Reckless Heart (7 page)

Sixty seconds later Pa was standing beside me, his big old buffalo gun cradled in one hirsute arm. A sharp word from Pa silenced the dogs. Thrusting the heavy rifle into my arms, he scooted up the ladder to the look-out tower, then quickly scrambled down again. Lifting the heavy cross-bar from the gates, Pa hurried outside.

Puzzled by my father’s peculiar behavior, I followed him out of the yard, only to come to an abrupt halt when I saw the copper-hued body sprawled in the dust, and the big roan stallion standing patiently beside it. Shadow!

“Pa,” I whispered hoarsely, my hands shaking as much as my voice. “Pa, is he…?” I could not say the word, could not take my eyes from the inert, bloodied form of the man I loved and yearned to marry.

“No, he isn’t dead,” Pa said curtly. “Not yet.” Scowling, he lifted Shadow as if he weighed no more than a child and carried him into the house.

Inside the stockade, I struggled to drop the heavy cross-bar back into place. Then, burdened by Pa’s rifle, I hurried into the house.

Mother was waiting for us next to the big pot-bellied stove that stood in the middle of the store. One look at Pa’s burden set her in motion. She quickly swept a display of ladies’ hats to the floor, then covered the countertop with a clean white sheet.

As gently as he had ever placed me in my own bed when I was a child, Pa now laid Shadow on the countertop. Face grim, he put a pot of water on to boil while Mother began tearing an old sheet into long strips for bandages.

“Curly, what happened?” Mother asked. Laying the bandages aside, she added salt to the water warming on the stove.

“I can’t say for sure,” Pa answered gruffly. “But it looks like he’s been pistol whipped, and then dragged across half the valley.”

“And knifed,” Mother added, glancing down at Shadow’s right leg. “Hannah, you’d best put that rifle down and light another lamp. Curly, fetch some whiskey, and my sewing kit.”

Wordlessly, Pa and I hastened to do Mother’s bidding. Minutes later the three of us were gathered around Shadow’s inert form. I bit down on my lower lip to keep from crying out as I got a good look at him. He had been horribly beaten. His nose was bloody. Both of his eyes were black and swollen shut. His buckskin shirt hung in shreds, and there was blood and dirt crusted all over the front of him. But worst of all was the hideous gash along the outside of his right leg. It had been slashed from thigh to ankle. In some places, his leg had been cut to the bone. But for all the blood, Mother said no major muscles or ligaments or veins, thank God, had been severed.

“Well, we’d best begin,” Mother said, and taking a deep breath, she began to clean the ghastly wound in Shadow’s leg with the strips of cloth that had been boiling in the salt water.

Shadow groaned and began to thrash about as the hot cloths touched his mutilated flesh, and I cringed to think of the awful pain he was suffering.

“Curly, hold him down!” Mother exclaimed as Shadow endeavored to rise, and Pa draped one big hand over Shadow’s left ankle, and the other on Shadow’s right shoulder. But such precautions proved unnecessary, for Shadow ceased struggling the minute he heard my mother’s voice.

“That you, Mary?” he asked hoarsely.

“Yes, dear, it’s me.”

“Hannah?”

“I’m here. Lie quietly now.”

“My eyes…”

“Swollen shut,” Mother told him. “But don’t worry. Everything’s going to be fine.”

“Who’s holding me down?”

“I am,” Pa acknowledged gruffly. “Mary’s gonna sew up your leg.”

“Let me go,” Shadow rasped, and, surprisingly Pa did just that.

Mother was threading a small needle with silk thread, and I felt suddenly nauseous as I imagined that gleaming bit of silver weaving in and out of Shadow’s torn flesh.

“Lie still now,” Mother admonished softly, and after dipping both needle and thread in whiskey, she began to sew the raw edges of Shadow’s skin together with neat even stitches, just as if she were mending a rip in one of Pa’s cotton shirts.

Choking back my tears, I held Shadow’s hand. Great drops of sweat beaded across his brow, and I carefully wiped them away, wondering as I did so how he managed to endure such awful pain without screaming.

