Likewise, when we were farmed out to various Irish foster families, members themselves of the only Church, our religious training remained a joyless business. Even the painted glass windows in the churches we were dragged to, not to mention the bloody paintings that decorated the walls of Christ sufferin’ on the cross, scared me and Susie shiteless. We have come to the opinion that the young should be kept away from such places, for they only serve to give you nightmares for the rest of your life. We much prefer the way the savages worship Mother Earth, the Great Spirit, the heavens, and the animals.
All of this to say that the young chaplain’s simple good faith is appreciated in the same way as was Brother Anthony’s when he came among us. To the lad’s further credit, he does not try to convert us or the Cheyenne to his way of thinkin’, as did, for instance, the pederast Reverend Hare, who was assigned to our group when first we came here, and whose missionary zeal was particularly tiresome. So that when he got run out of our village by angry parents for havin’ been caught practicing a perversion unknown to the Cheyenne, we were all real relieved.
Aye, the chaplain keeps his religion to himself, practicing it by good example, rather than fire and brimstone and evangelical rantin’. Anyhow, me and Susie have long since given up on the notion that God will save our damned souls, and recent events in our lives seem to have well borne that out.
All three scouts, Red Fox, Pretty Nose, and Little Buffalo, ride in now from different directions to report to Hawk, and then all of them ride off together, their horses at a full gallop. Hawk adjusts our path of travel to follow them at a brisk pace, headin’ us north and west into the foothills. We don’t know exactly what yet, but something is clearly up, and we just hope it ain’t that we’re bein’ trailed again.
We climb into the timber, mixed pine and aspen, the air much chillier up here, a good deal of snow still on the ground. We travel for another hour or so, coming to a low pass in the hills, which marks a kind of summit, from which we begin to drop down on the other side. We hear now in the hills around the whistles of Indian sentries so adept at mimicking the voices of birds that only those of us who have lived among them can tell the difference, and even then not always. Me and Susie’s blood runs cold, for we fear we are ridin’ directly into the ambush of an enemy tribe hidin’ in the hills around, ready to open fire from all directions.
But then we hear Hawk call back in his hawk cry, and the whistles of our own scouts in response, and in the valley below we spot the village of maybe forty, fifty tipis spread out, smoke risin’ from some of ’em, women seated in small groups in front doin’ their various labors, children playin’ in the sun, dogs barkin’. With the bird cries of the sentries and our reply, the women come to their feet and others appear through the openin’s of the tipis and all take up the trilling, a beautiful lilting musical vibration that issues from deep in their breasts, risin’ in their throats and rollin’ off their flickerin’ tongues, a sound as joyful as the keening is mournful. Me and Susie never could quite master that one. But we know then with a grand flood of relief, gooseflesh runnin’ over our skin, that we are home at last.
The trilling continues as we ride into the village, the People, our people—men, women, and old folks—welcoming us, some smilin’ broadly as we pass, others watchin’ with the same expression of curiosity as spectators at a parade. The younger children as is their habit scamper out to count coup on the greenhorns, touchin’ their feet or legs, squealin’ and scamperin’ back to their families. The lassies themselves appear a wee bit overwhelmed by this reception, but in a good way, they, too, smiling in wonder, for there is nothin’ that feels threatenin’ about it.
But one thing me and Susie hadn’t quite considered is the fact that the chaplain is still wearin’ his Army uniform … for lack of any other attire, tattered so much now that he looks like a damn scarecrow. And when the People start noticin’ him ridin’ among us, they assume he must be a captive. Captive soldiers are usually given over to the women and older children to do with as they like … which ain’t a pretty sight to witness, we can tell you. Sometimes they kill ’em real slow with sticks and rocks, knives and tomahawks … piece by piece if you know what we mean.
