Authors: Madeline Baker
Four days later, Maggie wasn’t sure she’d made the right decision. Sitting on a low rise, she gazed down at the Indian lodges spread along the banks of a wide, slow-moving river.
Indians. Nothing but Indians as far as the eye could see. She had been fascinated with Indians for as long as she could remember, but she’d never seen so many at one time, in one place. She felt as if she were about to step into one of her own romance novels.
She felt like a white rose in a field of red carnations.
The line from one of her books whispered in the back of her mind.
She looked at Hawk, sitting on Black Beard’s horse, saw the eager anticipation in his eyes.
“Ready?” he asked.
Maggie nodded, her heart pounding with trepidation, fear, excitement, and dread.
“Do not be afraid, Mag-gie. My people will not harm you.”
“They won’t like me, either.”
“Not at first, perhaps. But it is only because you are a stranger to them.” He smiled reassuringly. “When I tell them you are a Spirit Woman, they will honor you with gifts.”
“Do you think they’ll believe you?”
“My people live close to the gods. We have often been visited by spirits in times of need or trouble.”
He took her hand in his and she felt his strength flow into her, calming her troubled heart. “Think of it as research,” he remarked, and then they were riding down the hill.
Men, women and children crowded around them as they entered the village. The Lakota were a comely people, Maggie thought as she gazed into hundreds of upturned faces. Most of the men were tall and handsome, though none were as handsome as Hawk. The women, too, were tall and attractive. They wore long doeskin tunics decorated with fringe and beads. And the children. They stared at her, their luminous black eyes filled with curiosity as they reached out to touch her.
She saw Sitting Bull striding toward them and the reality of where she was suddenly stuck her anew. This man was a legend. Though he was not a chief, his power over his people was strong and unfailing.
The crowd parted to let him through and she watched, wide-eyed, as Hawk swung down from his horse and embraced Sitting Bull. They spoke together for a time, then Hawk lifted Maggie from her horse and introduced her to the medicine man.
Flustered, Maggie muttered something about being pleased to meet him, then Sitting Bull took them to a vacant lodge and told them to make themselves at home. Maggie stood in the center of the tipi, too stunned to speak. She had met Sitting Bull, a man who had been dead for fifty years when she’d been born.
Shaking her head, she glanced around the lodge. It was just as she had expected, a tilted cone covered with buffalo hides, steeper up the back than the front, with the door facing east to greet the rising sun. The ground was covered with hides, there was a buffalo robe bed in the rear. Two willow-rod backrests, both covered with furs, flanked the fire pit.
From her research, she knew that the Indians considered the tipi a temple as well as a home. The floor of the lodge represented Mother Earth who gave life, the walls of the lodge were the sky, and the poles were a trail between the earth and the spirit world linking the occupants to
Wakán Tanka
.
Directly behind the firepit was a little section of bare earth which served as an altar on which was burned sweet grass, cedar, or sage in the belief that the smoke would carry their prayers to the Great Spirit. Some people believed that if you stepped over the altar it would cause a storm.
Once she had read the rules of tipi etiquette. She hoped she’d be able to remember them now. She recalled that if the door flap was open it meant company was welcome. Two sticks crossed over the door meant the owners were away. Men usually sat on the north side of the lodge, women on the south. On entering a tipi a man went to the right to his place, a woman went to the left. Passing between the host and the fire was to be avoided.
After a while she realized Hawk was watching her, his eyes narrowed thoughtfully. “What is it?” she asked.
“I was wondering what you were thinking.”
“Nothing really. I’ve written so many books about Indians, I’m glad to see that a real lodge looks pretty much as I described it.”
Shadow Hawk glanced at the buffalo robe beds, the stack of firewood near the entrance, the willow backrests, and remembered the spaciousness of Maggie’s home, the soft mattress on her bed, the refrigerator that kept her food fresh, the machines that washed and dried her clothes, the truck that went faster than any horse ever could.
How could she be happy here, bathing in a cold river when she was accustomed to soaking in a tub filled with scented bubbles? How long would she be happy to cook over a campfire when she knew the ease and convenience of a microwave oven? Would she be able to adjust to making her own clothing, her own moccasins?
If
he
already missed some of the miraculous inventions of the white man, wouldn’t it be worse for her, when she’d been accustomed to them her whole life?
“We will rest here a few days. Will you be all right?”
Smiling, she walked toward him. “I’m always all right when I’m with you.”
