Reckless Heart (20 page)

When I opened my eyes, it was morning, and I was alone. A muffled rifle shot brought me to my feet, my heart in my throat, as I scrambled toward the mouth of the cavern. Had the soldiers found us? Was Shadow dead? Hurt? But no, there he was, riding up the hill toward me, a deer carcass slung over Red Wind’s withers.

We had not had anything to eat in two days, and my mouth began to water as I hastily built a small fire in the rear of the cave. I was rummaging, in one of the packs for a cook pot when the pain hit. Far worse than any of the others, it tore through me like a dull knife. Choking back a sob, I sank down on my sleeping robe.

“Shadow, hurry,” I whispered. “Please hurry. I’m afraid.”

Miraculously, he was there. Seeing me, he dropped the carcass and hurried to my side.

“Hannah?”

“It’s time,” I gasped. “Oh, Shadow, I’m so afraid!”

“Do not be,” he said, brushing a wisp of hair from my face. “Everything will be all right.”

I nodded weakly, then reached for his hand as another contraction caught me unawares.

Shadow remained at my side all morning, his face drawn with worry as he wiped the sweat from my brow. The contractions came harder and faster as the day wore on, and I squeezed Shadow’s hands until they were red and swollen, clinging to him as a drowning man clings to a lifeline.

Sometimes he talked to me of the old days, and I concentrated on every word, trying to focus on what he was saying rather than the pains that seemed to be ripping me apart. He told me of his mother, and how she had died of the white man’s spotted sickness when he was only five.

“You are like her, Hannah,” he said softly. “Good and kind and beautiful. Our son will be lucky to have you for his mother.”

His words warmed my soul. I was the lucky one, I thought. Lucky to have Shadow for my husband and the father of my child.

When my back began to ache, he rubbed it, his hands gently kneading the pain. I felt as if I had been in labor for days, and a new fear took hold of me as all the awful tales of childbirth I had ever heard surfaced within me—tales of women who were in labor for days and days, stories of women who struggled for hours to bring forth a child that was dead, nightmare tales of women who died in childbirth…

Unable to help myself, I began to cry. I was too young to die. I wanted to see my baby, to grow old with Shadow, to feel his arms around me.

Shadow whispered my name as he took me into his arms. Oh, the strength and comfort in his embrace, the magical solace I found as he held me, gently rocking me back and forth as if I were a child myself.

Outside, a light rain began to fall. It was soon over, and the world was deathly still, as if every living creature were holding its breath. And then, from somewhere in the distance, a horse whinnied. Quick as a cat, Shadow was at the mouth of the cave.

“Major Kelly’s scouts have found us, haven’t they?” I asked.

“It is not Kelly.”

“Not Kelly. Who, then?”

“It is the Seventh,” Shadow answered quietly, and then he laughed. “I suspect they have come to get even for Custer. I knew they would never forgive us for that.”

“Shadow, you’ve got to get out of here!” I cried, frantic for his safety. “Go now, before it’s too late.”

“It is already too late,” he replied tonelessly.

Rising, he removed his buckskin shirt. Then, while I watched, he began to paint his face and chest for war. My pains were temporarily forgotten as I watched him apply vermillion paint to his torso, the broad zigzag slashes like ribbons of blood across his flesh. Smaller, similar slashes marked his cheeks.

That done, he reached for his warbonnet. And Shadow, the man, became Two Hawks Flying, the warrior. I knew he was going out to meet the soldiers, that he intended to die fighting like the proud Cheyenne warrior he was, with a weapon in his hand and a last prayer to Man Above on his lips. And though I knew he didn’t have a chance in a million if he went out of the cave armed and ready to fight, and though I knew he would surrender if I but asked him to, I could not voice the words.

When he was ready, he took my hand in his, and I felt my heart swell with love for the tall, handsome man kneeling at my side.

“I love you, Hannah,” he said quietly. “See that our son grows brave and strong. Never let him forget that he carries the blood of many great Cheyenne warriors in his veins.”

“I won’t,” I promised, choking back a sob as he left the cave without a backward glance.

I heard him call Red Wind, and in my mind’s eye I saw Shadow swing aboard the tall stallion with the effortless grace I had always admired. And suddenly I knew I had to see him one last time.

Teeth clenched, I struggled to my knees and crawled to the entrance to the cave. I had to stop twice as pains doubled me in half, but I went determinedly forward.