We see a group of women gatherin’ together, eyein’ the chaplain with hate in their eyes and talkin’ angry, and we know trouble is comin’. He’s ridin’ kinda in the center of the greenhorns and the Cheyenne women start movin’ through our horses toward him. When they reach him, one of ’em, a stout lass you don’t want to mess with named Méona’hané’e, Kills in the Morning Woman, grabs him by the front of his jacket and hauls him right off his horse and the whole pack of harridans set upon him, strikin’ him with sticks. Christian covers his head with his hands, but he doesn’t struggle or try to defend himself, nor does he cry out, he doesn’t utter a sound. Now Molly dismounts and runs to him, and she grabs big Méona’hané’e by the scruff of the neck like you break up a dogfight and she hauls her off the chaplain. Then she does the goddamnedest thing, somethin’ you don’t ever see happen among the savages. She punches Kills in the Morning Woman right in the chops, lays her out flat on the ground. Now me and Susie used to like to bet on the fights in Irish town. We even stepped out with a pugilist or two in our day, and we ain’t seen a straight right like that since Paddy McClintock knocked out Denny O’Connor in the fifth round, and we won five dollars on a five-cent bet.
Course, this gets everyone’s attention and a low murmur arises from the people. The other harridans quit their assault upon the chaplain, scramble to their feet, and begin backin’ away from the big blond white woman, the likes of whom they never quite dealt with before. Christian stands and dusts himself off.
“Chaplain,” I call to him, “me and Susie kinda forgot to mention to you that it’s not a grand idea to ride into an Indian village wearin’ a U.S. Army uniform.”
Christian goes over to Méona’hané’e, kneels down beside her, cradles the back of her neck in his hand and raises her head up a little. She comes to in a moment, but doesn’t quite know where she is yet or what happened to her. She’s not ever taken a punch before, that much is certain. He slides his arm under her and raises her to a sittin’ position, her legs splayed out in front, steadies her for a moment, finally helps her to her feet, supports her with his arm around her, leads her over, and delivers her to the other harridans. He sits down on the ground then, and pulls his boots off, stands again and removes his Army jacket, his shirt, and his breeches, folds them up real neat, picks up the boots, and hands the whole bundle to Méona’hané’e, givin’ her a little bow as he does so. Course, now he’s standin’ there in his dirty socks and long johns, and a ripple of approval and then of good-natured laughter begins to run through the People. Even Kills in the Morning Woman, tough old bird that she is, smiles kind of sheepish an’ starts laughin’ along with everyone else. Sometimes all it takes among these people to be accepted is a gesture such as Christian Goodman summoned, just because that’s the kinda fella he is. Too soon to say how Molly’s punch is goin’ to be taken, but she was, after all, only defendin’ her friend, whose life she saved once already, and after that she’s gotta look after him forever, according to the way things work among the savages. When word gets around about her encounter with Jules Seminole, we expect she will have earned everyone’s respect … if she hasn’t already …
After this little bit of excitement, we ride on through the village, me and Susie wavin’ to Cheyenne friends and acquaintances, who welcome us home. There are new faces among them, as well, other tribal members from different bands who have joined up with Little Wolf.
Still, happy as we are to be here, it is a bittersweet homecoming for us, on account a’ all the faces that are missing. Aye, an’ just as me and Susie are feelin’ again that sharp sense of loss of our friends and our wee dear babies that comes upon us from time to time like a knife thrust to our guts, our eyes scannin’ the people fall upon … “ah, no, Susie, it ain’t possible,” I whisper.
“Pay no heed, sister,” says she, “we’re seein’ a ghost this time for sure, you and I. Take our eyes off her a moment, an’ she’ll go away as all the other ghosts have.”
Me and Susie know all too well the tricks of ghosts, and so we both look the other direction at the Standing Elk family, friends of ours, who stand in front of their lodge to greet us—mother, father, a small boy, and a smaller little girl. We smile and wave at them, and they do back. Finally, we cannot resist any longer, and we cut our eyes again toward the ghost and there she still is, smilin’ wry at us. Aye, it ain’t no ghost, after all, it is our dear old friend the black woman Euphemia Washington … Phemie, back from the dead!
