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

  She is an enigmatic soul, and I could not tell if she was angry with us, perhaps jealous that Chance had come between us, for we have been alone together for so long. Had she seen us making love last night? Or was she just now witnessing, with her uncanny perception, that the cowboy’s and my relationship had fundamentally changed in the past day?

  On our ride back, Chance and I had discussed the question of whether or not I was going to camp with him after what had transpired between us. As we are hardly adolescents living under our parents’ roof … to put it figuratively … it seems absurd that we should try to maintain a pretense of not being lovers … sneaking around at night to see each other. Wind knew I had informed Little Wolf before the attack on our camp that after we turned ourselves in at the agency, he would have to give up his two additional wives—Feather on Head and me—and she also understood that I considered the great chief more of a father figure than a husband. Still, compared to many tribes the Cheyenne culture is quite conservative in matters of a woman’s sexuality, and one who is perceived as being “loose” is generally regarded in a negative light and sometimes ridiculed. There was, for instance, one woman in our band whose name, Eehe’e, translates to Camps All Over Woman, a subtle way of suggesting promiscuity … and a name I’m just hoping Wind is not going to start calling me. Although, frankly, as I explained to Chance, I am long past worrying about my reputation … and rather enjoy being considered a “bit of a tart.”

  Yet I knew that I needed to make peace with Wind, and did not want her to feel abandoned in the wake of my fledgling love affair. Despite my reservations about stealing horses from the settlers, I wanted her to know that my primary allegiance was still to her and to the People. Chance went off to unsaddle and curry our horses and turn them out to graze, and so I sat with her by the fire. I told her that during our dinner with the settlers we had learned that General Crook’s supply camp was only several hours’ ride north and east of where we had camped with them last night.

  “You say you don’t want me to raid with you any longer,” I said, “but you have taught me well and you know that I, too, can move like a ghost. It is true that I could not think of those people as my enemy, but the Army is my enemy. Do you believe that I have forgotten what they have done to us, to the People, to me, to my friends and their babies? I have not. The soldiers will have many horses in their camp, and I wish to go there with you and steal as many as we can. Of course, the cowboy will not come with us, but he will stay here and look after our remuda while we are gone.”

  “How do you know he will do that, Mesoke?” she asked.

  “Because I will tell him to.”

  At this she smiled slyly and nodded. “Yes, I can see that he is like a puppy,” she said, “and he is going to follow you wherever you go.”

  I laughed. “Not everywhere, he isn’t. I tried to leave him with the wagon train, among his own people, for I know that he cannot stay with us. But he refused.”

  “He is a fine boy, Mesoke, I like him. I admire his loyalty to his people, and to you. But he cannot have both.”

  “I know that, my friend. We will leave for the soldiers’ camp tomorrow at dawn.”

  * * *

  I will not dwell on our raid on Crook’s supply camp. It was in some ways the easiest of all, and by far the most productive. The bivouac was set in a small valley, surrounded by hills. Most of the soldiers were clearly out in the field chasing Indians, with only a small detachment left behind to guard the stock and care for the wounded. Those left to this duty could not have expected that the enemy would return to their stronghold to steal horses. Indeed, in the two days we watched them before acting, the remuda, numbering well over one hundred head, was frequently left unattended, grazing in the hills while the soldiers went fishing, clearly a favorite pastime given that they seem to have few other distractions from their dull daily routines. As a result, Wind decided that rather than a night raid, we would take as many horses as we could safely gather in broad daylight while their keepers were thus occupied.

  Between the hilly pasturage ran a series of coulees, providing ample places to conceal ourselves. We rode up one long draw, each carrying two halters and lead ropes. Wind chose the two horses we were each to take. The others, grazing placidly in the bottoms, were obviously accustomed to being moved about, and her notion was that many would simply follow the four we were leading, in the herd mentality. And so they did. We made off with twenty-seven head altogether, neither accosted nor chased.

  Altogether we had been gone from our camp along the Tongue River for six days, and upon our arrival, Chance, though disapproving of our mission, was suitably impressed by its results. Before we had left, I told him that if we were away longer than twelve days, he should assume that we had been caught or killed, and so he was also relieved to see us back. On the return ride, Wind and I had discussed our future plan. This would be the last raid; now it was a question of finding our people and/or bands of allies and distributing our wealth of equines. We decided we would rest here for a few days and then move on, but now was the time to tell Chance that he must leave us. We would be heading back into Indian country … as bifurcated as that has become … and they would not be receptive to a white man in our midst. “It is time to let him go, Mesoke,” Wind said.

