Sacred Is the Wind (26 page)

“I have punished those responsible for the deaths of our people. I have gained a victory over the soldiers,” he said.

“One of many,” Rebecca added. “I have heard it in the wind.”

“Sabbath McKean tells me the white man is a river that cannot be dammed. Try and it will overflow its banks and cover all the land. Stand before it and it will drown us. I have gained my victory but I cannot win. We can never win and one day I will be forced to give up my weapons and wash the war paint from my face and be a tame Indian or die.”

“McKean is a white man,” Rebecca offered.

“He is also our friend.”

“A friend, yes, but no medicine man gifted by the All-Father with spirit dreams. What does McKean know?”

Panther Burn held her close. His son struggled and yanked at him and the warrior tried to surrender to the joy of homecoming. He gazed with love upon the shadows in the forest, and beyond them, in his mind, he saw the mountains … his mountains. What does McKean know? she had asked.

“The truth,” said Panther Burn, turning away from the spring. He carried his son in his arms; Rebecca walked at his side. He could have run, and even considered such a course for a brief moment. Why not run, and hide deep in the heart of the mountains where the wind blew free, where he could escape the fate he had glimpsed in the pool's icy mirror? But the moment passed and Panther Burn started down the hill, returning to his people, and his destiny.

A thousand miles away and more, another world away and more, in a town house in Philadelphia, Esther Bird Hat Madison screamed with all her life, with all her strength as the pain seemed to split her in half. She stared past the physician's face toward the flower pattern on the canopy over her bed. The doctor, his face as sweaty as hers, leaned forward. “Push. You've got to push.”

The room seemed to spin and the doctor blurred, became one with the face of a maid and the mahogany posts of the bed and the austere landscapes hung upon the walls. She hurt, she wept, she wanted to die and gain peace and end this suffering. And like so many women before her, Esther curled upward and pushed and bit through the twist of leather she held clamped between her jaws. She pushed and brought a child, her child, into the world. Esther sank back upon the goosedown pillows as the pain suddenly loosed its hold. She closed her eyes and heard the white medicine man tell one of the maids to go and fetch Mr. Madison. Rebecca shook her head no but could not speak and the doctor failed to understand. He worked with the infant a moment, then wrapped the child in soft white blankets and placed the wrinkled, struggling morsel of life against Esther's breast.

“Mrs. Madison, you have a fine daughter,” the doctor said. His lined face swam into focus. She stared at the silvery goatee hiding his chin. How strange were the customs of the
ve-ho-e
. Perhaps in such a way were the medicine men set apart, by the strange hair coverings upon their faces. The door to the bedroom creaked open and the physician stepped away, gesturing for the maids to leave with him. He leaned forward and whispered to Sam and then patted the younger man on the arm and walked out the door and closed it after him. Esther watched as Sam approached. He smiled nervously, then leaned down to look upon his daughter.

“Katherine was my mother's name. It is a good name,” he said, kissing Esther on the forehead. “Little Katherine Madison,” he repeated aloud. “Kate.” He stroked the infant's forehead. The baby peeked out at the world through slitted lids and squalled until she found her mother's nipple. Nature's pattern triggered within and the child began to suck.

“Are you in much pain?” Sam asked. Esther shook her head no.

“You bore it well, all those hours,” Sam said. “I prayed that God would give you strength.”

Prayed? He no longer even wore a collar. But then, his father's businesses were all-consuming.

“Not your Jay-ho-vah,” Esther said. “My strength was here.” She opened a clenched fist, revealed a crumpled yellow paper in her hand. Sam frowned, puzzled by her words. He reached out and took the paper and patted it open. It was a portion of a newspaper page, seven months old, a page from the St. Louis
Dispatch
describing the attack on a village of Southern Cheyenne. The headline read, “
NO SURVIVORS. COUNTRYSIDE FEARS REPRISALS.
” Sam had seen this before, for they had bought the paper in St. Louis during their flight from the battleground of Colorado.