Me and Susie leap from our horses and run to her and she takes us both in her long brown arms, we feelin’ like children ourselves returned to the bosom of the mother we never knew.
“Ah, Phemie,” says Susie, “our dear Phemie, you’re alive, you’ve come back to us!”
“Everyone said you were dead, Phemie,” says I, “that the soldiers killed you. Even Brother Anthony said so. What happened? How did you survive? Where have you been? How did you get here?”
“I will tell you everything later, girls,” says she in her calm, musical way of speakin’, which was always such a comfort to us, and is so wonderful to hear again. What joy! “But first, you must tell me, is that not Martha, wearing the greasepaint, riding the donkey?”
“Aye, Phemie,” says Susie, “’deed it is, how did you know so quick? That’s another story for us to tell you later.”
“But does she know that her child is here?” asks Phemie.
“What?” says we together. “But how is it possible? No, she doesn’t know, nor did we. She knows nothin’, Martha, she barely speaks. She was taken captive by Jules Seminole, we don’t know how. That big blond girl who just punched Méona’hané’e rescued her, but not before Seminole destroyed Martha’s mind. But who here has her son?”
“His father, Martha’s husband Tangle Hair, and his second wife, Mo’ke a’e, Grass Woman,” says Phemie, “they brought the boy here from Red Cloud Agency upon their escape with Little Wolf. It is said that the Army took him away from Martha before they put her on the train east, and returned the child to Tangle Hair. I do not know for what reason. By the way, who is that girl, and who are those other white women? Are they captives?”
“Not exactly. We’ll tell ya all about it later, Phemie,” says Susie. “After we get ’em settled. You and us got a lot to catch up on.”
We take our leave of Phemie, gather our horses and remount, and ride to the far side of the encampment, where Hawk has led the greenhorns to set up their own camp. The rest of his party has been reunited with their family members, absorbed back into the village.
The news of Martha’s baby boy surprises me and Susie almost as much as did finding Phemie, and we are eager to sort out how all this came to pass. So we gather Lady Hall and Molly for a powwow.
“By the way, Molly,” says Susie, “where the hell didya learn to punch like that?”
“Defending myself when my drunken husband started to beat me.”
“Fair enough,” says I. We know better than to ask her any more questions, for Molly plays her cards real close to the chest.
We tell ’em about Martha’s baby being here, and our fear that as fragile and confused as she is, the shock of seeing him again might be too much for her. We wonder if we shouldn’t wait a wee bit, let her get settled in and stronger before we spring the news on her.
“On the contrary, ladies,” says Lady Hall, “I believe that a good shock of a positive nature, which this will no doubt be, might be exactly what Martha needs to bring her out of her state of somnolence.”
“I agree with Lady Hall,” says Molly. “I don’t think you should waste another minute before you take her to see her son. We were mothers, girls, the three of us, wouldn’t we wish to be reunited with our children as quickly as possible, wouldn’t we wish to know that they are safe … that they are alive? Can you imagine any greater joy than that?”
“Ah, Jaysus Christ, Molly,” says Susie in a small, busted voice, “didya have to put it like that? No, we can imagine no greater joy on earth … or in heaven, for that matter.”
So me and Susie make some inquiries as to the location of Tangle Hair’s lodge, and we lead Martha there. She walks between us, docile and passive as ever, takin’ no recognition of the people we pass, most of whom she knows from our year among them. Some address her like old friends, by her former Cheyenne name, Falls Down Woman, but she does not react, nor even look at them, and they quickly realize that she is not herself.
Susie scratches at the lodge opening, and the flap is parted by a young lass we know to be Mo’ke a’e, Grass Woman. She looks at me and Susie and nods in recognition, neither real friendly nor unfriendly either. Then she looks at Martha. It clearly takes her a moment to sort out, especially with Martha’s greasepaint still disguising her features, but Grass Woman quickly makes the connection and ducks back into the tipi.
