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

  “Good God…” I murmured, “Chance?”

  He smiled that sweet, gentle smile, so incongruous to the fierceness of his visage. “Yes, ma’am,” he answered as he took me in his arms.

  “Be careful,” I whispered in his ear, “there’s another one left, the most dangerous of all.”

  Chance stood then, drew the pistol from its holster, looked quickly around, and then carefully began to make the rounds of the camp.

  “Jules Seminole is gone, Mesoke,” Wind said. She, too, was sitting on the ground now, her hands gripping her shoulders, her arms covering her breasts, which are considerably fuller than mine and more difficult to conceal. Nothing renders a woman more vulnerable and defenseless than to be forcibly stripped naked, and for Cheyenne women, who are exceptionally modest by nature, this act alone is especially humiliating … not to mention, of course, that which followed. “He rode off as Chance was riding in. I told you, the man is a sorcerer. He cannot be captured or killed so easily. Don’t you see how, when we are most alone, he reappears surrounded by other evil men who speak and act such filth in his name? And when they die, he disappears and later returns with more evil men. He is a devil, and can only be killed when a stake is driven into his black heart.”

  “Nonsense, Wind, he is man, a mortal, an evil one, to be sure, but a weak man and a coward who runs away.” I saw then the blood on the inside of her thigh, where Wild Man was threatening her with the barrel of his gun, and with which I realized then that he must have penetrated her. And yet she had not uttered a sound of distress through her gag. Surely, she is the strongest, bravest woman I have ever known.

  “Good God, he hurt you terribly, didn’t he?”

  “I have been hurt before, Mesoke” was all she said.

  Chance returned carrying our clothes. “Ain’t nobody left here, exceptin’ the dead men,” he said, keeping his eyes averted as he handed them to us. He spoke to Wind in Comanche with what seemed to me to be a particularly gentle tone, and she answered him. He turned his back to us as we dressed.

  “Did you know it was Chance when he rode in?” I asked Wind.

  “Yes, I recognized his war paint, the symbol on his horse, and his war cry as those of a Comanche warrior,” she answered. “I did not think there could be another in this country besides him.”

  “And you, Chance, where in the world did you get your outfit?”

  “I made it,” he said simply. “I bought me some tanned deer hides at a tradin’ post after I quit ya. I learned how to do such things from my grandpa. In case I was ever taken captive by them, he wanted me to know not just how to speak their tongue, but how to be Comanche. An’ remember, May, ya told me that we was enterin’ Indian country, so I figgered I’d do like you and be able to pass as a white man or an Indian, ’ceptin’ that I got more a’ the real blood than you do.”

  “And the sword? It’s an Army saber, is it not?”

  “That it is, bought it off a soldier I run into on the trail. He had deserted his company, and needed some cash.

  “See, we got plenty a’ soldiers in Texas, too,” he continued, “an’ in Grandpa’s day down there, ya never knew if you was gonna be fightin’ the Mexican army or the Comanches, or one after the other. Grandpa picked up swordsmanship hisself from some a’ the Army soldiers. He was a tough ole cuss, my grandpa, and he knew how to do all kinds a’ fightin’—with his fists, or Injun wrestlin’, guns, rifles, knives, swords, or just an old stick, you name the weapon an’ he pretty much knew how to use it, or learned real quick.”

  “He taught you well.”

  Chance smiled. “I picked up a few things on my own, too,” he said, “like that fancy sword move I made on the man in black. I thought ya’d be mighty impressed with that one.”

  I laughed at his boasting. “You know, Chance, you really don’t need to impress me any further than you already have. You saved our lives, and that is quite enough … but you’re right, the sword move was mighty impressive…” I looked over at the Deacon’s head lying where Chance had tossed it … “though you might have been a bit more considerate as to the direction the head rolled.”

  He grinned, exposing teeth that looked preternaturally white against the red face paint. “I’ll sure work on that, May,” he said, nodding, “but it’s kinda tricky, ’cause they don’t roll real straight when they land.”

  Wind and I had both dressed, and stood. If Chance and I defused the tension of the previous carnage with light banter, she did so with the practical native stoicism I have seen so often in my time among the Cheyenne. “We must see to our horses,” she said.