  That evening we ate our dinner by the fire—an antelope Chance had killed and roasted over a spit he constructed. He was a man who knew how to cook, among his other talents. Wind and I described our raid and the lay of the Army supply base, and then she retired to her tent and Chance and I to our “lodge” that he had also built in our absence. It consisted of bent willow branches with a canvas covering, and, inside, a sleeping place of pine boughs covered with blankets and our bedrolls. It was cozy and felt oddly domestic, as if he had made us a little inverted nest, our first house.

  I did not want to spoil the mood and our reunion by telling him of Wind’s and my decision, but I sensed he already knew and that the subject would inevitably arise tonight. We undressed and lay together. There was already no awkwardness between us in this regard.

  “Ya know that all them Army horses are branded, don’tcha, May?” he asked.

  “Of course.”

  “We’re real exposed here, and if soldiers should happen by, they’ll recognize their stock. You’ll be arrested.”

  “I know.”

  “So we should move out soon.”

  “Yes, Wind and I have already discussed it.”

  “What’s your plan?”

  “I think you know, Chance. We are going to find our people and try to give away some of these horses.”

  “Wind’s people, May.”

  “No, mine, too. There is nowhere else for me to go.”

  “Yes, there is, you go with me. This is big country, we’ll get married, you’ll have my name, official then. From all you’ve told me, everyone thinks May Dodd is dead anyhow. You and me can have a new life together.”

  “I have friends out here who survived the attack, Chance. I can’t abandon them. I am not dead, and I don’t want them to go on believing I am. Besides, even if things were different, this has all happened so fast between us, and we don’t really even know each other yet.”

  “I know I never felt this way about a woman before.”

  I laughed. “That might be just because she took your virginity, Chance. Somewhere down the road you might look at me and wonder what the hell you’ve gotten yourself into.”

  “Damn, May,” he said, “I already wonder what the hell I got myself into.” And we both laughed.

  We held each other then, our naked bodies moving together. I pressed my breasts to his chest, caressed his arms and back with my hands, as he did mine, felt him hardening against my sex. Of course, it was too early to say that I was in love with this man … but not too early to say that I wished we had more time together than we did.

  Afterward, we lay together in silence for a long time, deep in our own thoughts.

  “Where
will you go, Chance?” I asked at last.

  “That’s a darn good question, May. Been thinkin’ on it a long time myself. I can’t go back to the drive. They gotta be near their destination by now, and even if I could convince ’em I didn’t steal them horses, they’d want to know where the hell I’ve been all this time.”

  “Couldn’t you go home to your family’s ranch in Texas?”

  “I could do that, but the trail boss, Zeke Pardue, is a real nasty piece of work. He’ll know where to find me when he gets home, and he’ll come lookin’, that’s for sure. After that, no tellin’ what could happen … I’m in a bit of a pickle, May, but I’ll sort things out.”

  “It’s all my fault. I’m so sorry, Chance.”

  “I don’t blame ya a bit, May. Ya know, I figger if ya’d picked any other horse than my mare outta the remuda, ya mighta slipped away without me ever knowin’ ya. I’m real grateful that didn’t happen. I’ve always thought I was a real lucky fella that you rustled Lucky … and I got that kiss.”

  “I wish now that I had stolen another horse, Chance,” I said. “All that kiss has brought you is a world of trouble.”

  “That and a lot more good things, May. Don’t ya worry about me, I’ll make my way, I always have. And who knows, maybe we’ll cut each other’s trail again someday.”

  * * *

  Two days later we parted company, but not before Chance gave it one last try. He was mounted and leading one of the pack horses Wind had given him in case he needed a spare.

  “Ya know, you gals could sure use another hand drivin’ all this stock you’ve collected,” he said. “You’re gonna have one hell of a time doin’ that, just the two a’ ya. Why don’t I just ride with ya for a few more days, until ya get rid of some of ’em.”

  Wind shook her head and spoke to him in English: “If we ride into an Indian camp with a white man,” she said, “especially a band that doesn’t know us, the women and boys will drag you out of your saddle and beat you with sticks and rocks. They will torture you, cut your testicles off, kill you slowly, and scalp you … just because you are a white man, and they have suffered too much at your hands.”