The room grew very quiet, with only the muted swish of silk thread piercing tender flesh, the soft sputtering of the oil lamp, and Shadow’s labored breathing to mar the stillness. He was so pale, his pulse so erratic, I knew he was going to die, and that a part of me would die with him.

Distraught, I glanced up at my mother. Her face was quiet and serene, the gray eyes calm and untroubled. Somehow, the sight of my mother’s peaceful countenance dispelled my fears. Surely, if anyone could save Shadow, my mother could! I had seen her work miracles before. Often, as a child, I had brought injured animals home for her to nurse. She had never failed me.

I glanced at my father, standing beside my mother, ready to give whatever assistance he could, and I felt a quick surge of love for them both. With a pang, I realized that I wouldn’t see much of my folks once I married Shadow and the thought brought tears to my eyes, for I loved them both dearly. But I loved Shadow more.

After what seemed like hours, Mother put her needle aside. Head cocked, she turned a critical eye to her handiwork, then nodded as if she were pleased with the results. Then, with the worst wound taken care of, she began to sponge the dried blood from Shadow’s face and chest.

He shuddered convulsively each time she touched him. It was no easy task, painstakingly picking the dirt and debris from the multitude of scrapes and lacerations that criss-crossed his bronze torso. When, at last, the cuts were thoroughly clean and all the dead flesh had been cut away, Mother applied salve to the wounds, then covered Shadow with a sheet.

Through it all, I wasn’t much help. Numb with anxiety and fatigue, I could only stand beside Shadow, clutching his hand to my breast.

It was nearing dawn when Mother announced, wearily, that she had done all she could. “It’s in the Lord’s hands now,” she said. “Curly, you’d best scoot upstairs and get that extra cot. It wouldn’t do for him to roll off that counter and bust those stitches open.”

Minutes later, Shadow was settled on a cot in the corner, and when he was tucked in to Mother’s satisfaction, she took Pa’s hand and started upstairs.

“Come along, Hannah,” Pa called. “I think we could all use some sleep.”

“I’ll be up later,” I said. “I want to sit with Shadow for awhile.”

My folks exchanged a look I could not read, then Mother sighed, “Very well, dear. Call if you need us.”

And they went upstairs to bed.

“Hannah.”

I flew to Shadow’s side. “What’s wrong?”

“Water…”

“Of course.” I quickly poured him a glass of water from a pitcher, spilling a good deal in my haste. He must have sensed my distress, for after quenching his thirst, he whispered hoarsely, “Don’t fret, Hannah,” and then sleep claimed him.

As the sun rose over the stockade walls, I prayed as I had never prayed before—prayed that the awful gash in Shadow’s leg would not fester and that he would recover quickly. I sat by his side all that day, feeding him spoonfuls of Mother’s rich beef broth when he was awake. That night he burned with fever. I refused to leave his side, dozing when he was quiet, waking immediately whenever he called for water, or whispered my name.

About midnight, Mother came downstairs to try and persuade me to go to bed, but I stubbornly refused. Though no one had said the words aloud, I knew there was a chance Shadow might die and I intended to spend every minute by his side. While she was there, Mother examined Shadow’s leg. One area just above his knee was edged with faint red streaks. Ignorant as I was of such things, I knew that was not a good sign.

Mother’s face was grave as she took me aside. “It looks bad, Hannah,” she said quietly. “If it begins to swell, it’ll have to come off.”

Horrified by such a thought, I could only nod that I understood.

“Try and get some sleep, dear,” Mother suggested, and offered me a comforting pat on the shoulder before she went back to bed.

Heavy-hearted, I took my place at Shadow’s side, wondering how my mother could talk so calmly about cutting off Shadow’s leg.

“Hannah?”

“I’m here, darling.”

Shadow took my hand in his, and his eyes, open now but still badly swollen, burned into mine as he said, hoarsely, “Don’t let them cut off my leg. Promise me.”