I was breathing hard when I reached the mouth of the cave. Below, the soldiers were riding toward the hill in neat columns of two. They made a colorful sight, with their hard blue uniforms and the red and white guidon of the Seventh Cavalry fluttering in the afternoon breeze. Riding point were two Pawnee scouts, easily identified by their roached scalp-locks. What happened next happened very fast.

Shadow had always harbored a deep hatred for the Indians that scouted for the Army, and in less time than it takes to tell, he threw his rifle to his shoulder and with his last two bullets killed the two Indian scouts.

The dead warriors had no sooner hit the ground than six troopers broke from the others and rode forward at a gallop, firing as they came. Lead whined into the hillside around Shadow, gouging great chunks of dirt from the earth, and my mind screamed for him to run, to hide. But he might have been a statue carved from stone.

And then the soldiers were too close to miss. I saw one of them line his sights on Shadow’s chest and I screamed, “Josh, no!” and stumbled out of the cave.

And then I was falling, rolling head over heels down the icy hillside. A terrible pain stabbed through me, followed by a rush of warm water, and I screamed Shadow’s name as I felt myself being torn in half. And then I was falling again, falling into a deep black void. My last conscious thought was that I was dying, and I was glad, because I knew Shadow was dead, too.

Chapter Sixteen

Winter 1877-Spring 1878

Voices. Voices calling my name. Stubbornly, I ignored them, content to drift in the velvety black shroud of darkness that cradled me like loving arms. Beyond the darkness loomed the shadow of death, more welcome than the pain and grief that waited for me in the land of the living. Everyone I had ever loved was dead—my parents, Orin, David, Shadow. Dead, all dead. Waiting for me.

Eager to join them, I burrowed deeper into the soft, eternal darkness.

“Hannah. Hannah!”

A different voice summoned me, and I struggled out of the web of death’s embrace, crying his name.

“Shadow!”

“I am here.”

“Shadow, help me,” I begged. “Hold me. Please hold me.”

Strong arms encircled me, but they were not Shadow’s arms; when I opened my eyes, it was Joshua holding me. Shadow stood a few feet away, his hands bound behind his back. His mouth was bloody where someone had struck him.

“Shadow,” I whimpered. “I want Shadow.”

As if from far away I heard Joshua say, “Hopkins, turn the redskin loose.”

“Captain wouldn’t like it,” the corporal remarked laconically.

“The Captain ain’t here,” Joshua retorted succinctly. “And if you don’t want to spend the next six months mucking out the stables, you’d best do as you’re told!”

Hopkins grumbled something unintelligible under his breath as he untied Shadow’s hands, and then Shadow was beside me, his arms closing around me. His dark eyes were sad, and a sudden bolt of fear pierced my soul.

“The baby?” I whispered. “Where’s my baby?”

“He is dead, Hannah.”

Dead
, I thought dully.
My son is dead
.

But the words had no meaning. Closing my eyes, I fell asleep in the warm refuge of Shadow’s arms.

I spent the next few days in a strange world of light and shadow. Sometimes I drifted on a soft, fluffy cloud—far beyond the reach of pain or sorrow, content to float in timeless space. Sometimes I was flung into the past, and I frolicked through my childhood all over again, joyously caught up in the frivolities of youth, with no cares my mother could not solve with a smile and a kiss and no fears my father could not chase away.

Three days after I lost the baby I opened my eyes to reality and burst into tears. I cried for hours—grieving for the dead child I had never seen, for Shadow who was bound hand and foot and held under heavy guard, and lastly for myself.

Joshua was very kind to me. He’d been a boy when he left Bear Valley, but he was a man now, hardened by the rigors of Army life and by the harsh lessons he’d learned in the field. His hatred for Indians had grown stronger, as had his love for hard liquor and thin black cigars. Young and ambitious, he had risen quickly in the ranks and was already a lieutenant.

Josh spent a good deal of time at my side. We reminisced about our childhood days in Bear Valley and the fun we had shared. Oh, for those carefree days, I thought wistfully, of golden summer afternoons at the river crossing and quiet nights in the warm shelter of my father’s house. How I wished I could fly to my mother’s comforting arms once more and have her kiss away my hurt. If only I could lay my troubles on Pa’s broad shoulders and listen to his wise words of counsel!

“Hannah?”

Joshua’s voice called me to the present.

“What? Oh, I’m sorry, Josh, I must have been daydreaming.”

“Remembering the good old days?” he teased.

