Tame the Wild Wind

by Rosanne Bittner

  “I haven’t even dated anyone else, Johnny,” she whispered. “Father wants me to marry that old Henry Bartel. I’m afraid he’ll force the marriage if I don’t get away from here.”

  “Bartel! He’s a mean old codger with two kids! You can’t marry somebody like that, not my pretty Faith.”

  She smiled nervously, putting a hand to her face. “I must look terrible. I’ve been picking corn all morning.”

  Johnny looked her over. She was only fifteen when he had left. Now she was seventeen, a full woman, and beautiful. She didn’t need to know he’d been wounded running away from a battle. It was best she thought his wound was from some heroic deed. After all, he had joined the army, hadn’t he? He had fought in other battles. He’d done his proper duty and shown his courage. It had been an exciting adventure, but no promotions had come of it. He went in a private and came out a private. It was time to find some new adventure, and if he could get Faith to go with him, all the more fun. Once they were away from their families, they could finally make love, go wherever they pleased. Life would be one big adventure, and he’d heard that just about everybody who went west ended up rich—so why shouldn’t they?

  “You look just fine to me,” he told her. “Don’t you tell anybody you already saw me. I’ll go home, do a little visiting, maybe even come to tonight’s prayer meeting. You act like it’s the first time you’ve seen me, and act like I don’t mean that much to you anymore. Then tomorrow when you’re out here picking corn, you can try to find a way to sneak back to the house while your pa and Benny can’t see you. This corn gives you good cover. Have some things packed and I’ll pick you up at your house—nine o’clock. We’ll ride together on my horse, stick to the woods and camp out till we reach Pittsburgh. We’ll take a train from there as far as we can go. What do you think of that?”

  Her blood rushed with excitement and trepidation. “Johnny, I don’t know—I mean—it’s all so quick! We have so much to talk about! And—don’t we need a wagon or something?”

  He shrugged. “We’ll figure it out. We’ll have all the time in the world to decide what to do once we’re away from here.”

  She smiled, not wanting to appear too doubtful. What if he left without her? Oh, but he wouldn’t do that, would he? And Johnny was her friend and now an experienced soldier. She’d certainly be safe with him.

  Still, this didn’t seem like the right time to head west. She’d always heard that when people went west they always left in the spring, not in the fall. Something about getting over mountains in winter. Maybe they would have to spend their winter someplace like Chicago or St. Louis—but, then, she wouldn’t mind spending time in a big city like that. She would be seeing places she’d only dreamed of seeing until now, and Johnny would make it all real for her. Henry Bartel could certainly never do that for her. If she stayed there much longer, she would go crazy or end up married to Henry.

  “All right, Johnny. I’ll meet you at nine o’clock tomorrow morning. Just be sure pa doesn’t see us. He always picks till noon. He won’t notice I’m gone until then, and by that time we can be far enough away that he can’t stop us.”

  Johnny nodded. His eyes danced with eagerness, and Faith thought he was more handsome than ever, in spite of being so thin. “He’ll not stop us, Faith. Nobody will.” He leaned down and kissed her cheek. “We’ll soon be husband and wife, Faith Kelley, and we’ll be free to do whatever we want.”

  “You do love me, don’t you, Johnny?”

  “Course I love you. Why else would I be here offering to take you away?”

  She quickly hugged him, wishing this sudden, unexpected feeling of doubt had not invaded her happiness. If only it hadn’t been so quick. But better now than never, and one thing was sure—her father and Benny wouldn’t really miss her much. Her father would want her back only so she could cook and clean for him, and so he could marry her off then to Henry Bartel for some land Bartel had offered him for her hand. “You’d better go now, Johnny,” she told him, “before my pa hears or sees us.”

  He nodded. “Remember, act surprised tonight when you see me at prayer meeting, and don’t act too excited.”

  “I’ll remember.”