“Mag-gie.” He swept her into his arms, knowing he would have regretted it the rest of his life if he had left her behind, yet still afraid of what the future held.
Shadow Hawk sat cross-legged, his hands resting on his knees while Sitting Bull filled his pipe, offering it to the earth and the sky and to the four directions before passing it to his guest.
Shadow Hawk accepted the pipe reverently, puffed it several times, then passed it back to Sitting Bull.
As was customary, they did not speak until the tobacco was gone. Sitting Bull put the pipe aside, then turned to face his guest. “So, how can I help you?”
“I have come to ask the whereabouts of my people.”
“Ah, yes. I received word of the battle only a few days ago. Some of my warriors scouted the area. They think the survivors have been taken to Fort Laramie.”
“Do you know if my mother is alive?”
Sitting Bull shook his head. “I cannot say. The tracks show that many women were taken. Perhaps she is among them.”
“Were all the men killed?”
“I cannot say. None have come here, but if any are still alive, they may have followed their women to the fort.”
Shadow Hawk nodded. He had to believe his mother was still alive, that he would be able to get the survivors away from the fort and guide them to Canada.
“Will you be leaving soon?”
“Tomorrow.”
“I thought as much. My woman will provide you with provisions for your journey.”
After thanking Sitting Bull for his help, Shadow Hawk returned to the lodge he shared with Maggie. She was standing in the doorway, waiting for him.
“Did he have any news of your people?” she asked, following him into the lodge.
“Yes. He said the survivors were taken to Fort Laramie. We will leave tomorrow.”
It was raining in the morning, a strong steady rain that gave no indication of letting up any time soon.
With a sigh of discouragement, Shadow Hawk let the lodge flap fall into place. Alone, he would have ridden out of the village, but he could not ask Maggie to spend the day riding in the rain.
Restless, he paced the lodge, the need to find his people growing ever stronger within him. They would have to start their journey north soon, before winter shrouded the plains in snow, he thought, and then wondered if perhaps they should wait for spring. Gold would not be discovered in the Black Hills for several years. His people would have plenty of time to make their way to safety, and it would be easier to make the journey when the grass was new and the weather was warm and clear.
He glanced at Maggie, wondering if she was strong enough to endure the hardships of such a long trek, wondering if she would come to regret her decision to stay with him.
It was still raining the following day.
Maggie watched Hawk pace the floor until she thought she’d scream, and then, gently but firmly, she took him by the hand and drew him down on the buffalo robes, her hands lightly stoking his flat belly as she bent to kiss him.
“You’ve been avoiding me,” she accused, nipping at his shoulder.
“Have I?”
“Yes. And I don’t like it.” She bit his earlobe, then laved it with her tongue.
“Forgive me,” he said, his voice growing deep and husky as her hands slid under his clout.
“I think I’ll have to punish you first,” she said.
He nuzzled her breasts as his hands caressed her thighs. “I’m ready,” he said in mock horror. “Do your worst.”
She laughed softly as she straddled his hips, her hands wandering over his shoulders and chest, then drifting down to remove his clout. She saw the heat flare in his eyes as she began to undress and then she lowered herself over him, her breasts crushed against his chest as she kissed him deeply, passionately.
He let her take control and she loved it. With her lips and her tongue she caressed him, adoring him with her hands, thrilling to the way he responded to her touch. His eyes glowed with a lambent flame, his breath grew shallow, his body rigid as she teased and tormented him, refusing to give him that which he sought until, with one deft move, he rolled on top of her, his lips claiming hers even as their bodies merged.
Ecstasy, Maggie thought, nothing but ecstasy in his touch. She gazed into his eyes, her hips arching upward as he surged within her. She drew him close, his name on her lips as she reached for that one elusive moment that felt like death and life all rolled into one.
There should have been fireworks, she thought, and brightly colored lights and skyrockets. Instead, there was only the sound of the rain and the quick tattoo of her heart pounding in her ears. And then Hawk was whispering in her ear, telling her he loved her, as his life poured into her, filling her with warmth and peace.
They left Sitting Bull’s village the following day.
They would travel more comfortably now. Sitting Bull had given them provisions to last until they reached Fort Laramie, warm clothes and robes to turn away the cold. Maggie felt strange in her Indian garb, though she had to admit the dress was comfortable and the knee-high moccasins, lined with fur, were warmer than her boots. Her jeans, shirt and boots were rolled up in one of the packs.