“Yes,” I admitted. “Remember the time Orin and I ran away? I can’t remember now where we were going. But I remember you came after us, hollering that your mother’s Morgan mare was having her baby. We got so excited, we forgot all about running away.”

“I remember,” Josh said in a thin voice. “I remember that I was jealous of you even then. Hannah, you can’t imagine how surprised I was to see you come tumbling out of that cave. I thought you’d been killed when the Indians burned your father out.”

“I was surprised to see you, too,” I replied. “I was sure you’d been killed with Custer.”

“A few of us were lucky that day,” he remarked bitterly. His eyes probed mine for a long time before he said, in a husky tone, “I still love you, Hannah, as much as I ever did.”

“Josh…”

“Let me talk,” he said, placing his hand over my mouth. “I know you think you’re in love with that Cheyenne buck but he’s got a short future, and when he’s gone, you’ll be all alone. I want to take care of you, Hannah. Forever…if you’ll let me.”

I brushed his hand aside. “A short future!” I exclaimed. “What do you mean by that?”

“He’s sure to hang when we reach the fort.”

Hang! I had supposed they would send Shadow to prison or confine him to some faraway reservation, but hanging! Such a thing had never entered my mind.

Stricken, I whispered, “Oh, no. Josh, please do something.”

“There’s nothing I can do.”

“You can try, can’t you?” I snapped. “After all, he saved your life once, remember?”

“I remember,” Josh acknowledged grudgingly. “And I remember riding down the valley of the Little Big Horn and seeing what those damn savages did to Custer, too! I swore then and there that I’d get even, or damn well die trying. And when I heard that your precious Two Hawks Flying was raising hell from the Dakotas to Arizona, I went to General Terry and told him how I felt. Terry’d been in that valley, and he understood. He let me handpick as many men as I felt I needed to hunt him down.” Josh laughed bitterly. “And after all my planning, Kelly nearly beat me to it.”

“Major Kelly was a fool,” I remarked contemptuously.

“Yeah,” Josh agreed, grinning. “He’s gone back to Fort Grant with his tail tucked between his legs.” Joshua’s smile broadened. “What the hell! I got what I wanted, and I might even get a promotion out of it.”

“Josh, you will try to help Shadow, won’t you? Promise me?”

“I’ll try,” he agreed reluctantly. “But he’s a troublemaker, Hannah, and the Army wants him out of the way by spring. Permanently out of the way!”

I slept the rest of the day. When I awoke, it was dinner time. I picked at my food, not tasting it, more concerned with Shadow’s well-being than my own.

Shadow’s hands and feet were tightly bound. And there were several nasty looking bruises, and a shallow gash on his face where someone had struck him.

Just now, a dour-faced Corporal Hopkins was trying to force a slice of cold meat into Shadow’s mouth. When I remarked on this to Joshua, he merely shrugged, saying, “He hasn’t eaten a bite in three days, but I reckon he’ll give in when he gets hungry enough.”

“Three days!” I exclaimed. “He must be starved.”

“Well, if he is, it’s his own fault. All he has to do is open his mouth.”

All he has to do is open his mouth, I thought. Such a little thing, and yet he’d never do it. Not in a million years.

“He’ll never accept food from an enemy,” I remarked quietly.

“Then he’ll go hungry.”

“Couldn’t you untie his hands for just a little while?”

“No.”

“Would it be all right if I fed him?”

Josh did not answer at once; then, with an impatient gesture, he muttered, “Go ahead, if it will make you happy.”

Corporal Hopkins looked vastly relieved when I took the plate from his hand and sent him away. Kneeling, I speared a fresh slice of meat and offered it to Shadow, but he made no move to take it, nor did he acknowledge my presence. Back straight, head high, he stared past me as if I wasn’t there.

“Shadow,” I whispered. “Please eat.”

Almost imperceptibly, he shook his head.

“Please,” I implored. “Do it for me.”

Some of the anger drained out of him, and he said very quietly, “All right, Hannah,” and let me feed him.

He must have been starving after three days without food or water, yet he ate slowly, drank sparingly, and finished only half of the meal. It was his pride at work, I thought—that stubborn, arrogant pride that was as much a part of him as the color of his skin, pride so strong that he’d remain hungry rather than let Josh and the others see just how hungry he really was.

“How are you, Hannah?” he asked in Cheyenne, then grunted with pain as one of the troopers guarding him jabbed him in the back with the butt of his rifle.

“Speak English, redskin!” the trooper demanded brusquely and raised his rifle again, daring Shadow to disobey.

