necessities of life. She learned how to preserve meat, especially of the buffalo, the tribe’s main food source. But root-digging was also important, and Deborah learned of the abundance the dry prairie soil provided. She had guessed correctly, when she had been stranded out there, that her helplessness had been due only to her ignorance.
What Deborah enjoyed most, of all her instruction, was when Broken Wing had time to take her aside to teach her the ways of the warriors. He taught her the use of the bow, and in short time, because of her persistence, she became quite a good shot. He even showed her how to make her own bow from a tree branch and how to shape crude arrows, though he said the best bows were made by a very elite circle of experts in the tribe, and it was to them the warriors usually went for this work. Broken Wing gave Deborah his second-best bow when she became consistently adept at striking the target.
Unfortunately, however, her instruction in the use of firearms was still limited because ammunition was too precious a commodity to be used frivolously. Yet, even if she could not often fire, she learned proficiency at handling, loading, and cleaning. Much to her delight, Broken Wing took her hunting one day, and she bagged two jackrabbits and a wild turkey.
She also helped both Broken Wing and Crooked Eye with the care of their stock. She learned the Indian way to break a horse by leading it into the middle of a stream before mounting. There, in the deep water, a horse had difficulty bucking, but even if the animal did manage to throw its rider, the fall was considerably softened by the water. Deborah and Broken Wing had many a riotous moment splashing into the water while attempting to tame a particularly obstinate pony.
For the present, then, Deborah was content to move with the flow of events, feeling no pressure to make any life-altering decisions. Settling into the new camp afforded her ample diversion from more probing thoughts.
No sooner were the lodges raised on the banks of a tributary of the Smoky Hill River than the Cheyennes began preparations for the celebration of the Medicine Lodge, or Sun Dance.
“It is a time of renewing for my people,” Broken Wing explained, “like making over the whole world—everything is new once again.”
“Do you worship the sun?” asked Deborah. She was able to converse almost entirely in Cheyenne now, lapsing only occasionally into English.
Broken Wing pondered her question a few moments before answering. “No, the sun is only a symbol for the Wise One Above. It is not the sun but Heammawihio whom we reverence, because he knows how to do things better than all others. He is the Great Spirit, over all others. Aktunowihio is the Wise One Below, who dwells in the earth, but he is not as great.”
“So the purpose of the Medicine Lodge is to petition Heammawihio for special blessings?” asked Deborah.
“The Medicine Lodge came to us many summers ago during a time of famine among our people. Our great ancient warrior, Erect Horns, then called Standing-on-the-Ground, journeyed to a sacred mountain to seek favor from the Great Spirit. There, he was taught the Sun Dance and the Spirit gave him the sacred buffalo skin hat from which Erect Horns took his new name. The Great Spirit of the sacred mountain promised Erect Horns that if he followed all his instructions, he would have strong magic. The heavens would open and water the dry land, an abundance of food would spring from the land, and all the animals would follow him from the mountain to his home. And it was as the Great Spirit said; the land was reborn, the buffalo came to us, and our people survived.” Broken Wing paused, perhaps to give Deborah a chance to respond, but she was content to listen to Broken Wing’s fervent sincerity; the way his dark eyes danced as he spoke from his heart stirred her in a way she thought impossible.
Perhaps she had not become such a hardened cynic after all. But was that safe? Could she afford such a weakening in her protective walls?
Broken Wing continued, “The ceremony will last eight days. The first four days will be spent building the sacred lodge for the dance, then will follow the gathering of the people. It will include the entire tribe. You will be much impressed.”
“I’m certain I will be.”
“I must go now, there is much to do. We hunt buffalo at the next rising of the sun.” He rose to go.
Deborah wanted to ask a hundred questions, to say anything that would induce him to tarry. But the moment the urge struck, she quelled it. Whatever this attraction she was feeling for Broken Wing, she must not encourage it. She wanted a friend, indeed needed a friend, but she absolutely wanted no more. She had been hurt enough and would be a fool to place herself in such a precarious position again. So, Deborah bid Broken Wing goodbye, and watched him go with a rather mixed sense of relief.
Later that day, Deborah learned yet another significance of the Medicine Lodge ceremony.
****
Deborah was in Crooked Eye’s lodge, now her own home also, feeding Carolyn. Gray Antelope had been out assisting her husband with some preparations for the Medicine Lodge, but she returned to the lodge wearing a wide grin on her face.
Indian humor was not new to Deborah, for she had learned early that they were not the stoic, serious types the white man had always painted them. Nevertheless, there was something peculiar in Gray Antelope’s expression that afternoon, especially when she erupted into a girlish giggle.
“What is it?” Deborah asked, curious, but not alarmed.
“You have not looked outside the lodge?”
“No. Why?”
