by Judith Pella
Again, Deborah felt no overwhelming urge to thank this soldier who, in spite of his benevolent lapses, had killed her people and destroyed her home. Instead, she turned her attention to the gray, rubbing his twitching flanks and soothing his agitation. The gray, hearing a familiar voice and perhaps smelling a familiar smell, swung his head around and gave Deborah an affectionate nudge.
“It’s all right, boy,” she murmured in Cheyenne. “I won’t let them hurt you.”
“You are the white woman who took the child,” said the lieutenant in a friendly tone. When Deborah did not answer, he continued. “I wondered what had happened to you. Do you speak any English?”
Deborah nodded. She had by no means forgotten her native tongue, but just then she was reticent to use it, almost feeling it would have amounted to betrayal of her people—her Cheyenne people.
“You can rest assured, ma’am,” said the lieutenant, “that you will be cared for now. My name is Lt. Godfrey. Feel free to call upon me if you need anything.” He paused, then, suddenly inspired, added, “You seem to know this horse, and since you’ll need a mount when we move on, you may as well take him.”
Deborah gaped, astonished at this unexpected act of generosity. But before she could respond, Lt. Colonel Custer strode up to the corral.
Though he was normally a man who paid meticulous attention to his physical appearance, even his impressive image was now slightly marred by the dust of battle. His pale hair, still long, though cut much shorter than he was reputed to have worn it as a daring Civil War general, clung in dank strands against his sweaty brow, and his face was smudged with dirt and gunpowder. Yet, he was no less an imposing personage, making Lt. Godfrey seem pale by comparison.
“What’s going on here, Lieutenant?” asked Custer.
“We’re having some trouble with the horses, General.” The soldiers persisted in referring to Custer by his Civil War rank.
“Cursed Indian ponies.” Scowling, Custer examined the scene in the corral. “Well, there’s no time to tame these animals. The scouts tell me there are five or six thousand Indians in the encampments downriver. We are already having trouble with the escaped warriors and others who have regrouped and are causing some havoc on our perimeter.”
“Some of the women are having luck bringing them—the horses, that is—under control.”
“We could never trust them,” said Custer. “Regardless, herding all those horses along with us would only be a greater temptation for the free warriors to attack us.”
“Should we let them loose?”
“What? And let those murdering savages have mounts to attack us on? No, Lieutenant. I want all the horses killed. Cut out enough for the prisoners to ride and let the officers have their pick of the better ones, then kill the rest.”
“All of them, sir?”
“You heard me, Godfrey. And make it as speedy as possible. It won’t be safe to linger around here much longer.” He paused and for the first time noticed the gray stallion. “This is a fine specimen. I wouldn’t mind including him with my personal stock.”
“This one, sir?”
“Is there some problem with this animal?”
“No, sir … but … well, I just told this woman she could have it.” Godfrey spoke hesitantly, somewhat surprised at his own boldness in the presence of his august commander.
Now Custer took note of Deborah. He quickly saw through the buckskin clothing, the bronzed skin, and the clumsily dyed hair.
“A white woman,” said Custer. “Good Lord! What have they done to her? And, Godfrey, how come she wasn’t reported immediately?”
“I was about to do that, General.”
“Who are you, madam?” General Custer asked.
Deborah could not speak because of the seething anger that had begun to well up in her the moment Custer arrived on the scene. In her eyes, this man was nothing more than a cold-blooded killer. The other soldiers were merely following orders, but this was the man who had given them. Stories of Custer’s war exploits had reached Texas, and Deborah had heard them even in her isolated life. Some called him fearless, daring, brave—” the finest example of military prowess around,” as one reporter wrote. But his critics were more apt to define his actions as reckless, even foolhardy. A dozen horses were shot out from under him during the war, and his regiment had suffered more casualties than any other northern unit. The Cheyenne had already heard of the man and knew him as one to be wary of. Thus, Deborah could barely endure his conciliatory tone toward her.