  Chance smiled. “Yes, ma’am,” he said, nodding, “that’s just what the Comanches do with the white men they capture alive. Some of ’em, when they see they’re gonna get taken, put the barrel of their gun in their mouth and pull the trigger.” And then he said something in Comanche that Wind later translated for me as: “You take care of this girl.”

  “Good-bye, Chance,” I said. “Head south on the main road. You’ll be safe there.”

  He touched the brim of his hat with thumb and forefinger. “So long, May.” He smiled a sweet, sad smile. “Been a real pleasure.”

  “For me as well, cowboy.”

  13 August 1876

  Two days of travel after Chance left us, we came upon a small band of Lakota warriors and their families, and we spent several days in their camp. Wind speaks Sioux and knew some of these people. The men had fought in the Custer battle and told us about the great victory, and of the recent movements of the Army. We gave them a number of our horses, for which they were profoundly grateful, and they put on quite a feast and dance for us. They insisted, too, on giving us gifts in return for ours—beaded moccasins and jewelry; a new, ornately beaded hide dress to replace my old ragged, patched one; a warrior’s knife in a beaded and fringed sheath for Wind. Except for a very few rudimentary words, I do not know the Sioux language, but I was happy to be back in the embrace of the native world.

  Next, while traveling along Rosebud Creek, we came upon a mixed band of Cheyenne and Arapaho and divested more of our string, receiving additional gifts, although these people were considerably less affluent than the Lakota we had encountered. We camped with them for two nights. The first thing we asked was if they knew where Little Wolf and his people were, but of this they had no knowledge. Yet, intriguingly, one of their elders told us of another similarly mixed band they had crossed recently, one with white women among them—not as captives, but as full members of the tribe, and some of them warriors. I asked many questions of the old man, with Wind translating, but I was unable to garner any information about where this band might be either.

  “We are all traveling,” he said, fanning his hands apart, fingers spread to suggest the many directions the various bands have taken, “trying to find the few herds of buffalo the whites have not yet slaughtered, and trying to avoid the soldiers. Unless we come upon them, we do not know where the others are. These people I tell you about, with the white women, are following the medicine woman Ma’heona’e, Holy Woman, who had a vision and is leading them to the real world behind this one.”

  Wind tells me she knows Ma’heona’e, who is blind, and that she has great respect for her medicine. Of course, I have heard of this other world the Cheyenne believe exists, said to be a kind of paradise, with all the faults of this false one we inhabit corrected, which in these desperate times is a particularly seductive notion. Yet no one in the tribe has actually located such a haven, except in hallucinatory visions. Indeed, it seems to me that virtually all cultures have their supernatural myths of utopia, but none that I’ve heard of has ever succeeded in making them tangible. Still, I take this news as a hopeful sign that we may be able to find this band, and I don’t expect they will suddenly disappear into that other world before we do.

  18 August 1876

  Good God, is there no end to it?… It was like any other day, but perhaps we were being less vigilante, for we had no warning of it … we were riding down the trail, beneath a small overhanging bluff, leading what remained of our horses, now numbering eight, not counting those that Wind and I each rode or our two pack horses. Two men dropped from the overhang, one on Wind, who rode ahead of me, the other on me, knocking us from our horses, and as we hit the ground with the heavy weight of them upon us, they must have struck us on the head, for when we regained consciousness we were staked flat on our backs, naked and spread-eagled, bound at our wrists and ankles, our arms tied out to our sides, our legs open, our mouths gagged with filthy bandanas that tasted of sweat. My head ached and as my eyes focused, I looked into Jules Seminole’s face leering above me.

  “Ah, you see, ma belle,” he said, “this is how Jules deals with murderers and horse thieves, and to lovers who have betrayed him. And this time those of us who did not enjoy the fruits of your favors on our last encounter will have our turn. As you can see, this time you have no hope of escape, no hidden knives and no place to hide them, you cannot move your arms, or close your legs, or bite with your teeth. Surely you remember Jules’ distinguished colleagues, Curly Bill, Wild Man Charlie, and the Deacon. And there are two new members of our gang, to whom I must introduce you, Wee Willy James, ironically named, for as you are soon to discover he has a cock the size of a donkey’s. Finally, there is Jules’ old half-breed compatriot, Cuts Women, a true artisan and master knifeman who makes the most exquisite bracelets from the secret parts of women. And yours, my darling,” he said, squatting and cupping his hand over my sex, “will make the finest decoration of all.”

