by Judith Pella
Most neutral white observers of the day, however, were convinced that the Indians had no idea at all of what was happening. The treaty was never read to them, and it stated clearly that the Indians were to give up the Smoky Hill lands in exchange for a reserve in Indian Territory. Even as the chiefs affixed their marks to the document, they stated that they intended on keeping the Smoky Hill region. To them the verbal agreement of the “White Chief” Henderson was incontestable. They had little or no concept of the grinding wheels of American politics, congressional debates and ratification, where the words of a single U.S. senator are easily lost in the rising dust.
Even Broken Wing, with his knowledge of English, could understand little beyond the surface implications of the entire flimsy affair. He could not read, and many of the large, fancy spoken words were lost on him. He, thus, went away from the Medicine Lodge Creek council feeling content. He had known all along that the white men would listen to reason, even if it had taken the chilling presence of five hundred war-ready braves to get their attention.
39
A quiet winter passed, both whites and Indians basking in the security, however false, of the new treaty.
Deborah watched her son grow strong and healthy, in spite of the fact that annuity supplies promised in the treaty never arrived. But Broken Wing was a good hunter and kept his family supplied with meat, taking pride in the fact that he did not have to rely on government “generosity.”
Carolyn, now two years old, was also growing into a lovely little girl, but where her half brother was round and chubby and good-natured, she was wiry and angular, with her stubborn, energetic nature growing more and more pronounced. Her resemblance to her father was also becoming more striking right down to an identical birthmark on her upper arm. Oddly, while her Indian brother had soft blue eyes, hers, which had started out pale, were becoming a dark, rich brown. Her hair was also growing darker, but still Deborah had to be exceedingly cautious when strangers came to the camp for fear the child would be mistaken for a captive.
As spring approached, two other ominous events occurred. First, parties of surveyors were seen in the region, even south of the Arkansas River. The Indians were well aware of what this meant—railroads, and thus, more whites; and less land and buffalo for the Indians. This did nothing to soothe the continuing anger and distrust of the younger warriors, which was even further deteriorated by the second event—the arrival of whiskey peddlers from Fort Dodge who began making their rounds among the villages.
Broken Wing watched grimly as even Stands-in-the-River succumbed to the enticement of the “firewater.” The older brother had traded off some good hides for the stuff and had gone with a party of Dog Soldiers to drink and, no doubt, malign their white enemies.
Broken Wing was rebuffed soundly when he tried to stop him.
“You are becoming an old woman,” Stands-in-the-River taunted, already having had too many swallows of the alcohol. “Go with the women and sew moccasins! I prefer the company of warriors.”
Disheartened and fearful of what was sure to come of his brother’s behavior, Broken Wing departed. But when he was with Deborah in their lodge, he vented his frustrations.
“We used to be the strongest tribe on the plains, Wind Rider!” he exclaimed. “Feared by all were the Tsistsistas! Now, our enemies come boldly into our lands stealing our horses and women. We were a mighty tribe before the white man’s drink came among us. We could fight the Crow and any of our enemies without help, but now we must have allies. The Crow don’t drink whiskey. They trade their hides for guns and ammunition to make them strong. We trade our hides for more whiskey. The white man doesn’t need to fight us—all he has to do is send his peddlers of firewater among us. We will destroy ourselves!”
“Do you think there will be trouble?”
“The whiskey always brings trouble; it makes my people crazy.”
Later that afternoon, Broken Wing found an unexpected and surprising ally in his crusade against alcohol. John Smith, who again had been assigned by the treaty commission to live among the Cheyenne, became quite alarmed by the increasing drunkenness among the braves. But only a few paid his warnings any attention, and one of these was not associated with the government at all. He was an itinerant preacher, an ex-Texas Ranger named Sam Killion.
Deborah was outside, busy scraping a new hide Broken Wing had just brought in, when she heard the commotion of barking dogs and clamoring children that usually signaled the arrival of visitors to the village. Her children were safely in the lodge, so she did not immediately panic. She glanced up, wiping a strand of her dyed black hair from her eyes. Recognizing the newcomer immediately, her first impulse was to flee; but reason forced her to stifle this impractical notion, since any sudden move was even more likely to draw attention to herself. However, before she had a chance to jerk her eyes away from the familiar face, Sam Killion glanced in her direction. For a fleeting, fearful moment their eyes met, and if Killion did not at first recognize her, the puzzled crease in his brow indicated that he knew he should, and no doubt would, soon figure out why she appeared so familiar.
The moment his attention was diverted elsewhere, Deborah dropped her tools and hurried into her lodge, and there she stayed for almost an hour, like a frightened rabbit cringing in its hole. It had been so long—over two years—since her sojourn with Griff McCulloch and her first meeting with Killion. She had begun to think her past life was forever buried. She had at last found happiness and contentment. Would it once more all be shattered? What would Killion do? He had betrayed her once and she saw no reason why he would not do so again. Under normal circumstances, no one could make her give up her life with the Cheyenne, but Killion knew she was an escaped fugitive, no doubt still wanted in Texas for the murder of her husband. Killion had been a lawman, and no one had ever proved conclusively that he was not still a Ranger. They only had his word on the matter, and obviously his word was not to be trusted. If he had recognized her, he could notify the authorities at one of the forts and they could come after her within days.
