Strongheart: The Lost Journals of May Dodd and Molly McGill Read online

  As it happens, both Wind and I are grateful to have the cowboy Chance Hadley in our company, at least for a little while, each of us perhaps for certain similar, and other diverse reasons of our own. As he himself said at the end of my last entry, he is a “pretty fair hand” (a modest understatement on his part) and “knows how to do plenty a’ real useful things.” Which is to say, he is a competent fellow, as I suspected he would be. He hunts, he cooks, he tracks, he looks after the horses, and he is good company on the trail, both for Wind, with whom he frequently converses in Comanche, and for me. He is forthcoming when I ask him questions about his life growing up on his family’s ranch in Texas, and so discreet about asking me about my own that I tend to open up to him in a way I have had neither the occasion nor the time to do with a man before. Despite my promiscuous reputation among some of my friends, I’ve only been with three men in my life: Harry Ames, my common-law husband; John Bourke, my first impetuous and very brief affair (and the improbable father of my daughter); and the great Chief Little Wolf, a marriage arranged under the auspices of the U.S. government. Three more radically different men it would be hard to imagine, and none of whom I could converse with so easily as I can with this young cowboy.

  At the same time, Chance has such an aura of innocence about him that I must here confess I gave him a highly edited version of my past … no, actually, a largely false version. I told him that in Chicago I became involved with a missionary society, and joined a group of high-minded women parishioners (hah!) traveling west under the auspices of the U.S. government and the Episcopal Church to live among the Cheyenne, our mission to help convert and civilize the savages. This was partly true, and seemed to me a more palatable story than the more morally tainted details of the Brides for Indians program, and the truth of how I and the others came to join it.

  I did tell him about the attack on our camp by the Army, which we later learned was due to misinformation received by the command leader, Colonel Ranald Mackenzie, from a disreputable Indian scout named Jules Seminole, who reported that ours was the winter village of the Oglala Lakota Crazy Horse, not that of the Cheyenne chief Little Wolf, where we white women were known to be in residence. I told him about my wounding and long convalescence, and that I was now seeking the remnants of our band, in order to be reunited with my fellow missionaries. I said that in our time among the Cheyenne, we had come to know that our government and the Army’s treatment of the natives was deplorable, shameful, and unchristian, that we still wished to help them, and that we hid from the soldiers now for we knew that they would arrest us and have us prosecuted as traitors for having taken the side of the savages. All this, too, of course, was a slightly sanitized version of the truth, but accurate in spirit at least. I did not, needless to say, tell him that I would take up arms against the Army if I had to.

  Despite Wind’s affection for the cowboy, her one objection to him traveling with us was that he is a white man and his allegiance will lie with his government, nor would he take our side against the Army. And he clearly does not approve of our profession as horse thieves, nor plan to help us in that activity.

  “You see, Mesoke,” Wind said to me in private, “he may have a little Indian blood, but we are enemies, and the time will soon come when we must part company and return to our people, and he to his. The boy is in love with you, it is plain to see, and that is why he is here, and perhaps you begin to be a little in love with him?”

  “I hardly know the boy. It is too soon to speak of love.”

  “But not to feel it between your legs. If you fall in love with him it will end badly.”

  Her words were sobering, nor could I dispute them. “All my loves end badly, Wind.”

  * * *

  We spent those first several days in our hidden valley in the Bighorns—resting, hunting, and fishing. Since we have been traveling in this region, we have been roughly shadowing from the foothills, what, according to the cowboy, the whites call the Bozeman Trail in the flatlands below. This is the original overland route that prospectors in the last decade followed from the Oregon Trail to the gold fields of Montana, and it cuts directly through the Cheyenne and Sioux homeland. Now it is much traveled by Army troops, wagon trains of homesteaders, and ranchers staking out large tracts of rangeland on which to pasture their cattle; this indeed is where and how we encountered the drive Chance was on.

  After those idyllic few days, we left the valley regretfully. I wish I could live in such a place, with the mixed forest of lodgepole pine and aspen stands, the meadow of grass and wildflowers with the creek running through it, and the abundant wildlife we encountered every day. It is dangerous to tarry too long in such a place, even that short time, enough to become attached to it, to begin to yearn for a place to call home again. How long it has been and how tired I am of the constant travel. I think our race was not designed to be nomadic.

  I have resumed wearing my frontierswoman outfit. In anticipation as we move north that we were likely to run into as many whites as we were Indians, it seemed convenient for Chance and me to play the role of a young couple traveling with our “civilized” native servant, as repugnant as that notion seemed to me—the servant part of it, I mean to say. On the other hand, I rather like the idea of posing as a couple, the normalcy and comfort of it, even though it be imaginary.

  We were only four days down the trail before Wind, who was scouting that day, returned to tell us she had spotted a train of sixteen oxen-drawn wagons moving north on the road to Montana. They had roughly forty horses between them, some being ridden by the settlers, others driven by boys and dogs as a remuda. We moved lower into the foothills to be able to observe and follow them for a couple of days, as is our way.