The air smelled clean and fresh after the rain, the sky was blue enough to swim in. It was wonderful to ride a horse again. When she’d been a little girl it had been one of her dreams to own a horse. But her father argued that it was too expensive.
It’s not buying the horse, you know, it’s the upkeep,
he’d told her time and again. When she began making money with her writing the first thing she’d bought was a new car, the second thing had been a horse.
She slid a glance at the man riding beside her. He was another dream come true, a warrior of her own. She knew now she would never have been happy with Frank, or any other contemporary man. They were all too ordinary, too tame. Without being aware of it, she’d been yearning for a real hero, a man who would fight for her, a man who had only to look at her to make her heart flame and her pulse race.
She’d have her happy-ever-after ending after all, she thought with a smile. They’d go to Fort Laramie, find Hawk’s people, and take them to Canada where they’d be safe from the Army.
Shadow Hawk raised one black brow as he met her gaze. “Why are you smiling like that?”
“I’ve just written the end of the story,” she replied, reaching over to squeeze his hand. “And they lived happily ever after.”
“Who did?”
“We did, silly. Come on, I’ll race you to that bluff.”
Maggie groaned softly and burrowed deeper under the buffalo robe as Hawk shook her shoulder.
“Just another minute,” she murmured, trying to get back to sleep, but he was shaking her again and she came suddenly awake as she heard the sound of hoofbeats, her heart pounding with dread at the thought that the Pawnee were coming.
She sat up, expecting to be scalped at any moment, then stared, open-mouthed, as a United States Cavalry patrol surrounded them. It was like something out of a B Western, she mused, the soldiers all dressed in sweat-stained Army blue, the guidon fluttering in the early morning breeze, the command “Halt!” being repeated down the line.
But this wasn’t a movie and the rifles leveled at Hawk weren’t stage props.
“Morning, ma’am.” The lieutenant who addressed her was in his mid-thirties. He had dark blond hair, brown eyes, and a sweeping moustache reminiscent of the kind favored by General George Armstrong Custer.
“Good morning,” Maggie replied, and then frowned as two troopers dismounted and walked purposefully toward Hawk. “See here,” she said as they bound Hawk’s hands behind his back, “what do you think you’re doing?”
“My job,” the lieutenant replied curtly. “We’re rounding up hostiles and retrieving white captives like yourself, ma’am.”
Maggie stared up at him, too surprised to speak. They thought she was Hawk’s prisoner!
“I’m not his captive,” Maggie said. Rising, she smoothed the wrinkles from her doeskin dress and combed her fingers through her hair. “He’s my husband.”
“That’s all over now,” the lieutenant assured her. “You’ve nothing to be afraid of.”
“But…”
“We’re in a bit of a hurry, if you don’t mind, ma’am,” the lieutenant said. “We’ve been on patrol for over two weeks. Lukovich, get the lady’s horse. Daniels, drop a rope around that buck and bring him along.” The lieutenant glanced down at Maggie. “Does that Injun speak English?”
She was about to say that he did when she saw Hawk shake his head imperceptibly. “No,” she replied, wondering why Hawk didn’t speak for himself.
“Too bad. Well, maybe one of the scouts can talk to him, find out where Sitting Bull’s hiding out.”
Maggie’s protests fell on deaf ears as Private Lukovich led her horse forward. She sent a helpless glance in Hawk’s direction, frowning as a dark-haired trooper dropped a rope around Hawk’s neck and snugged it tight, then resumed his place at the rear of the column.
There was nothing for Maggie to do but fall in line beside the lieutenant, who introduced himself as Lieutenant Jeffrey Collins. He and his men were garrisoned at Fort Laramie, he said, and eager to get back.
Maggie looked at Hawk. At least they were heading in the right direction.
They rode for several hours, pausing occasionally to rest the horses. Maggie’s neck was sore from looking over her shoulder to see how Hawk was doing. He walked doggedly onward, his head high, his face impassive. Not once did he meet her eyes or look in her direction. When the column stopped to rest the horses, he dropped down on his haunches, refusing the water he was offered.
Once, when Maggie started to go to him, the lieutenant barred her way. “Best leave him alone, ma’am.”
“I’m going to take him a drink,” she replied firmly.
“No, ma’am.”
“He’s my husband. You have no right to keep me from him.”
“Listen, Miss…”
“St. Claire.”