Or, he could simply arrest her himself. That idea brought a thin smile to her lips. Let him try! She had no doubt Broken Wing and half the braves in camp would defend her. Killion wouldn’t be that stupid, though. He’d leave and come back with a company of bluecoats to support him. The chiefs might then be constrained to give her up in the interests of peace.
Thus, Deborah mulled her fate over and over in her mind, alternately considering running away or fighting it out. Mostly, however, she just wanted to remain where she was in peace. She tried to distract herself by playing with the children; and as time dragged slowly by, she began to believe she had become alarmed over nothing.
The sudden voice outside her lodge quickly dispelled that illusion.
“Ma’am, if you’re home, I’d be right pleased to talk with you,” said Killion in a very neighborly tone.
Deborah sat deathly still, and when Blue Sky began to coo happily, she shushed him and held him close to muffle his sounds. She felt rather silly sitting in her own lodge like an errant child, but besides her fear of arrest, she simply did not want to see the man she had helped and who had betrayed her for thanks.
Carolyn thought her mother’s behavior extremely peculiar because she had never seen her act so inhospitably to a visitor.
“Nahkoa,” said the child in her high-pitched voice, “someone there.”
“Hush, Singing Wolf!”
Now Deborah felt even more ridiculous, for it would be quite apparent to Killion that she was inside “playing possum.” This finally ignited her pride. She would not cower in her own home, especially before a low human being like that Texas Ranger, or preacher, or whoever he claimed to be!
She jumped up, laid Blue Sky in his cradle, and resolutely strode to the door. Pulling aside the flap, she presented a countenance full of challenge, full of antagonism.
“Yes,” she said in an icy tone.
“Well, it is you! I wasn’t s
ure. I mean, you look a mite different—” He stopped abruptly, apparently over what he had been about to say. He paused, perhaps to give her a chance to speak, but when she returned only a chilly gaze, he continued. “Maybe you don’t remember me … the cabin on the Red River … it’s been a good—let me see—nearly three years, I reckon.”
“I remember, Mr. Killion.”
“I wondered what ever became of you. I never would have expected any of this. When I asked the chief about you, he said you was married to a warrior now. I guess a lot of water’s gone under the bridge, as they say. How’d you ever get away from McCulloch?”
“I was never his prisoner.”
“That’s a fact, but you were mighty set on staying with him.”
“And you have no idea what happened?”
“I don’t know how I could.”
“Did you have some particular reason for seeking me out, Mr. Killion?” she replied evasively.
He was clearly perplexed. “Well, no, ma’am. I just saw a familiar face and wanted to be friendly.”
“Really? And I suppose you’d like me to invite you in for tea?”
“You have tea here?”
“You know what I mean,” she replied caustically.
“I’m not sure I do, but I’d be right glad to come in anyhow and pass the time with you a spell. Would that be all right?”
She wanted to drop the flap in his face and be rid of him, but there was something so earnest in his tone, so plainly confused by her reception of him, that she could not bring herself to be so harsh and rude. She stepped aside, motioning for him to enter.
In the Cheyenne custom, she directed him to the honored place for guests at the back of the tepee where a thick hide was spread. He sat down facing the front of the tepee, and Deborah sat adjacent to him. Carolyn, boldly curious about the odd stranger with skin as white as hers, marched up to him.
“Who are you?” she asked in Cheyenne.
Deborah scolded the child for standing between the fire and their guest, considered rude behavior in a Cheyenne lodge. But Deborah regretted her harsh words, realizing they came from her own tension more than the child’s behavior, and she gently took Carolyn’s hand and eased her into her lap.
“It sure has been a long time,” said Killion, “especially if that’s the baby you was …” He paused again, flustered once more over an awkward topic.
Deborah, beginning to lose some of her hostility in her role as hostess, tried to ease the tension. “Yes, this is the child.”
“She speaks mighty good Cheyenne.”
“It is all she speaks.”
“That so … ?”
Another pause. Deborah thought that perhaps she should offer him some refreshment. If Broken Wing were here, no doubt the men would smoke the pipe. But before she made a decision about what to do next, Killion spoke again.
“Ma’am, I can’t help but feel that you are not at all pleased to see me—not that you have any reason to be glad, like we are long-lost friends or something; but it seems you’re downright adverse to seeing me. I don’t recall doing nothing to make an enemy of you, but if I did—”
“Come now, Mr. Killion, it wasn’t that long ago; but then perhaps you are too accustomed to lying to remember it.”
“Lying? I don’t know what you’re getting at.”
Deborah studied him for a long moment. Was he really as innocent as he appeared? She remembered how two years ago his earnest assurances of his trustworthiness had convinced her to believe him. Was he really the man he appeared to be, or was he such a consummate liar he had all but perfected his ruse? Did he deserve another chance? She realized, if for no other reason, she had no choice but to find out. His presence might be a danger to the entire camp if he were a spy for the army. Moreover, she was now placed in the awkward position of having to protect her own safety. How could she let him go if it turned out he was a liar? Yet, what could she do about it if he was?