  That evening around our fire, Chance, who had been unusually quiet that afternoon, said: “You ladies do understand that I ain’t gonna help ya steal horses?”

  “You’ve made that clear,” I answered, “and we’re not asking for your help.”

  “Why do ya want more? Ya already got more than we need.”

  “I’ve explained that to you, Chance. We’re going to give them to whatever friendly bands we come across. Those who are still fighting and holding out against the Army need all the help they can get, and they can always use fresh mounts. Think of it as our small part in the war effort.”

  “And those folks traveling in the wagon train, good folks just lookin’ for a better life for their families, ya think they deserve to have their stock stole?”

  Now Wind spoke up in Comanche that Chance later translated for me: “They are stealing our land, and slaughtering our buffalo brothers, leaving them to rot in the plains. Do you think we deserve that? Why do we care whether they are good or bad people? We did not invite them here. We did not give them this land. We did not ask their army to attack our villages at dawn in the winter, kill us, and drive us from our lodges or make us live on agencies we are not allowed to leave, without enough food to feed our children and no game to hunt. Do you think we deserve that? You have Comanche blood. Why do you not listen to it?”

  For this, Chance did not have an answer and did not try to give one. He just stared into the fire. But after we all sat in silence for a long while, he said: “Well, I suppose if ya only take a few of their horses, and you don’t hurt no one, maybe I could help ya a little.”

  “We didn’t ask for your help,” I repeated.

  “I know ya didn’t, but now I’m offerin’ it.”

  “OK, but if you’re going to help us, you have to give us all the help we might need, not ‘maybe,’ and not just ‘a little.’ What the hell good is that?”

  “You got a mouth on ya, ma’am,” he said without rancor, in fact with a certain amusement.

  “I cannot tolerate equivocation.”

  “I don’t know what that word means.”

  “It means, you’re either in with us one hundred percent or you’re out. Wind is in charge of this raid. Stealing horses is her specialty. She’s a master; we can do
it with or without you.”

  “Ya know, this is real good for me. I didn’t get much schoolin’ back home, too busy workin’ the ranch, and tryin’ to keep the peace, but now I’m learnin’ all kinds a’ big new words. Awright, then, May, count me in. No more … e-quiv-o-ca-tion … Did I get that about right?”

  I laughed. “You got it exactly right.”

  “Any chance I’ll get kissed by a pretty girl on this raid?”

  “In your dreams, cowboy.”

  This time, Wind devised a different, and, as it happened, a simpler plan. She sent Chance and me down from our bivouac in the foothills to visit with the wagon train one afternoon, in order to get the lay of their camp. We each led one of our pack horses, and we had devised our story. We were ranchers from Texas and had come up to explore rangeland in Montana Territory, which we had heard was opening up to white settlers, now that the Army was taking care of the “Indian problem” once and for all. We said we wanted to get in on it early. They asked us how it was that we dared travel here all alone and without a guide; hadn’t we heard about the Indian unrest? In addition to that, they told us that gangs of bandits were said to work this trail, holding up and robbing vulnerable settlers. They suggested we ride with them, for there was safety in numbers, and detachments of soldiers frequently escorted them and patrolled the trail.

  It was true what Chance had said; these were fine people, farm families from different parts of the country who had gotten together in Grand Island, Nebraska, lured there by promotions in the eastern newspapers and periodicals describing the West as the next frontier, where land was plentiful and free, and the earth rich. Professional outfitters had set up business in Grand Island, and when they had enough families gathered, they organized wagon trains to guide the settlers into this virgin paradise. They invited us to stay for dinner and to camp with them overnight, and we accepted the invitation. As we came to know some of them, heard their stories, and met their children, I began to feel uneasy about our charade, and to have grave misgivings about robbing these people, as I knew that Chance did, as well.

  After dinner, the men shared whiskey and tobacco with Chance, and the women took me aside to discuss womanly matters. Other than my brief visit with the homesteader and his wife, when I procured my white-woman dress for the trade of a horse, this was the only time I had been among so-called civilized society since our arrival in the plains less than a year and a half ago. It is astonishing how profoundly life’s events can change one in such a short time. I was struck by how similar was the relationship between men and women in both the native and white cultures, and I realized that I now occupied some strange middle ground, neither fully one nor the other, but a kind of shape-shifter moving between them. These women could not have been kinder or more attentive to me, but I knew that I no longer occupied the same world as they, and perhaps would never again be able to.

  Chance and I set our bedrolls close together beneath the stars that night, just on the edge of the circle of wagons, our horses staked beside us.

  “You seem troubled tonight, Chance,” I whispered, after we had settled in.

  He turned toward me, raised himself up on an elbow. “You got every right to call it equivocation, May,” he said, “but I gotta tell ya, I can’t do it, count me out. I just can’t steal from these folks. They asked us to join ’em, they fed us, they’re good people … I’m sorry, but I never stole before in my life and I ain’t gonna start now, especially with them.”