“It might not be necessary,” I hedged.

“Hannah, promise me!”

“Please, Shadow, don’t ask such a thing. If your leg gets infected, it’ll have to come off or the poison will spread and you’ll die.”

Somehow, Shadow pulled himself to a sitting position and took my face in his hands. His eyes were bright pools of pain and his hands were hot and trembled with fever as he said, “Hannah, promise me. A warrior needs two good legs, and if I cannot live and hunt and fight as a whole man, I would rather be dead!”

“Very well, I promise,” I murmured, and felt hot tears scald my eyes.

With a sigh, Shadow sank back on the cot.

“Can I get you anything?” I asked, wishing I could do something, anything, to ease his pain.

“No, Hannah.”

“Sleep now,” I said. “Everything will be all right. I know it will.”

“Hannah,” he whispered. “Come lie with me.”

“I shouldn’t,” I said, but I was stretching out beside him as I spoke, being careful not to bump him or jar the bed lest I add to his suffering.

As his arm drew me close, I buried my face in his shoulder to hide my tears. His hand caressed my hair and I thought anew how I loved his touch, how I only felt complete when he was near me, and I whispered, “Oh, Shadow, I was so afraid you’d changed your mind.”

“You know better than that,” he chided gently. “I would have been here early Monday morning, but when I got up that day the warriors were talking of war. Some of the young hotheads had killed a white man and taken his daughter the night before and they were eager for more blood. Crippled Calf and Snake were urging the young men to fight again, to drive the settlers from our hunting grounds now, before Ghost Face covers the plains. All that day and far into the night the warriors smoked and counseled —some arguing for war, some suggesting we wait for spring, hoping perhaps that a hard winter would wipe the settlers out. But the final decision was for war.

“The next day there was dancing. My father and I and a few of the older chiefs tried to persuade the young men to wait, to see if perhaps the Army would drive the settlers out. I’m afraid we were not very convincing. My people have no faith in the Army or their treaties, which are broken before the ink is dry on the paper.

“The following day the warriors purified themselves for battle, and still I stayed, hoping to discourage them. But their blood was up and they were determined to fight. When I knew I could not stop them, I rode out early the next morning, intending to warn your father.

“I had just crossed the river when six white men surrounded me. Before I could speak, the leader threw a rope over me and pulled me off Red Wind. For a while they took turns dragging me behind their horses, and when they tired of that, they pistol-whipped me.”

Shadow paused, and when he spoke again, his voice was bitter. “One man didn’t have a gun and when the leader offered him one, he waved it aside. ‘Crippled redskins don’t last long,’ he laughed, and they held me down while he cut me.

“I passed out then, and I guess they must have left me for dead. Anyway, when I came to, it was dark and Red Wind was standing over me. At my command, he went to his knees and I grabbed his mane and pulled myself onto his back. We were almost at the gates of the trading post when I passed out again. The next thing I remember is hearing your mother’s voice.”

“The little white girl,” I said. “Is she all right?”

“Yes. Do not worry about her, Hannah. No harm will come to her.”

Talking so long had tired him, and he fell asleep in my arms. My heart ached to see him in pain, and I lay awake for a long time, wondering which men had treated the man I loved so abominably. Certainly, it had been men from the valley. Men I knew. None of the settlers struck me as the kind of people who would wantonly destroy another human being and yet, even as the thought crossed my mind, I recalled hearing Jed Tabor opine just last week that Injuns weren’t human. Seth Walker and Saul Green had been in the store that day and they had both agreed, loudly, that ‘Injuns weren’t nothing but heathen savages, not fit to live with decent white folks.’ Did everyone feel that way but me?

Chapter Eight

Shadow was worse in the morning. He trembled convulsively with chills and fever, and there was a look of quiet desperation in his eyes as he drew me close and whispered, “Remember your promise,” in a voice weak with pain and fatigue.

“I remember,” I assured him. “Here, drink this broth.”