  He turned and ran off, stopping at the end of the long row and waving. She waved in return, hardly able to believe this was all really happening. Finally! Finally she could leave this place and experience some of the wonderful world beyond this little settlement. She would do this not just for herself but for her mother.

  Tall Bear drew his buffalo robe close around his neck, his heart sick at what he saw. Thirty-eight proud warriors, including Dark Owl, all lined up on a specially built gallows, condemned to be hanged. Hanging was the worst way for an Indian to die. A man’s spirit was choked off when he died that way. He could never reach the peaceful hunting grounds of the world beyond, where there were no white men except the good ones like his own father.

  He was glad his mother was not here to see this, or his old grandfather. In moments like this he was even glad his little son was already dead. What kind of a future lay ahead for the remaining Santee? Reservation life. Boredom. Begging. Government handouts. There would be no more hunting from Canada to Kansas. There would be no more war against the Crow and Shoshone, no more ways for a man to prove himself. They would not even be able to go beyond the reservation to hunt for wild horses. The Oglala still enjoyed some freedom in the Powder River country, and many other tribes had joined Red Cloud, rallying under new leaders called Sitting Bull and Crazy Horse.

  He would join them, but deep inside he knew their days also were numbered. They wanted to believe there was still hope, and who was he to tell them there was none? An Indian without hope was a sorry thing indeed. Already many of the Santee were turning to the white man’s firewater to make them feel more courageous, happier, to help ease the hurt inside. But the firewater was destroying them. Some had died from too much of it, some had shot themselves in the despondence that often followed a drinking binge. Some did crazy things that only got them into more trouble.

  His eyes teared as the thirty-eight condemned men were led to the platform. Originally the army had condemned 307 Indian men to death! All simply because they were Sioux, and it was Sioux who had committed the Minnesota Massacre. Before it was ended and the Indians surrendered, over 450 settlers had been killed, or so Tall Bear had heard at the trials. He knew firsthand that many of them were innocent, and he also knew the raiding had been wrong. But the white settlers simply did not understand how deeply the Santee had been affected years earlier when they had ceded twenty-four million acres of precious hunting grounds for white man’s money. Money meant nothing to them, and much of that money had never arrived. Even those twenty-four million acres had not been enough. Settlers had begun moving into land that supposedly still belonged only to the Sioux, and many of them held no regard for an Indian’s life—man, woman, or child.

  He damn well knew that firsthand, too. Visions of Little Otter’s and Running Fox’s bloodied bodies would haunt him forever, and that was what created the dilemma in his soul today. He would also be haunted by the memory of shooting that little white boy, a brave child only trying to defend his mother. He’d managed to get that mother and child to the fort and escape. He had no idea whether the boy had lived or died.

  He stood around with a few other Indians, their souls sick, their hearts broken. Thank God one good white man, Episcopal bishop Henry Whipple, had interceded for the Sioux, petitioning President Lincoln himself not to allow the hanging of all 307 condemned warriors. Certainly they were not all responsible for the slaughter. Now it was down to these thirty-eight men. Some of them had wives watching, many of them already weeping.

  The sentence was read, the nooses positioned, hoods pulled over their heads. A few of them protested against the hoods, and their request was honored. One man began chanting his death song, but before he could finish, one by one the trapdoors that held them were dropped, and body after body snapped to its death. T
all Bear felt a flash of pain at every thud. Women began wailing louder. Soldiers and settlers watched with obvious satisfaction, glad to see so many of their enemy dying.

  Tall Bear was not sure himself how many of those being hanged were actually guilty. After shooting the little boy, he’d gone back to the village, trying to convince others the raiding was wrong, urging them to realize it would only bring the wrath of the white man’s government down on them. In spite of fighting a war in the east, soldiers had been sent to Minnesota to hunt down the Sioux. They came in big numbers and brought their big guns, and the Sioux had finally surrendered.