“Miss St. Claire, I wouldn’t tell anyone you’re married to an Injun if you want to be accepted at the fort. Anyway, our government doesn’t recognize marriages performed by heathens.”
“But…” Maggie bit down on her lower lip. She couldn’t very well tell the lieutenant she’d been married by a minister licensed by the state of South Dakota. For one thing, South Dakota hadn’t been a state in 1872, and in the second place, she didn’t know if a marriage between an Indian and a white woman would have been considered legal.
Frustrated, she sank down on the ground and stared at Hawk, willing him to look at her.
Shadow Hawk clenched and unclenched his fists in an effort to loosen his bonds and relieve the pressure on his wrists. He could feel Maggie watching him, hear her heart calling out to him, but he refused to meet her eyes. He knew that white women who took up with Indian men were scorned by their own kind. He had heard stories of captive white women who had been returned to their homes only to run back to their Indian captors rather than endure the ridicule and contempt of their own people. It would be better for Maggie if she had nothing more to do with him, at least for now.
Knowing that the soldier called Daniels would like nothing better than to drag him through the dirt, Shadow Hawk rose quickly to his feet as Daniels gave a hard jerk on the rope around his neck. Staring at a distant point, he began to follow in the wake of the trooper’s horse, staying to one side of the animal as much as possible to avoid the dust kicked up by the horse’s hooves.
They were going to Fort Laramie. Once there, he would devise a way to find Maggie and escape.
In the days that followed his anger at being a prisoner was swallowed up by his rising jealousy over the amount of time Lieutenant Collins spent with Maggie. The man was ever at her side, pointing out landmarks, entertaining her with tales of his bravery in battle, of his hopes of being promoted in rank. He talked of his home in the East, of his parents and his brothers and sisters.
Shadow Hawk watched Maggie carefully, his rage building each time she spoke to the
wasichu
, smiled at him, laughed at something he said. Jealousy clawed at his insides, sharper than the blade of a knife, more consuming than a prairie fire. Had she decided she would be better off with the paleface lieutenant than with a captive Lakota warrior? She had often remarked on the age difference between them, he thought angrily. Perhaps she had decided she’d rather have a man closer to her own age, a man of her own race.
He struggled to put his doubts and fears out of his mind, but it was impossible and by the time they reached the fort, he was certain that he had lost her, that she had decided she would be better off with Lieutenant Collins than with a homeless Indian. The lieutenant had bragged of the fine future that awaited him, while Hawk had nothing to offer her.
Maggie felt a deep sense of relief when they rode into Fort Laramie. She had endured the lieutenant’s boasting, accepted his flowery compliments, in the hopes that he might be of some help in freeing Hawk when they arrived at the fort.
Dismounting, she watched as Hawk was led away, wondering if she’d ever see him again.
The lieutenant escorted her to the office of the post commander, promising to see her later that evening.
Maggie smiled noncommittally, then, drawing a deep breath, she stepped into the general’s office.
For the next twenty-five minutes, she tried to convince the general that she had not been kidnapped, that she had freely and willingly become Hawk’s wife. And when that failed, she broke down and begged to be allowed to see him.
Adamantly, General Sully shook his head. “You’ll feel better in a few days, Miss St. Claire,” he assured her in a fatherly tone. “Many women are reluctant to return to their own kind after being held captive, but please believe me when I say you have nothing to fear. We won’t let this savage get his hands on you again, and I’m quite confident you’ll feel more like your old self once you get out of those clothes and have a chance to, ah, get cleaned up.”
There was nothing to do but agree. The general’s orderly escorted her to an empty cabin on Officers’ Row and a few minutes later, a plump, gray-haired woman bustled inside. Introducing herself as Maud McKenzie, the subtler’s wife, she quickly looked Maggie up and down and then hurried out again, promising to return with clean clothes, soap, towels, hot water, a brush, and pins for her hair.
An hour later, Maggie stood in front of a floor-length mirror, staring at her reflection. She had hidden her jeans under the mattress, knowing she’d never be able to explain what a zipper was should anyone inquire. Her shirt, jacket, and boots weren’t that different from the clothes of the day.
Maggie grinned at her image in the mirror. She looked as if she’d just stepped out of the pages of one of her own romance novels. Maud McKenzie had brought her a cream-colored shirtwaist with long sleeves, a billowing burgundy skirt, and the required undergarments consisting of three starched petticoats, a cotton chemise, a corset, lace-trimmed drawers and black cotton stockings. There was also a pair of black high-button shoes.