  I turned toward him and raised myself similarly on an elbow, so that I could look in his face in the dark. “I know that, Chance, I just wanted to hear you say it. And you have nothing to apologize for. I can’t do it either.”

  “I’m real glad to hear that. But we’ll have to go back and tell Wind. She’s gonna blame me for changin’ your mind, that’s for sure. Ya know, even though we talk together in Comanche, she don’t really like me, I know that. And I don’t hold it against her. Ya see, May, I seen all this happen in Texas, too, with the Comanche. The last of ’em have mostly gave up now, and are fixin’ to go onto a reservation in Oklahoma where the government is sendin’ ’em. They were great warriors and horsemen, folks called ’em ‘the lords of the plains.’ But, see, everything they had they got by stealin,’ they even stole people, white folks, and Mexicans, settlers and travelers movin’ through their country, they killed the men and stole the women and children. Finally, the U.S. Army, the Texas Rangers, and the ranchers just wore ’em down, until there weren’t enough of ’em left to fight. My grandpa’s father was a white man, a rancher, who made friends with the Comanches and married into the tribe. He helped them when he could, gave ’em cattle when they needed it and horses, so they left him alone because he treated ’em good. And so my grandpa was accepted into the tribe because his mama was Comanche … that’s the way it works. He came and went among them, but he was raised mostly by his father as a white man. They was fiercer than any other tribe on the plains, but I got a lotta respect for ‘em, and because of Grandpa, they more or less left my folks alone, too … but not completely. That’s a story, I’ll maybe tell ya another time…”

  “Why are you telling me all this now, then?” I asked.

  “Just to let you know, from what you’ve told me about yourself, that I understand the position you’re in, with one foot in both worlds. Thing is, May, when everything is said and done, you and me are still white folks.”

  “I saw how easily you talked to those people, Chance, easier than I did, and I started wondering if maybe you might not want to travel with them. I would understand that, because eventually Wind and I are going to find our people, and when that happens, you’re not going to want to stay with us, and they won’t want you to, either. This is not your fight. Wind knows that, that’s why you think she doesn’t like you. And I know it, too.”

  “So ya want me to leave ya, is that what yer tryin’ to tell me, May?”

  I leaned forward and put my other hand on his cheek again, as I had that night in the remuda when I was stealing his horse. “It’s not that I want you to, Chance,” I said. “It’s just that I know you have to. If not now, later, and this might be your best opportunity to get out safely.”

  He smiled at me then, and moved his head closer to mine, or maybe I drew him closer, or both. He smelled faintly of whiskey and tobacco, man sweat and horse, not a disagreeable scent, quite the contrary. “Yeah, maybe so, May,” he said, “but the thing is, I don’t want to get out.”

  “Would it be alright if I kissed you?” I asked.

  “You didn’t ask me last time.”

  “I’m asking you now.” He didn’t answer, he just kissed me, and I kissed him back.

  We did not sleep a great deal that night. We opened our bedrolls so that we could lie together, undressed fully, and held each other. His hands were callused and rough as one would expect of a cowboy, but gentle, and he touched me as if I were made of fine china and he might break me. I was certain this was his first time. He explored my body so lovingly, almost reverentially, that it brought tears to my eyes and a surge of longing. I don’t know that I have ever wanted a man so much as I wanted this one. I caressed his muscled arms, kissed his biceps with an open mouth, ran my fingers over his hard buttocks, and took his manhood in hand.

  In this way, the night passed, whispering to each other for a while afterward, in wonder of such things, sleeping briefly to wake and make love again, whispering, sleeping, waking, making love …

  The next morning we thanked our generous hosts, and they tried once again to convince us to join them. But we rode out, I on his sorrel mare, Lucky, and he on the paint he had ridden into our camp. Chance looked over at me and smiled. “I’d say we played our role as a married couple real well, May,” he said.

  I laughed. “Ah yes, that’s what happened last night, isn’t it?” I said. “We were still playing our roles as a married couple when we got into our bedrolls. Except we were newlyweds on our honeymoon. Was it your first time?”


  He laughed, embarrassed. “Was I that clumsy?”

  “There is nothing clumsy about you, Chance. You’re the most graceful man I’ve ever known … it just seemed like you were making new discoveries … and I’ve never felt so loved before.”

  * * *

  When we entered our camp in the foothills, Wind was sitting in front of the fire. It took only a moment for Chance to point out that there were three unfamiliar horses tethered to our picket line that was stretched between two aspen trees. Both of us knew right away where they had come from, and that Wind had sent us down to the wagon train as a diversion, or perhaps just to get us out of her way. When I questioned her about it, she said: “I knew after you visited the whites that you would not wish to steal their horses because you are white people. It is best for me to steal my enemies’ horses alone, because only I among us is Indian and move like a ghost. I only took three. I will not ask you again to join me on a raid.” She smiled. “I see that you have other things to do together at night.”