Holding back my tears, I fed him the good beef broth Mother had made the night before, praying it would infuse him with strength, willing it to work a miracle and restore him to good health. It grieved me to see him in pain, to know he was suffering and there was nothing I could do to help.

Mother came downstairs as Shadow swallowed the last mouthful.

“How’s our patient this morning?” she asked cheerfully, laying a slim ivory hand on Shadow’s brow. “Feeling any better?”

“About the same,” Shadow rasped, and Mother nodded as she lifted the sheet and checked the dressing on his leg. “Hannah tells me the little Sanders girl is with your people.”

“With the Sioux,” Shadow explained. “Some of Sitting Bull’s young men were staying with us when the girl was taken. One of them had a mother who was grieving for a child that had died of a white man’s disease. He traded his war pony for the girl.”

“Now Kathy’s mother is grieving,” my mother remarked softly, her voice quietly accusing. “We’ll need to change that dressing later,” she went on in a kinder tone. “Come, Hannah, I need your help upstairs.”

“I’ll be up in a few minutes,” I answered.

“Right now, Hannah,” Mother said sharply, and swept out of the room.

Startled by my mother’s abrupt tone, I hurried up the stairs. Pa was in the kitchen, staring into a cup of coffee. I guess I knew, when he refused to meet my eyes, what he was going to say. But that didn’t make it any easier to hear.

“The leg has got to come off,” Pa said bluntly. “The wound’s infected and the poison’s spreading. If we wait much longer, it’ll be too late to save him.”

“You can’t do it, Pa. I promised Shadow I wouldn’t let you cut off his leg.”

“Then he’s a dead man!” Pa snapped. “Is that what you want?”

“No, Pa,” I said miserably. “But it’s what Shadow wants.”

Exasperated, Pa swore and turned to Mother for help, and at that moment I loved my father more than ever before. I knew how he felt about Indians, knew he would fight me every inch of the way when I told him I was going to marry Shadow, but right now Pa was on my side because he was a fine man, a decent human being who couldn’t stand idly by and watch another man die needlessly.

“Perhaps we should go down and talk to Shadow,” Mother suggested.

And we did. Pa told Shadow just what he had told me, in the same forthright, no-nonsense tone. And when Shadow said no, Mother then tried to make him change his mind, but to no avail.

“Dammit, Shadow!” Pa bellowed. “That leg has got to come off, and now, whether you like it or not. I won’t sit on my hands and let a man die in my house if I can stop it!”

“Then I will leave your house,” Shadow retorted, and before anyone could stop him, he was off the cot and heading for the door.

Where he got the strength, I’ll never know, but he didn’t get too far before his injured leg collapsed beneath him and he fell to the floor. Shadow’s face went gray, and he groaned as fresh slivers of pain shot through him.

Pa cussed under his breath as he went to help Shadow to his feet, but Shadow refused his help. “If I cannot walk out of here, I will crawl,” he rasped, and stubbornly began to do just that. Sweat poured down his face as he slowly dragged himself across the rough wooden floor.

Distraught, I rushed to Shadow’s side. “Please let Pa do what has to be done,” I begged. “Please, Shadow. For me!”

“No.”

“If we only had a doctor,” Mother said. She made a gesture of helplessness. “If only I knew a little more about such things…”

Shadow’s slow progress across the room had come to a halt. He sat with his back against the wall, too weak to go any further, too stubborn to accept help. There were tight lines of pain around his mouth, and his breathing was harsh, as if each breath was an effort.

“Elk Dreamer,” he rasped. “Take me to Elk Dreamer.”

“Who’s that?” I asked, feeling a surge of hope.

“Medicine man.”

“You shouldn’t be moved,” Mother said. “Besides, it would probably be faster for him to come here. Will he come here?”

“I do not know.”

“He’ll come,” Pa said curtly. Grabbing his rifle from the rack above the door, he started outside.

“No, Kincaid,” Shadow called after him. “The warriors will kill you on sight.”

“Then I’ll go,” I said resolutely.