  Now Seminole loosened the bandana that was gagging me. “If you have anything to say in your defense, ma chèrie,” he said, “now is the time.”

  “I do have something to say, Jules,” I answered, “though not necessarily in my defense. I want to say that you are the most repellent human being I have ever in my life encountered. Every time I look at you, I feel like vomiting. Wind believes you are a sorcerer, but I know what you really are—you are a pathetic, weak, cowardly lunatic.”

  “Ah, mon amour,” he said, shaking his head, “such hurtful things you say to Jules. But now I am afraid it is the time to shut your whore’s mouth again”—he retied the bandana gag even tighter across my mouth—“so that Jules and his colleagues can enjoy you without the insults that issue from your tongue. Take solace, my darling, in knowing that when Cuts Women carves you up after all are finished with you, it will be Jules wh
o will wear ta petite chatte upon his wrist in remembrance of our love.”

  I will not further record here what filth and depravity Seminole and the others spoke to us, what vile retribution we were to face as punishment for murdering their friends and stealing their horses, the monstrous acts described to us in such grotesque detail that I cannot speak of it … or of those things they did to us in prelude … The sun had set, dusk descending, and they built a fire while the Deacon squatted over us and read aloud violent passages from the Old Testament, so agitated in his recital that spittle sprayed from his mouth, showering us in mist.

  They drank whiskey, and drew sticks to see in what order they would molest us. Wild Man Charlie won first turn. He approached us and knelt down beside Wind. “Do not think, you filthy squaw bitch, that I have forgotten what you did to me.” He pulled his gun from the holster at his waist and ran the barrel along the inside of her thigh. “And then because I don’t want to touch you,” he said, “especially there … now you better pray that I don’t accidentally pull the trigger.”

  At that moment, we heard galloping hoofbeats pounding the earth, and I managed to raise my head from the ground just high enough to see a silver dappled horse with a white lightning bolt painted on its chest, atop it a lone Indian warrior, his face completely covered by a pattern of red and black war paint that gave him the look of the devil incarnate. He let out a long, blood-chilling war cry and, as Wild Man regained his feet and leveled his gun, the Indian threw a knife.

  As I lay there on my back, I could see each revolution of that knife twirling slowly in the air like a windmill turns languidly in a light breeze, until the blade buried itself up to the hilt in Wild Man’s heart. Almost simultaneously, in that split second as it found its target, the savage’s left arm came up holding a pistol. He fired twice as Wee Willy and Cuts Women were just scrambling to their feet from their place at the fire. Before they even managed to stand, they both collapsed. Curly Bill reached his horse, mounted, and spurred it desperately. But the animal, sensing its rider’s terror, balked and reared with a shrill squeal, unseating the man and bolting. The savage reined up, his horse skidding to a halt. He slipped from its back, pulled what looked like an Army saber from a scabbard at his waist, approached Curly Bill, who crabbed clumsily backward on the ground, and ran him through the heart. From my poor vantage point, I did not see Seminole or have any idea where he was. Only the Deacon remained in view, on his knees beside us now, weeping and blubbering, appearing to have lost not only his faith but control of his bladder, as the savage approached him lightly on moccasined feet. The Deacon raised his arms toward this vision from hell, begging to be spared, but the merciless executioner spun in a full circle as graceful as a ballet dancer, his sword gaining momentum in its arc, before lopping off the Deacon’s head. It rolled now on the ground, coming to rest next to mine, looking me in the eye as if still alive. The savage picked the head up by the hair and tossed it aside, and I assumed that my time had come. But I was in a strange state of detachment, oddly calm for whatever was to befall me. Instead, with the end of his sword blade, he cut the ties from my hands and feet and removed my gag, then did the same to Wind, who spoke to him in a low voice and a native tongue I could not make out. Did she know the man? I sat up and assumed a kind of fetal position, my legs tucked beneath me, trying to cover myself with my arms. He turned again and knelt beside me. I kept my gaze averted but finally raised my head and looked directly into his eyes, confronting him without fear, for I was in that moment fearless. But when our eyes locked, it was as if the painted face melted away, and I saw him clearly for who he was.