  Tall Bear had not been arrested, and he wondered if it was only because of his green eyes. Twice he had escaped the noose. He could have been hanged for killing the buffalo hunters, and this time just for living among the Santee. Still, he vowed his days of making war were not over. The tragedy and meaningless deaths of his wife and son still were not fully avenged, not in his heart; but he could not avenge them by killing innocent settlers. He would go west and fight soldiers and miners with Red Cloud. He would steal horses and supplies from the miners, make life miserable for them. He would find and kill more buffalo hunters. It was too late to stop the flow of whites there in Minnesota, but maybe there was hope west of the Black Hills.

  Dark Owl! His body jerked as the platform fell from beneath his feet. Such a good friend he had been. They had hunted together so many times, and Dark Owl had enjoyed his stories about the white man’s world. Once they had both participated in the Sun Dance together.

  The air was filled with oooh’s and gasps, curses and weeping. This was indeed a sad day. Tall Bear turned away, determined to wait and try to be allowed to take Dark Owl’s body with him for a proper burial. Many of those hanged would be shoved into a mass grave with no honor. Tall Bear shivered. It was the day after Christmas, the white man’s celebration of the birth of the one they called their Savior.

  He started for his horse, then stopped short when he saw them—the white woman and the little boy! The child stepped closer, stared at him with big blue eyes. “I remember you,” he told Tall Bear. “I remember your green eyes.”

  Tall Bear looked around. Was the child or his mother going to accuse him, too? Try to get him hanged? “I am glad you lived,” he told him. “And sorry for your pain.”

  The boy blinked, his lips puckered, his eyes watery. “You killed my father.”

  Tall Bear shook his head. “No. I did not. Someone else had already killed him when I got there.”

  “It’s all right, Danny,” the woman said, putting a hand on the boy’s shoulder. “This one probably saved your life. He could have killed both of us, but he didn’t.” She stepped closer. “I think down deep inside you know you really belong with the white man.”

  Tall Bear stiffened. “I belong nowhere,” he answered. “That is how it is for those like me who are neither Indian nor white.”

  The woman glanced at the gallows and grimaced before looking back at Tall Bear. “We never spoke when you brought us here that day you shot my boy. I never thanked you.”

  “Why should you? I am the one who shot him.”

  “It was an accident. I knew that by the look on your face when it first happened, and because you found help for him. I wish to know your name so that I can pray for you.”

  “My name is Tall Bear, but I do not need your prayers. I have my own Great Spirit to pray to.”

  “I don’t want to know your Indian name. I want to know your white name.”

  He could not help thinking of the irony of the moment. “My white father was French. He told me once my name is like that of an angel from your white man’s religion. My white name is Gabriel. Gabriel Beaumont. My father was killed by his own kind. My grandfather, Indian mother, and sister were killed by white soldiers. My wife and son were killed by white buffalo hunters, and now your white government has hanged my best friend. Do not tell me I belong in the white world. I will never belong there!”

  Tall Bear walked away, mounting his horse in one swift movement, using no saddle. A travois was tied to his horse, which he would use to take away Dark Owl’s body, if it was allowed. He did not look back at the white woman, who was thin and plain. He’d seen the pain of loss in her eyes, and he could not help being glad that some of these whites had suffered the death of loved ones. Still, he was glad to know that little boy was alive. He led his horse at a slow walk toward the gallows, where the thirty-eight bodies were being cut down for burial.

  “That’ll teach ’em,” one civilian grumbled.

  “Best Christmas present I ever got,” another declared. “I wouldn’t mind celebrating Christmas this way every year.”

  “Do you think he’s following us? Trying to find us?” Faith sat down beside Johnny on the train. She’d never ridden a train before, and already she was farther from home than she’d ever been in her life.

  “Sure he is,” Johnny answered, referring to Faith’s father. “But how can he possibly know where we might go when we don’t even know ourselves?” He laughed, putting an arm around her. “You’re really free now, Faith. Relax and enjoy it! We’re headed for a whole new life!”