We can hear them talkin’ softly inside, and after a minute or two passes, Tangle Hair himself comes through the opening. He’s a tall fella as he straightens in the sunlight, well named for his mess of curly hair, a fearsome-looking character and a great warrior who strikes terror into the hearts of enemies. He looks at Martha, but she does not return his gaze. He speaks to her but she does not react. He peels the tent flap back and invites us in. We duck down and slip through the opening, and as she always does, Martha follows us, docile and obedient as a pet dog.
It is a large tipi, for Tangle Hair has counted many coups, killed many enemies, and owns a large string of horses taken in raids—a rich fella by savage standards, and a generous one, too, a quality most highly valued in tribal life. As modest as the village still appears compared to the riches of our old winter encampment, with a bit of time and with the benefit of this game-rich country Little Wolf’s people have clearly begun to recover and replenish their supplies.
It takes a moment for our eyes to adjust to the dim light inside, filtering yellow through the hide-skin of the tipi, a small fire burning in the center. It smells like the inside of all savage tipis—of wood smoke and food cooking, of animal furs, hides and human beings, young, in-between, and old, all overlaid by a kind of herbal incense they burn to purify the air. It is not at all a bad smell once you get used to it, and me and Susie feel right at home.
We see the baby now, propped up in a cradle board leaning against a backrest so he can look around. In this way infants learn early on about the world around them, and the daily activities of the lodge— the sounds and motions, the comings and goings—keep them engaged. To see the child, so calm, happy and alert … so alive … me and Susie don’t want to say we’re envious … no, it’s a lot deeper feelin’ than that.
On either side of Martha, we kneel with her before the child, like visitors come to see the baby Jesus. We got no idea what to expect, but we’re disappointed to see that Martha remains distant and unfocused, she doesn’t even seem to see her son.
But now she looks around the inside of the tipi, like she’s noticing her surroundings for the first time. Finally, she looks at the child. Something that may be a spark of recognition flashes in her eyes. She rubs the fingers of one hand down her cheek and then looks at it real curious. Now she runs both hands down the length of her face, and regards her open palms, smeared red with greasepaint, like she’s never seen them before. All of a sudden she starts hollerin’ and clawin’ at her face, drawin’ blood with her fingernails. Me and Susie each grab hold of one of her arms to try to keep her from doin’ more harm to herself. We may not be real big girls, but we ain’t weaklings, either, we’re all muscle, bone, and sinew, but it’s everything the two of us can do to restrain Martha in her rage, like she’s possessed by the devil. Aye, just as we had feared, Lady Hall and Molly were wrong, seein’ the child has set off some terrible force inside her. As we try to hang on to her arms, Martha, st
ruggling fierce, weeps and hollers. “Wipe it off!” she cries. “Wipe it off!”
“We ain’t lettin’ go of you, Martha,” says Susie, “until you stop fightin’ us. And we can’t clean your face until we let go. That’s all up to you now, lass.”
“Pull yourself together, Martha,” says I, “calm down now. Is this any way to behave? Look how you’re scarin’ the lad.” It’s true, the child has started to cry. He has surely never before witnessed such strange and violent behavior.
This seems to get Martha’s attention, and her struggles begin to subside. But me and Susie don’t let go of her arms just yet. We’re worried that in her madness she might hurt the child. Grass Woman also fears this, for she picks up the cradle board and moves it away from the crazy woman.
Speaking Cheyenne in a real small voice, Martha says to her: “Please, please, don’t take him away from me.” She begins to weep softly, and we feel all the strength of rage flow from her body until she goes nearly limp. Only then do me and Susie let go of her arms. “Please don’t take him away again,” she says in English. Martha touches her face, but gentle this time, and looks at the red paint, mixed now with blood. “Wipe it off, please wipe it all off,” she begs us.