“Lieutenant, does she speak English?” asked the general.
“I believe so.”
“Have those savages frightened the speech out of her?” Custer addressed himself again to Deborah, “Madam, you have no need to be afraid any longer. If you tell us who you are, we will be able to take you home.”
“You have destroyed my home!” Deborah blurted in English, unable to restrain her hatred.
“Madam, you don’t seem to understand—”
“I understand clearly. You are the savage, and if there is any justice in this world, you will meet with the same end you have brought upon my people!”
“I see they have turned your mind,” Custer replied, unruffled by Deborah’s harsh words. “How long have you been held captive?”
“I was never a captive!” Deborah retorted with all the pride she had learned from her adopted people.
“Then how did you come to be with them?”
Deborah considered ignoring the question. She had already said more to these people, her enemies, and spent more time in their company than she wished. But she also realized that they might just keep interrogating her until they got some answer from her, in which case she’d be forced to be with them even longer. She already missed the nearness of her children and Gray Antelope and Stone Teeth and her other friends who remained alive. Deciding that she must come up with some plausible response that could explain her presence with the Cheyenne, she quickly formed a reply that, believably, she hoped, combined fact and fiction.
“My wagon train was attacked by Pawnee,” she answered, cool and distant. “They left me for dead on the prairie, and a Cheyenne warrior found me and doctored me.”
“What warrior?”
“We do not speak of the dead.”
“How long ago was this?”
“Several years.”
“And you were free to go at any time?”
“Yes.”
Custer shook his head, somewhat bemused. It wasn’t the kind of report a man liked to hear of a people he had just effectively massacred. Nevertheless, he showed no remorse. He was content to convince himself that this woman’s mind had obviously been harmed by her years with savages, and that nothing she said could be reliable.
“What is your name?” he asked after a short pause.
“Wind Rider,” Deborah answered without hesitation, her white name such a distant memory that it did not come as easily to her lips as did her Cheyenne name.
“Your Christian name,” Custer said with pointed emphasis.
Deborah knew that to hesitate too long might arouse suspicions, but it had been a long time since she had given thought to this present dilemma. Even after three years, she knew that caution must still be exercised, for at any time someone might turn up who knew of those events in Texas. It was not every day a woman was sentenced for execution, and so the news of events at Stoner’s Crossing must surely have spread around.
When she looked at General Custer, she considered sticking to her Cheyenne name, but that no doubt would only aggravate her captors and perhaps make things that much more difficult for her. So, she responded evenly, a name coming to mind with surprising ease.
“I am Deborah Graham.”
“Where are you from, Miss Graham?” asked Custer.
“Virginia.”
“A southerner.”
Deborah responded to this with icy silence, realizing Custer’s Union service was but one more mark against the man.
“We will be moving on soon,” said the general. “I will see to it that special quarters are prepared for you.”
“I will remain with my people.”
Custer shrugged, clearly indicating his ire at having his courtesy rebuffed. “As you wish.” His tone was short and irritable.
“I may go, then?”
“I don’t care.”
“And the horse … ?” She hated lowering her pride to make such a request, but she could not leave the gray to the fate Custer had ordered.
“Keep the cursed horse!” he retorted; then he turned away from her as if he could be rid of the nuisance of her presence so easily. To Godfrey he said sharply, “Get on with carrying out my orders, Lieutenant! I want to get on the move as soon as possible.” Then General Custer stalked away.
Deborah waited until he was well away before she prepared to go. She picked up the corporal’s rope from where it had fallen on the ground, and looped an end around the gray’s neck. The animal offered no resistance.
But she paused suddenly and turned back toward Godfrey. “Thank you,” she said quickly.
Then she led the gray away, holding her head as high as that of the Cheyenne war pony.
48
Deborah was several paces away when Godfrey gave the order for the extermination of the horses. The shocked dismay of the soldiers who had so recently wiped out an Indian village was unsettling. But to many of the soldiers, the horses were of far more value than a bunch of Indians.