A cold rage burned in Shadow’s eyes but before he could say or do anything, I quickly stepped between him and the trooper and said, “I’m fine, just fine.”

Shadow nodded, his dark eyes fathomless, and then Joshua came up beside me, curtailing further conversation. Casting a contemptuous glance at Shadow, Joshua insisted I join him by the fire, and when I was reluctant to do so, he took me possessively by the arm and led me away.

The next morning I stood staring down at the little mound of freshly turned earth that marked my son’s grave. Tears pricked my eyes as I bid him a silent farewell, and I was sorely tempted to throw myself across his grave and give voice to my sorrow as the Cheyenne women did. I had once thought it barbaric when the squaws slashed their flesh und hacked off their hair to express their grief, but now I understood. And understanding, I would have relished the pain if it would have eased the gnawing ache in my breast.

Some yards beyond, Shadow sat cross-legged on the hard ground, flanked by two heavily armed troopers. I had not been alone with him since the day I lost the baby, and I yearned to speak with him privately and hear his voice whispering that he loved me, assuring me everything would be all right. I searched his face for some clue as to what he was thinking, but he was wearing his Indian face, and I could not penetrate that impassive mask.

Five days after I lost the baby I felt well enough to travel. Joshua was all gentle concern as he bundled me onto a travois rigged behind Sunny. It was rather pleasant, lying there in the pale sunlight, and I watched through heavy-lidded eyes as Josh’s men packed their gear and saddled their mounts. Earlier in the day, the troopers had drawn lots to determine how to divide Shadow’s few personal belongings. “The spoils of war,” the men had said, laughing, though I saw little humor in the situation.

Shadow’s rifle had gone to a young, freckle-faced private, his hunting knife went to a lantern-jawed sergeant. Over my protests, Shadow’s sacred medicine bundle had gone to a hollow-cheeked veteran who had taken a quick look at the contents, dumped them out, and filled the deerskin pouch with tobacco. Not surprisingly, Josh decided to keep Shadow’s beautifully wrought warbonnet for himself.

Red Wind had gone to Corporal Hopkins, who was even now saddling the big red stud. The stallion humped his back as Hopkins cinched his McClellan down tight and fought against the bit as Hopkins prepared to mount. But Red Wind, who was usually as docile as old Nellie unless there was another stallion around, refused to stand. Ears laid back, teeth bared, he fought Hopkins’ hold on the reins, snorting and sidestepping each time the corporal reached for a stirrup.

Angry and impatient, Hopkins called for help, and two troopers sprang to his aid, only to retreat before the stallion’s flashing hooves and snapping jaws. It took Hopkins the better part of fifteen minutes to get into the saddle, and when he finally made it, all hell broke loose.

Indian born and bred, Red Wind had never felt the weight of a saddle on his back nor tasted a bit between his teeth. Little wonder that he commenced pitching and bucking like a loco bronc. The watching troopers stomped and hollered like cowboys at a rodeo as the stallion exploded across the slushy ground. Hopkins cussed like a veteran muleskinner as he raked his spurs over the stud’s sleek red flanks. Accustomed to the gentle touch of Shadow’s moccasined heels, Red Wind screamed with pain and rage at this new indignity. Again and again Hopkins roweled the stallion’s flanks until the animal’s sides were flecked with blood and lather and he stood trembling in the sun, proud head hanging low, sides heaving.

Hopkins smiled as the troopers cheered him. He was still smiling when Red Wind reared straight up and pitched over backward.

Hopkins hollered, “Oh, shit!” as he kicked free of the stirrups and hurled himself from the saddle, barely managing to roll out of harm’s way as eleven hundred pounds of twisting horseflesh crashed to the earth.

Man and beast scrambled to their feet simultaneously. Ears back, teeth bared, Red Wind hurtled toward Hopkins. A lot of men would have panicked at such a time, but Hopkins stood steady as a rock as he unholstered his service revolver and shot the enraged stallion between the eyes. Red Wind fell heavily, kicked once, and died.

“Damned outlaw!” Hopkins muttered, and turned away.

Shadow’s face was as something carved from granite as he stared at Red Wind’s blood-spattered carcass. Shadow and Red Wind—they had been inseparable. I remembered Shadow telling me how long it had taken to train the stallion to hand and heel and voice; I recalled the pride and affection in his eyes when he told me how Red Wind had once saved his life by dragging him from the field of battle when he was wounded and unable to ride.