  Johnny still wore his Union cap, and one of the other passengers asked about the war, where he’d been, how it seemed to him it was going. Johnny proudly carried on about a few already-famous battles, stating he’d been there, and Faith admired his courage, little knowing Johnny had not been in any of the fighting he was bragging about.

  “There’s no doubt the Union will win this war,” he told the inquirer with sureness. “If I hadn’t been wounded, I’d still be out there fighting those rebs. Now me and the missus here are headed west to start a new life.”

  “Well, that’s nice,” the man answered, “but you’re both mighty young. You’d best watch yourselves. I’ve always heard it can be pretty wild out there, hardly any laws, Indian attacks.” He frowned. “Isn’t it a little late in the year to be headed there?”

  Johnny patted Faith’s shoulder. “We’ll find a place to winter. We’ll be all right.”

  Faith wished she could be as sure as Johnny was about their future. She feared her father would catch them and drag her back to Pennsylvania to marry Henry Bartel, but she also feared the fact that Johnny had no definite destination or occupation in mind. Nor had they married yet. Johnny insisted they could not stop long enough to find a preacher, and besides that, they were still too close to home and might be reported. They had to wait until they reached Chicago before they wed. In the meantime they were to pass themselves off as husband and wife.

  The trip to Pittsburgh had been miserable, hiding in the woods most of the way, fighting insects, sleeping on the ground. At least Johnny had not tried to have his way with her. She had insisted they wait until they were man and wife, and he had reluctantly agreed. He seemed such a gentleman most of the time, sitting up nights to keep watch, staying away when she bathed in a stream or pond. She was impressed with what he’d learned about survival in the wilds, and so far he had taken good care of her. But there was an underlying eagerness to his kisses that somehow worried her. She told herself it was just her own fear of the unknown that made her afraid, as well as being suddenly tossed into a whole new world with this young man about whom she still knew little. Besides that, she was concerned that Johnny was already running low on money, and every day he had a new idea about what he would do to make a living once they headed farther west.

  His newest idea was to settle on free land under the Homestead Act. But then what? Johnny was no farmer, and she could not do all the work by herself. Besides that, being a farmer’s wife was the last thing she wanted.

  “Things will be a lot nicer for you now,” Johnny told her. “No more sleeping on the ground and spending dark nights in the woods. Soon as we reach Chicago, we’ll find us a preacher.”

  The train whistle blew, and Faith felt a jolt as the locomotive hissed and chugged and got under way.

  Was she doing the right t
hing? She was so sure she could trust Johnny, but she could not forget his mother’s warning that Johnny was not a man who knew what he wanted in life, and that she feared he was not going to settle anytime soon.

  She forced back tears, not wanting Johnny to think she was unhappy with her decision. He was a grown, experienced man now. He wouldn’t want her to behave like a silly little girl. She had made this decision, and she would stick to it. Fears and doubts aside, the fact remained that she dearly loved Johnny Sommers. Whatever lay ahead, it had to be better than wasting away in cornfields married to an old man who would make her feel like a prisoner.

  She nestled into Johnny’s shoulder. Everything would be all right. A whole new world full of exciting places and new people lay ahead for her.

  “Gold,” Johnny said softly.

  “What?”

  “That’s where the real riches are out west. We’ll find gold, Faith. All we have to do is find a good guide to take us up into Montana Territory. That’s where the new discoveries are.”

  Faith sighed with renewed doubts. “I thought we were going to homestead.”

  He rubbed at her arm. “Heck, it takes too long to make any decent money that way. Too much hard work. We’re gonna get rich quick on gold.”

  Again he had changed his mind.

  Chapter Seven

  Faith finished scrubbing another shirt, walked to where a clothesline was strung inside the back washroom of the boardinghouse where she and Johnny lived. Outside the snow blew into windswept drifts, the weather making it impossible to hang anything outside. Winter had come to Chicago, and also into her heart.