“You see, here is one”—Esther wearily glanced down at her daughter—“That you did not betray. I will tell her of how you left her people to be murdered. All the while in my pain, I knew I must not give in, I must bring this child into the world, so after I am dead, there will still be one of my people who will hate you. And you will never be able to forget what you have done, how you abandoned those who trusted you. Our daughter will hate you as much as I!”

Sam staggered back from the bed, recoiling as if struck. He stumbled over an end table and knocked a china basin to the floor. A pool of bloody water spread across the throw rug and seeped past the embroidered edges into the polished wood; the crimson smear spread outward, trapping Sam as he retreated from his wife's horrible pronouncement. He charged across the room and hurled the door open and sent it crashing against the cloth-covered wall. Esther stared at the empty doorway and then glanced down at the trail he had left in his wake, a pattern of bloody footprints that led across the room and out the door, following Sam Madison wherever he might run, the legacy of his horror. And his guilt.

Esther Bird Hat Madison cuddled her newborn child. And smiled.…

Book Two

PLAINDEALER TELEGRAPH

Sidney, Nebraska

July 1, 1876

DEBACLE ON THE LITTLE BIG HORN

News has reached us of a terrible tragedy. General Arm strong Custer with a force of over two hundred men was massacred by an overwhelming horde of bloodthirsty savages on the afternoon of June 25. The astonishing rapidity with which the gallant soldiers of the Seventh Cavalry were overcome can only be attributed to the vast numbers of Sioux and Cheyenne savages assembled on the plains of Montana Territory. Our correspondents report that several notorious war chiefs have banded together for the first time, just to bring their combined might against the man they called Yellowhair. Most notable among the chiefs, we are told, were Sitting Bull, a Sioux medicine man; Crazy Horse, another Sioux; Chief Gall of the Hunkpapa Dakota; and Panther Burn, the Northern Cheyenne war chief also known as the Butcher of Castle Rock …

BASIN CITY HERALD

September 7, 1877

Two days ago within the walls of Fort Robinson in the Dakotas, Chief Crazy Horse was at last punished for the massacre at the Little Big Horn. During a scuffle with troopers escorting the Sioux chief to the stockade after his surrender, Crazy Horse was summarily dispatched and bayoneted to death. It is difficult to condemn the passions that led to such an act. In truth, Crazy Horse brought about his own demise. Those others responsible for the Custer debacle have scattered to the wind. It is rumored Sitting Bull has sought sanctuary in Canada. Panther Burn has taken to the mountains up along the border. Despite the few followers he has with him, it appears he continues to defy the forces sent against him ….

VIRGINIA CITY DAILY UNION

October 18, 1880

The bodies of six prospectors, among them Will Gusser and the Pyle brothers of this town, were discovered this day up on Bear Paw Creek; the men evidently put up quite a struggle, for a number of rifle shells littered the ground. Nance Pyle lived long enough to identify his attackers as Cheyenne. This account is more than likely true, as Panther Burn is rumored to be heading south through the passes. All men are advised to keep their powder dry until this wily renegade is apprehended.

ST. JOSEPH GAZETTE

July 23, 1881

SITTING BULL SURRENDERS

Custer's murderer laid down his weapons on July 19 at Fort Buford in the Dakotas. With the surrender of Gall and the killing of American Horse of the Cheyenne, only one other war chief of notoriety remains at large. Panther Burn. The fate of Sitting Bull remains to be seen, but decent citizens everywhere can breathe a sigh of relief. It is our trust that justice will be served.

SAN FRANCISCO HERALD

September 10, 1883

Two soldiers were killed and four more wounded in a skirmish with Cheyenne renegades holed up in the Wind River range. Despite such a setback, General Nelson Miles is confident of success and told this correspondent that time and winter are on the side of the United States Army.

ROCKYMOUNTAIN NEWS

Denver, Colorado

December 24, 1883

THE BUTCHER OF CASTLE ROCK APPREHENDED AT LAST!