About seventy-five ponies were cut out of the herd for the prisoners and the officers. Then the shooting began. Custer himself, an avid hunter, shot a few of the horses. And, in spite of the initial dismay at the task, many of the soldiers joined in on the shooting spree with some relish, making wagers on the various feats of skill they might achieve.
It was no small task, killing eight hundred horses, especially when the incessant gunfire was driving them crazy with fear. Deborah winced with every shot and only once did she glance toward the macabre spectacle. The sight sickened her and brought tears to her eyes. It would remain imprinted upon her memory for the rest of her life.
Gray Antelope, weeping also, chanced to look toward the hills, and when Deborah followed her line of vision, she saw two or three braves watching. What must they be thinking as they observed their wealth so wantonly destroyed by the soldiers? Deborah was enough acquainted with her Cheyenne brothers to know this would be yet another wrong that must be avenged. She did not envy the bluecoats, for, though she knew the final victory would be theirs, they would yet pay a stiff price for that triumph.
Deborah took her children onto her lap and tried to ignore the insane scene in the corral, but the stench of blood and death was already permeating the chilly air; and the screams of the doomed animals pierced her ears with an unrelenting agony. Her children’s cries, as if instinctively aware that ominous events were transpiring, mingled with those of the horses and echoed in Deborah’s head until she, too, wanted to scream.
Would there ever be an end to all the hatred and contention? Would she know peace again in her life? Those idyllic years with Broken Wing seemed so far away, as if only a dream. All she could remember was Leonard Stoner’s spiteful face, a hangman’s gallows, and a coarse, ugly bluecoated soldier aiming a bayonet at her heart.
Suddenly it occurred to Deborah that her life had again been miraculously saved. But why? Wouldn’t it have been better for that soldier’s weapon to have done its work? What good was her heart to her now? It felt so heavy within her chest that she knew it must certainly be turning to stone. She had taken a great chance in loving Broken Wing, making herself vulnerable to the pain that seemed so persistent in stalking her. She had allowed herself to love and had been terribly hurt when that love had been wrenched from her. Even then she had been able to cling to her children and her love for them and their need for her. She had found comfort also in her friendship with her Cheyenne friends, with Gray Antelope and Crooked Eye and the others. Now that, too, was taken from her—they were all dead, or prisoners, or fugitives. The future seemed to hold no hope for Deborah. She felt as desolate as she had when Broken Wing died; only now she could not even find comfort in her children. She was almost afraid to love them for fear it might bring doom upon them also. Would she ever be able to love again?
As the last gunshot faded away, Deborah’s sorrow remained. Gray Antelope Woman knelt down beside Deborah and, placing an arm around her, drew her close. Deborah laid her head against the older woman’s shoulder, trying not to think of how much she loved this Cheyenne woman.
“Wind Rider,” Gray Antelope murmured gently, “nothing lives long, only the earth and the mountains.”
Tearfully, Deborah answered, “If only it didn’t hurt so much.”
“I have mended a torn hide,” said Gray Antelope, “and when I am done, that place where my stitches are becomes the strongest part of the hide. It is so in nature, also. I think it is the Wise One’s reward for not giving up, for not throwing away a valuable hide or burning down an injured tree. The hurts we feel now will make us stronger if we let them, Wind Rider.”
“How can I do that?”
“By not giving up.”
“It is so risky.”
Gray Antelope sighed, knowing well that what she suggested wasn’t an easy thing. “That white man who has visited our village, the one called Killion, told of a God who carried a person’s burdens, who even went so far as to die in a man’s place.”
“I didn’t think anyone was listening to that preacher.”
“I listened because he spoke from his heart,” said Gray Antelope. “The words he said seemed true, and hearing them made me glad. I thought that with such a one as this Christ helping with the burden, I could face a life on the white man’s reservation. I was not so afraid.”