“No, Hannah!” Mother said quickly. “I’ll not permit it. Shadow, tell her it’s too dangerous.”

“I’m not afraid,” I countered. “Anyway, I’m the only one here who speaks the language.”

“Curly, tell her she can’t go!”

“She will be in no danger from my people,” Shadow said. “The warriors will not harm a lone woman.”

“It’s settled then,” I announced in a firm tone. “I’m going.”

My folks were not happy with my decision, but they accepted it because there was really no other alternative. Shadow could not sit on a horse. And he was in no condition to be moved, not even on a litter, so taking him to Elk Dreamer was out of the question. And even if we could move him on a litter, it would take too long. At least a day—perhaps two. And I was desperately afraid that we didn’t have two days.

“How will I find the village?” I asked.

“Take Red Wind. He will go home if you give him his head.”

With everything decided, Pa went to help Shadow back to bed. But Shadow would not accept help, not even from me. Summoning strength from some deep inner reserve, he pulled himself to his feet and then, with his teeth clenched against the pain and sweat pouring down his face, he made his way back to the cot.

Ten minutes later I was dressed and ready to go. While I was putting on my heavy coat, I heard Shadow beg Pa to quit the territory before it was too late, before the scattered Indian raids mushroomed into all-out warfare.

Pa’s face got that stubborn “this is my land, too” expression, but before he could form a reply, the door to the trading post banged open, and Joshua Berdeen staggered into the room. He was covered with dirt and blood. His shirt was ripped down one side, and there was a bullet hole in the crown of his hat.

Startled by his battered appearance, I exclaimed, “Josh, what happened? Are you all right?”

“Indians,” Josh mumbled thickly. “They burned us out just after dawn. Killed my folks. Orin, too.”

Orin—dead! I remembered how we had laughed and played together in our childhood days, how he had whispered poetry in my ear and made me feel like I was the most wonderful girl in the world. And now he was dead, his cheerful laughter forever stilled.

For a moment we could only stare at Josh, too stunned to speak. I saw Pa glance anxiously at Mother and me. Hate for the Indians burned like a deadly flame in my father’s eyes. Unconsciously, he picked up the rifle propped against the counter, and his knuckles went white around the stock.

Expelling a long breath, Pa asked Josh if the Indians were headed our way.

Joshua shook his head. “No. I killed their chief in the last charge, and they ran for home.”

“Hannah, put the kettle on,” Mother said. “Joshua, sit down. You’re hurt.”

“It’s nothing,” Josh murmured absently. “Just a flesh wound.”

But Mother was in no mood for argument. “It needs looking after just the same,” she insisted. “Hannah, fetch the scissors.”

I felt Joshua’s eyes following me as I moved across the room and then, suddenly, he was darting past me, his gun drawn, his eyes wild.

“Joshua!”

My father’s voice stopped Josh dead in his tracks. But the gun aimed at Shadow’s chest was rock steady, and Josh’s blue eyes continued to burn with implacable hatred.

“Let me kill him!” Josh pleaded. “Please let me kill the red son of a bitch!”

“Joshua, put that gun away. Now!”

“I can’t,” Josh replied. His voice was ragged with hate and grief. “You weren’t there…you didn’t see them! You didn’t see Orin, dying slow from an arrow in his guts. You didn’t see my Pa lying in the yard shot to pieces. You didn’t see my Ma…” Racking sobs tore at his throat, and his voice dropped to a hoarse whisper. “My Ma…they slit her throat.”

A terrible silence filled the room as Joshua’s voice trailed off. His face was twisted with pain. His finger went white around the trigger.

Shadow’s expression remained impassive, and I wondered what he was thinking and why he wasn’t afraid when death was staring him in the face.

Mother stood pale and silent, her lips moving in a silent prayer. Claire Berdeen had been my mother’s dearest friend. Once they had hoped Josh and I would wed.

“I got no love for Indians,” Pa said stonily. “You know that, Josh. But it wasn’t Shadow who killed your folks.”