Caught in this dilemma, Deborah was constrained to hear him out, hoping he was able to prove himself.
She said, “Do you mean to tell me, Mr. Killion, that you had nothing to do with the law discovering Griff McCulloch’s whereabouts?”
“Nothing to my knowledge.” He paused. “What happened after I escaped?” His question indicated a real ignorance coupled with concern.
“Griff was understandably upset—”
“They do anything to you?” he cut in sharply.
“They might have, but Griff protected me.” This information seemed to genuinely surprise Killion. “He stood up for me even though he himself doubted your trustworthiness. He decided we had to abandon the hideout, and we left the next morning. We were on the trail less than two days when we encountered pursuers—only three days after your escape. We eluded our followers for three days, and I might add, it was three days of hard riding with little rest. But they eventually caught up with us, and we were convinced they had to be Texas Rangers to do that. One of Griff’s men was killed in the gunfight that followed—perhaps others also, I am not sure. I was wounded in the gun battle and separated from them. I fell unconscious on the prairie and was apparently forgotten in the chaos.” She paused, leveling a hard stare at him. “Do you dare say it was coincidence that we were pursued by Texas Rangers so soon after your escape?”
Killion rubbed his red beard a moment, then shook his head. “No, ma’am, I don’t rightly believe in coincidence. I figure that everything is somehow ordained by God, but I never had anything to do with what happened to you. Though I suppose it does look mighty suspicious.”
“Are you trying to tell me,” Deborah said scornfully, “that God sent the law after us, perhaps as some kind of righteous avenger?”
“Not hardly, ma’am. But I ain’t got no doubt there must have been some greater purpose in what happened. Maybe it was so you could come to be where you are today. Maybe it was God’s way to get McCulloch’s attention.”
“Or perhaps to get him killed?”
“Did he get killed?”
“I have no idea what happened to him or any of the others. They may have been captured and hanged by now, or maybe they are rotting in some territorial prison.”
“It’s in God’s hands, ma’am, and that’s not a bad place to be.”
“And you deny that you had any part in helping ‘God’s will’ along?”
“I ain’t saying that at all. I am happy to be an instrument of God’s will. But I never said what happened was God’s will. Either way, though, I never had anything to do with it. I lit out from the hideout, heading north, and saw nary a soul, ‘cepting a couple parties of friendly Indians, until I reached Fort Dodge in Kansas. I never said anything to anybody about you folks, though I don’t have no way to prove that. You got to take my word, ma’am, but I can see how that’d be hard for you under the circumstances.”
Silence descended over the lodge. Deborah was momentarily distracted from responding to Killion’s earnest tale when Blue Sky whimperd in his cradle. Setting Carolyn aside, she went to her son and lifted him in her arms. She couldn’t help a covert glance toward her guest. What would he think of her tending another infant, an Indian child that was undoubtedly hers? Would she be met with the recriminations she automatically expected from this man?
It surprised her a little to find he was apparently not interested in her at all, but was facing the fire in the middle of the tepee. His eyes were closed and deep furrows lined his brow. Had she misjudged him? How could she be certain?
Before she could solve this dilemma, a sudden ray of bright sunlight shot through the tepee as the flap was abruptly pulled aside and Broken Wing stood framed in the doorway.
40
Even a seasoned Texas Ranger had cause to be daunted by the sudden appearance of the imposing Cheyenne warrior who assessed the scene in his tepee with a none-too-friendly countenance.
Sam Killion’s eyes shot open and his head jerked up. His ruddy complexion lost a good deal of its color. Deborah felt
a little sorry for him to be startled so, yet she took an unmistakable pleasure in his discomfiture. If Killion did have nefarious designs, he would surely think twice about them now.
Broken Wing strode into his lodge, glaring momentarily at the stranger, but directing his words, in Cheyenne, at his wife. “You are safe,” he said with relief. “I feared when I heard that a white man came to my lodge. Is this one from your past, who means you harm?”
Deborah did not quite know how to answer since she hadn’t fully decided herself. “I don’t know, Broken Wing. He is an acquaintance from my past, but not really part of it. He says he comes in friendship. I just don’t know.”
“Do you wish him to leave?”
“I don’t think that would be wise until we learn his true intentions.”
“You have welcomed him in peace?”
“Yes.”
Constrained by the strict code of hospitality among his people, Broken Wing was bound to welcome the guest also. But he remained on his guard. He had run all the way to the lodge when he had learned of the intrusion of the white man. He had lifted the flap prepared to do battle. Deborah had told him few details of her past, but he did know that white men thought her guilty of a crime she did not commit and might yet be seeking her. He knew how cautious she was when strangers came to the camp, and he was ready to preserve her freedom—with his life, if necessary.
He studied the stranger in silence for a long time. At last Broken Wing spoke in English. “I am Broken Wing, husband to Wind Rider, who is also known by the white man’s name, Deborah.”
“Pleased to make your acquaintance,” said Killion, standing. “I am Sam Killion, friend—I hope—of the Cheyenne.”