“I know a lot about this white God,” said Deborah. “Sometimes I think what you say is true, yet at other times I’m confused. I wonder, if He is a god who wants to bear our burdens, why does He give the burdens at all?”
“I do not know the answer to this; that preacher might, but I do not. Are burdens a bad thing if they make us stronger?”
Deborah took a deep, ragged breath. Her tears were spent for the moment, but her grief had fatigued her. “I’ve been so confused about these things for so long, I cannot guess at what the answers are. If I ever see that preacher again, maybe I will ask him instead of being as critical toward him as I have been.”
“It can hurt nothing to ask,” said Gray Antelope Woman.
“I wonder …” Deborah mused and fell silent.
All these years she had been apathetic, perhaps even cynical, toward religion. She had turned her back on her father’s God because she had felt wronged. Wouldn’t it be ironic if it now turned out that this very God was in fact her only refuge? How would one right such a miscalculation? Did she even want to? Wouldn’t she still be in danger of surrendering the independence she so desperately wanted? But what good was independence if it caused her to be crushed beneath the weight of her sorrow and pain? Did anyone truly have the strength to survive alone?
Deborah shivered and pulled an army blanket snugly around her shoulders, tucking the folds around her children also. It seemed ironic that winter was closing in upon her again when she was at her most helpless. Was it wrong to desire to be strong and independent? Did a woman have to be helpless and frail, a slave to a man’s whims? Is that how God really intended it to be? Was it possible that Leonard Stoner had been right all along? She hated to consider the possibility. If it were so, then the things he said about her being a rebellious, strong-willed vixen, and his even worse references to her tainted moral fiber, might well be true.
Broken Wing had treated her with love and respect, but he had been a godless heathen. Or had he?
It was all so confusing. Maybe Sam Killion would have the answers, though why she thought of him, she did not know. Broken Wing had respected him; maybe that was enough. Somewhere th
ere had to be answers, and comfort for her pain … and peace.
49
After departing the ravaged village on the Washita, the army, with their prisoners, moved back to Camp Supply where the Indian prisoners wintered. The Seventh Cavalry, reinforced by the Nineteenth Kansas and several companies of the Third and Fifth Infantry, continued their winter campaign against the Indians.
Heartened by the success of the Washita campaign, the first solid military triumph over the Plains Indians, Sheridan intended to make a clean sweep of the unruly Indians, including the previously peaceful Arapahoe, Kiowa, and Comanche. Sheridan was especially encouraged over the death of Black Kettle, whom he believed was nothing but a liar and a troublemaker. He blamed the peace-chief for the worst of the Indian depravations, and for villainy too cruel for words. His final estimation of the great Cheyenne chief indicated a typical ignorance of the military establishment: “Black Kettle was no more than a worthless and worn-out old cipher.”
“If we can get in a few more good blows,” Sheridan said, “there will be an end of Indian problems.”
Thus, harried relentlessly by the army, the Indians began to consider more seriously the inevitability of surrender. Stands-in-the-River was among the Cheyenne fugitives hiding out in the hills, making raids when possible, somehow surviving. But he missed his wife and children and feared for them when he heard they were captives of the bluecoats. Sometimes, when he was weary of the cold and hunger and loneliness, he thought of turning himself in at the fort. But these were only momentary lapses. He would never stop fighting; he had sacrificed too much to fall back now. The only thing he could do was move forward, even if it was toward his inevitable journey on the Hanging Road.
“It is not a good thing for a Cheyenne warrior to grow to be a toothless old man,” he said both to himself and to his comrades.
But Little Robe and a delegation of Cheyenne and Arapahoe chiefs, still hopeful—or at least at the point of desperation—came in for a council with Sheridan, who made it clear that he would not release the Washita prisoners until the Indians still at large showed beyond doubt their honest intentions by bringing in their people. The chiefs continued to fear treachery and were slow in coming in.