“Injuns is Injuns,” Josh retorted bitterly.

“Joshua, put that gun down. Now!” Pa did not raise his voice, but his hard tone carried the ring of authority, and Josh swore under his breath as he shoved the big old Colt back into the waistband of his pants. The tension drained out of the room as he sank down onto a chair by the stove and buried his face in his hands.

“I’m sorry about your folks, Josh,” Mother said compassionately. “We all are. You know you’re more than welcome to stay here.”

Joshua’s head snapped up. He shot Shadow a venomous glance as he said, “No, thanks, Mrs. Kincaid. If you folks will lend me a horse and some grub, I’ll be on my way.”

“Where to, Josh?” I asked.

“I can’t fight the whole Indian nation by myself,” he said gruffly, “so I’m gonna join up with the Cavalry.”

“Joshua…”

“Don’t try to stop me, Mrs. Kincaid. There’s gonna be war on the plains, and I mean to be right in the middle of the hottest spot—killing Injuns!”

It was nearing one o’clock by the time I left the trading post. By then, Mother had bandaged Josh’s wound, and I had packed him some food. Pa had given him a horse and a change of clothes and a few dollars to tide him over ‘til he reached Fort Lincoln. Josh gave me a light kiss on the cheek, then rode out of the stockade without a backward glance. I felt a sudden sadness as I realized I’d probably never see him again. Even though I had spurned his proposal, he was still my friend, a part of my childhood.

With a sigh, I swung aboard Red Wind’s bare back. He was twice the size of Nellie and I had to stand on a box to mount, hoping, as I did so, that he was as gentle as my old mare. Patting his short, muscular neck, I shook out the reins and Red Wind stepped out briskly, as if he knew just how terribly important our mission was.

Not knowing how far we had to go, or if there were any water holes between here and the Cheyenne village, I let the big steed drink his fill at the river crossing. It was peaceful, there by the river. Waiting for Red Wind to finish, I happened to glance down at the ground. My heart skipped a beat as I saw a single white eagle feather lying crumpled in the grass, and next to it an ugly brown stain. It was blood, I thought. Shadow’s blood. He had taught me well in the days we had played together, and I read the signs easily. There, only a few feet to my left, marked the place where he’d been roped and pulled from his horse. The turf was chewed up by running hooves—shod hooves—and I followed the tracks with my eyes until they disappeared in the rock-strewn flats that fell away from the river. My mouth was dry as I reined Red Wind around. The trail was harder to follow on the rocky ground, but not impossible—not when you’d been trained by a Cheyenne warrior.

Bits of buckskin and an occasional trace of bloody dirt showed where they had dragged Shadow back and forth across the rough terrain, and I flinched as I imagined the sharp stones tearing his shirt to shreds and gouging his flesh. The last rider had dragged Shadow back to the edge of the grass. Signs of a scuffle and traces of blood-soaked ground marked the spot, and in my mind’s eye I could see the violent struggle that must have taken place as Shadow fought back, trying in vain to escape the six white men who held him down and then beat him with their guns and fists.

I could not comprehend such wanton cruelty, I had never hated anyone in my life, but I was hating now, fiercely—hating not only the white men who had assaulted Shadow, but the Indians who had murdered the Berdeens, and all the other intolerant people in the world as well.

I was wasting time, too. Clucking to the stallion, I urged him down the bank and across the river. Once we cleared the woods, Red Wind lengthened his stride and the miles flew by until, away in the distance, I saw the conical hide lodges of the Northern Cheyenne.

Apprehensive—now that I was so close—I reined the stallion to a walk and then to a halt, as the courage I had flaunted at home deserted me and fear took its place. Indians! Perhaps the very Indians that had killed the Berdeens. The same ones that had killed John Sanders and kidnapped Kathy. The same ones that had burned the Henrys out. I remembered the first day Shadow had brought me home, remembered my father’s words, “Don’t you realize you might have been killed? Or worse?” And my innocent reply, “What could be worse than being killed?”