Residents of northern Colorado have no reason to fear. They have received a marvelous Christmas present in the form of wonderful news. Panther Burn, the last of the war chiefs and the renegade responsible for the atrocity at Castle Rock, was forced to come down from his mountain hideout and hand over his weapons to the soldiers who had been besieging his paltry band of renegade Cheyenne. Panther Burn was immediately restrained and we are informed he will be confined at Fort Dodge, Kansas. It is presumed the remainder of his followers will be shipped north to Montana Territory. What better describes this paper's elation than to simply conclude … MERRY CHRISTMAS.

13

July 4, 1889

Montana: The Northern Cheyenne

Indian Reservation

T
he son should be the image of the father, Rebecca Blue Thrush thought as she watched her son stroll down from the cedar-trimmed hill behind their cabin. But Michael Spirit Wolf was taller than his father and his shoulders were heavier with muscle, for the duties of ranch life required more strength than litheness. There were bales of hay to be hoisted to the loft and stored against the inevitable harsh winters. Calves to be rescued from the springs and wallows and full-grown cattle to drive from the high meadows and crops … yes … crops to be planted and worked and harvested. Michael did have his father's eyes, pieces of flint waiting to strike fire. And a laugh like Panther Burn's, only more reckless and coming easy to his lips. But then Michael had only seen some of the sorrow and the past was yesterday's labor, repairing the corral fence or weeding the garden which caused him no more anguish than a sore back.

Rebecca stood beside the buckboard and made no move to climb up onto the bench seat. Michael crossed around in front of the bay mares he had hitched to the singletree and held out his hand to his mother. At twenty-three years of age he appreciated a good time as much as any young man and more than most. At forty-four, Rebecca could care less, especially if she thought that such a good time was at the expense of her people. Time had left her coppery skin remarkably free of wrinkles. Her long black hair shone with the luster it had in youth. Though many a brave considered her a beauty to be admired, none sought her favor. She was still Panther Burn's woman whether he bedded her or not. Michael wiped his dusty palm on the thighs of his Levi's and offered his hand a second time, and a second time his mother refused.

“You still aren't coming with me?” the young man asked, obviously disappointed. “It will do you good.”

“What will? To celebrate the sacred day of the white man's freedom when my husband is denied his?”

“I do not think of the white man. Only of the free food, the beer, the fiddlers, and the pretty girls who will have no one to dance with them if I do not go.” Michael chuckled and ran a hand through his thick but close-cropped black hair and adjusted his freshly brushed gray hat. He straightened and tucked in his plaid shirt. At his waist, sunlight gleamed off the polished belt buckle he had won bronc riding in last year's rodeo up in Miles City. It was a shiny chunk of brass pounded into a flat smooth square with a horse's head etched in the center by a local artisan.

Rebecca turned from her son and walked away from the house Michael had built with the help of Father Lee Hillary in Lame Deer. It was a four-room structure with two rooms to a side and divided by a dogtrot nine feet wide that ran the length of the house and opened onto porches in the front and rear. The dogtrot, a hallway to catch the cool breezes in summer, could be sealed off with buffalo robes in the winter. Here and there a wood shingle on the roof needed replacing, but the walls wore a fresh coat of white paint and bitterroot bloomed in the front yard and lined the walk from the hitching rail twenty feet from the porch. The rolling countryside was bedecked in garments of pink and white bitterroot that unfurled in beauty to golden hills splashed with emerald cedars. Two dozen head of cattle lazily grazed upon the sun-dappled slope. Cloud shadows swept across the earth like ghostly barkentines bound in silent passage toward unknown destinations. Rebecca watched the shadows, longing to board one of those spectral ships and sail from the heaviness that darkened her spirit, that never left. She turned as her son approached. Michael reached out and put his hands on her shoulders. A breeze tugged at a lock of hair curled over his forehead.

Rebecca caught her breath. For a second Panther Burn seemed to peer out at her through the face of his only child.

“What is it?” Michael asked, seeing his mother grow pale.

“Nothing,” she said. Sometimes the visions were a curse. She ached for her husband. Memories were like red-hot daggers in her breast.

“Are you hurt?” Michael said.

“Always,” Rebecca answered, and patted his arm. The vision was gone and in its place was left a “tame” Indian, Michael Spirit Wolf.