Gray Antelope motioned for Deborah to come to the door. Laying Carolyn carefully on a buffalo robe, Deborah rose and obeyed. The older woman pushed the flap aside the barest crack and Deborah peered out. All she saw, besides the usual camp activity, was a young warrior pacing in front of the tepee. She had seen him before, even spoken to him occasionally. His name was Walking Wolf, which especially fit him now as he burned a rather agitated path in front of the lodge.
“What is he doing?” asked Deborah, realizing the warrior must be what Gray Antelope wanted her to notice.
The shaman’s wife dropped the flap, closing off the crack, then led Deborah toward the back of the tepee where their voices would not be easily heard.
Then, without preamble, Gray Antelope answered, “Walking Wolf wishes to court you.”
“What?” Deborah sputtered and it was a moment before she could form a further reply. Then, “That’s ridiculous. I don’t want to be courted. He hardly knows me. I—I …” Her voice broke off as her shock overcame her
power of speech.
“You do not wish to marry, Wind Rider?”
“I was married once, Gray Antelope, and it was a disaster. I don’t wish to make another mistake.”
“But if you marry and are not happy with each other, you can just end the marriage.”
Deborah gave a dry ironic laugh at the innocent statement. The Cheyenne held marriage and fidelity as very sacred, but, although it didn’t happen often, the manner of ending a marriage was astonishingly simple.
“It is not that way with the white man,” Deborah said. “Once you marry, it is considered to be for life. If I were ever to marry again, I could do it no other way—and for that reason, I doubt I will ever remarry.”
“But if you are fond of a man, what will you do?”
An image of Broken Wing flashed across Deborah’s mind, but she quickly shook it away. “I don’t know. When my husband died, I did not think I could ever love a man again—not that I loved him, but it made me fearful of doing so. He made my life miserable, and I fear that might happen again.”
“But if you loved a man perhaps it would be different,” said Gray Antelope. “And if he truly loved you.”
“Those are big ‘ifs,’ aren’t they? I’m afraid I could never be sure.”
“Ah, but who is sure of anything in this life? If you do not try things because of this fear, then you will miss much that is good in life. Sometimes the bee stings when I pick a pretty prairie flower, but oh, how sad if it keeps me from enjoying the others.”
“I had more than a little bee sting, Gray Antelope.”
“The time of the Sun Dance is a time of powerful medicine,” said Gray Antelope. “Perhaps now is the best time for you to begin anew. I am sure that is why Walking Wolf chooses now to court, for it will insure that good spirits accompany the marriage.”
“I appreciate all you have said, Gray Antelope, but I still can’t encourage him. He will have better luck with another girl. I had best go talk to him immediately.”
“Do not talk to him,” said the older woman, “for that will make him think you accept him. Take the water skin and go to the river to get water. And when you leave the tepee, walk by him without saying a word.”
“But that seems so hard, so cruel.”
“He will feel bad, no matter what you do, but he will understand this way, and his disappointment will not last long. Then he will find another girl.”
Deborah hesitated, not caring to be placed in such a distasteful position. Nevertheless, she absolutely did not want to encourage this man. Sighing, she rose and fetched the water skin.
“Will you watch Carolyn?”
Gray Antelope grinned. She never had to be asked twice to care for the baby she considered her granddaughter.
Deborah ducked outside. Walking Wolf paused in his active vigil. Deborah averted her eyes from him but not before she noted the spark of eager anticipation in the warrior’s eyes. She took a few hesitant but determined steps as Walking Wolf looked on. She passed him, silent, feeling his gaze penetrate her back. She finally could stand it no longer. Pausing, she turned, saying in Cheyenne:
“I’m sorry.”
Then she hurried on to the river.
31
Deborah continued to walk out to the river. She supposed that since she was here anyway, she would fill the skin.
The day was warm and sultry; only the slight breeze off the river gave any relief from the heat. Deborah did not go immediately to fulfill her intended task—instead she found a high grassy rise by the shore and sat there gazing out upon her surroundings.
Lately, this particular piece of land had become the focus of much controversy and hostility between the white man and the Indians. It had long been a favorite hunting ground for one tribe or another. Most recently it had been the Kaw and Otoe, semi-civilized tribes of Kansas. But about five years ago, a Cheyenne and Arapahoe war party claimed the land and a great battle had ensued with the more warlike Otoe. Though the battle had ended in a standoff, the Otoes, realizing hunting would no longer be possible that season, retreated. The wilder Plains tribes came to dominate the area.
Deborah could understand the peculiar draw of the place, with its verdant, timbered streams supporting an abundance of wild turkeys, antelope, and deer. But the most distinct and enchanting feature of the Smoky Hill region was the prominent ridge of rugged buttes pitched against the horizon on the north bank of the Smoky Hill River. Now resembling miniature mountains, they had once been high, imposing tablelands that over the years had been worn away by erosion. Even in ancient times, this place had been populated by the prehistoric ancestors of the present tribes, as evidenced by the remains of mounds and burial places and camps.