Maggie had thanked Mrs. McKenzie effusively though she’d had no intention of wearing the corset or drawers, preferring to wear her own bra and panties which she had washed and dried in front of the fire while she bathed and cleaned her hair. Looking at the high-button shoes, she decided her boots would do just fine.
She gazed out the window while she brushed her hair. Imagine, she was here in Fort Laramie, a place she had read about, written about.
It was here in April of 1868 that the government signed a treaty with the Brule and Oglala Sioux, giving the Indians all of what was now South Dakota west of the Missouri River as a reservation. It also gave them hunting rights in the territory north of the North Platte River and east of the Bighorn Mountains as unceded Indian lands.
Maggie shook her head. The government had broken the Laramie Treaty of ’68 just as they’d broken every other treaty they’d ever made.
According to history, George Armstrong Custer would lead an expedition into the Black Hills to investigate reports of gold in the Black Hills, which he would confirm. At first, the Army would try to keep the resulting rush of prospectors out of the area, even arresting some of them. Other groups would be attacked by Indians for violating the Treaty of ’68. The following spring Colonel Dodge would set out from Fort Laramie to evaluate the gold deposits.
Meanwhile, the government would try to buy the Black Hills from the Sioux. Some of the Indians, like Chief Spotted Tail, would be willing to sell, but the government would refuse to meet his price, while other chiefs, including Sitting Bull, would adamantly refuse to sell so much as a foot of ground at any price. He warned the whites to stay out of the Hills. By then, the Army would have given up trying to keep the prospectors out of the
Paha Sapa
and miners would swarm into the hills.
Ignoring the existing treaties, the government would decide to force the wild Sioux onto their reservations. The Custer massacre, only four years into the future, would be the inevitable result.
Maggie laid her hairbrush aside. She was in a curious position, knowing what was to happen before it happened, knowing the outcome of battles. She wondered if she should tell General Sully to warn Custer to stay out of the Black Hills, and then wondered if it would do any good. The general would never believe she’d come here from the future. Likely they’d think her insane and lock her up.
But then, maybe it wasn’t possible to change history at all. Maybe no matter what she did or said wouldn’t make any difference because, in reality, she didn’t even exist yet!
She was wondering what to do next when there was a knock at the door. It was Lieutenant Collins, looking as fresh as a daisy in a clean uniform and boots that practically sparkled.
“I’ve come to take you to dinner,” he said, gallantly offering her his arm. “We’ve been invited to dine with the General and Mrs. Sully.”
Dinner was an awkward affair. There were three other couples at the table besides the general and his wife. During the course of the meal, the men questioned her about the whereabouts of Hawk’s camp while the ladies stared at her, obviously dying to ask her what it had been like to live with a savage but too polite to ask such intimate questions at the dinner table.
Following dinner, the men went into the general’s study for brandy and cigars, while Mrs. Sully served sherry to the ladies. Pleading that she needed to use the facilities, Maggie hurried outside and practically ran back to her cabin.
Inside, she closed the door and sank down on a chair. Her behavior had been rude in the extreme, but she just couldn’t face those women. Not now.
She stared out the parlor window, wondering where her husband was.
Shadow Hawk faced his captors defiantly, refusing to answer the interpreter’s questions, refusing to tell them where they could find Sitting Bull’s camp.
“Ask him again.” The order came from a dark-haired major named Neville. It was obvious from the expression in his close-set brown eyes that he had no regard for Indians, and even less for human life. “And Snider, ask him a little harder this time.”
Shadow Hawk braced himself for the blow he saw coming, doubling over as Snider drove a fist the size of a cannon ball into his belly. The man, Snider, stood over six feet tall. He had legs the size of tree trunks and arms like steel. And he was very good at what he did, Shadow Hawk thought dully. Time and again the corporal’s knotted fists connected with Shadow Hawk’s flesh, driving deep into his back, his belly, his face.
Panting heavily, Shadow Hawk heard the mocking voice of the Pawnee interpreter ask him for Sitting Bull’s whereabouts again. And again he shook his head, refusing to answer.
“He isn’t gonna tell us anything,” Snider remarked, rubbing his bruised knuckles. He glared at Hawk through narrowed ice-blue eyes. “You’d best tell the general he’s buttin’ his head against a stone wall.”