Peering through the perennial haze by which the hills and river had acquired their names, Deborah could just make out a herd of buffalo, numbering perhaps in the thousands, grazing in the distance. Over these poor, dumb beasts the present difficulty had arisen. Earlier in the year the whites had established a stage route from Leavenworth to Denver along the Smoky Hill River, right through the rich hunting ground. The Dog Soldiers, led by Bull Bear, had declared they would not surrender this area. They considered it a blatant breach of the treaty concluded the previous fall. Conducting raids, stealing horses, and generally harassing the white travelers, the Dog Soldiers were aggravating an already tenuous situation. No one doubted it was bound to erupt into bloodshed sooner or later. What made the situation even worse was that many of the other warriors were beginning to join the Dog Soldiers, abandoning the peace-chiefs like Black Kettle.
The timing of the Sun Dance ceremony could not have been more ideal. Hopefully it would draw the various bands of the tribe back together, healing the breaches caused by the militancy of the Dog Men and other soldier societies of the Cheyenne. Of course, it was possible it might only fire up already simmering emotions. That’s what the nervous whites feared.
Deborah hoped for peace, if for no other reason than because she did not want to be caught in the middle of a war. Yet, on the other hand, she did not sympathize with the white traders who had so callously invaded the hunting ground. There were other routes where roads could be built, but of course, the white men were in too much of a hurry to consider anything but the most direct path, expecting all obstacles to yield to their manifest power.
Deborah, deep in thought, did not notice the approach of soft moccasined feet—not that she would have, for Broken Wing knew well the fabled art of Indian stealth. However, at that moment he was not so concerned with surprise as he was simply hesitant to intrude upon his white friend’s solitude. But he forged ahead because he was not sure his concern could wait.
“Wind Rider,” he said softly.
Oddly, the sound of Broken Wing’s voice penetrating the deep silence did not startle Deborah; it seemed almost to blend naturally into the surrounding sounds of nature. Nevertheless, it did cause an electric thrill to course through Deborah’s body. She had come to enjoy, even anticipate that voice.
She turned on her perch toward him. “Hello,” she said, smiling a welcome.
“I hope I have not disturbed you.”
“No, I was just taking in the beauty of this country. I was thinking how it was too bad a shadow of trouble has to darken it.”
He nodded silently, seeming almost unwilling to broach the topic of the current dispute with the whites. This became further evidenced as he quickly changed the subject.
“There is a good herd of buffalo,” he said. “We will have a good hunt, perhaps tomorrow.”
“Maybe the stage route won’t disrupt the hunting grounds, after all.”
Again, Broken Wing seemed to avoid the subject of the dispute with the whites. “I have made a new lance. Being made during the Sun Dance will give it good medicine.”
“Yes,” said Deborah, “Gray Antelope Woman was telling me of the strong spirits prominent now.”
“Is that so?”
“It seems a young warrior named Walking Wolf has
seized this opportunity to pay court to me.” Deborah tried to keep her tone light and conversational.
“I have heard this,” said Broken Wing gravely. “And will you favor him?”
“I don’t wish to marry Walking Wolf.” Though the thought entered her mind, she did not add that she didn’t want to marry anyone. Somehow, Broken Wing’s presence made her unable to verbalize that particular thought.
Short of an outright sigh of relief, Broken Wing visibly relaxed.
Deborah continued, feeling tension growing within herself proportionate to the easing of her companion’s tension. “He hardly knows me; I don’t know what encouraged him to try in the first place. I suppose in ignorance of your customs, I must have unwittingly led him on.”
“It is not so surprising,” said Broken Wing. “I have heard Walking Wolf talk. He wants a white woman. He is much impressed with the blue of your eyes and the yellow of your hair. He has said you should be given the Cheyenne name of Golden Hair.”
“I don’t know what to think about that.”
“Walking Wolf is looking for a trophy, not a wife. Be glad you did not favor him.”
The similarity of Broken Wing’s analogy to what she had often thought about Leonard was not lost on Deborah. She suddenly found herself wondering what a man like Broken Wing thought about such matters. How would he treat a woman, a wife? Did he speak, as the Indians said, with a double heart, saying one thing to lure a foolish girl, then practicing another? How could she ever be certain again?
“I am glad” was all she said.
“You are very beautiful, Wind Rider,” said Broken Wing suddenly. Deborah gaped, speechless, as the warrior continued. “Your hair does shine like the gold the white man is so fond of, and your eyes are as blue as a winter stream.” Deborah’s heart pounded as his eyes roved over her with admiration. “But the Wise One Above gave the best gifts to the Indian—hair as black as the wing of a raven, eyes dark like flint, and skin brown with health.” Deborah found herself gaping again, not knowing what to think. A slight smile softened Broken Wing’s earnest expression. “You are upset at my words?”