  We found our mounts at the picket line the bandits had set, as well as our two pack animals. Also picketed were their own four riding horses, still saddled, and six additional, probably stolen we guessed. Some of these were packed with their supplies, the others simply spare mounts. Of our eight horses remaining from the raid on the Army stock, we counted five untethered and spread out within sight, grazing placidly. They are, after all, social beings, and as long as there was grass available and others around them, they felt no need to wander. Of the three remaining, we expected them not to be too far away, and that they might rejoin us when we moved out.

  The outlaws had not yet made the time to go through our affairs, as they clearly had more important business to attend to with our persons. What is it about the bodies of women that excites in gentlemen reverence, love, and passion, and in bad men the desire to pillage, defile, and mutilate? It occurred to me that between Wind and me, and the timely arrival of Chance, we had now eliminated the entire Three Finger Jack gang, which seemed an unintended but valuable service for those traveling in the plains, both Indians and whites.

  We gathered their guns and dumped on the ground the contents of all the packs we had removed from their horses. Chance found a few other useful weapons and some ammunition and cash. Now we left this camp of dead men, not giving them the dignity of burial, but leaving the remains to the scavengers. I think it offered some small comfort to Wind and me to imagine the turkey vultures squatting upon their corpses, pecking out their eyes, the coyotes and wolves coming in to flush the huge raptors, disembowel the bodies, and feast upon the flesh, and all the other creatures that consume carrion, down to the worms, cockroaches, and ants, picking the last of it from the bones. It was a fitting end for these wretches, who had no doubt robbed, terrorized, raped, and murdered others in their travels. Yet their guide, the “sorcerer” Jules Seminole, was still at large, and that offered us no comfort.

  * * *

  We mounted and traveled a safe distance, far enough to be away from the ghosts that Wind feared might follow us and take their retribution. Chance, of course, came with us.

  “I ain’t leavin’ ya again, May,” he said. “You seen what happens when I do. Plus you can always use an experienced wrangler to help ya with your herd.”

  “I don’t understand how you found us again.”

  “I been trailing ya for some time, takin’ a couple a’ detours along the way to gather some supplies a’ my own. Wind and you was movin’ a fair number of stock, an’ I seen where you got rid of a few head along the way, an’ when I lost your trail, I didn’t have no trouble pickin’ it up again. Travelin’ alone, I could move faster than you. I sewed my Comanche getup around the fire at night, made myself some grease paint outta colored pigment, charcoal, and a jar a’ lard I picked up at the tradin’ post. That’s why it stinks so bad … I can hardly stand myself. Then, the day before yesterday, I seen that someone else was followin’ you. I figured from their tracks how many they was, and how many horses they had, an’ I could see that at least one of ’em was real capable at readin’ sign. I didn’t know who they was or their intentions, but I knew from how they was travelin’ that they was after you, one way or another, so I kept as close as I could to ’em …

  “So … where are we headed?” he asked.

  “Wind and I are going to find our people. She believes that we are not far from the
m now. I’m not sure how exactly she knows such things, but she often does, and she is rarely wrong. But I already told you, Chance … you cannot come into our camp.”

  “Yeah, so you told me, May.”

  “And there are other reasons I haven’t told you.”

  “Awright, May, so tell me then. You got nothin’ to hide from me.”

  Perhaps, after all that had happened today, it wasn’t the right time to unburden myself and tell the truth, but I felt I owed it to him … and probably there would never be a right time.

  “Well … Chance … for one thing … because I’m married to a prominent Cheyenne chief named Little Wolf.”

  At this, Chance turned toward me in his saddle, with a dumbfounded expression on his face. “You’re … married?”

  “Well … yes and no,” I equivocated.

  “There ain’t no yes and no about it, May. You’re either married or ya ain’t.”

  “Well … you see, in the Cheyenne way of such matters, I’m married. But Little Wolf has two other wives, as well.”

  “OK, I know how that works, the Comanche men do the same. So ya ain’t married in the church by a preacher, in the eyes of God, then?”

  “Well … not in a church exactly, and I don’t know about the eyes of God, but it’s true that we were married by an Episcopalian preacher … in a … uh … an outdoor ceremony, I suppose you could say … But when the time came, many of us did not speak the ‘I do’ part, so it wouldn’t really count.”

  “Oh, now ain’t that a relief…” he said, his voice thick with sarcasm.

  “I told you there was a lot we didn’t know about each other, Chance.”

  “Ya told me a whole pile of horseshit, is what ya told me, May.”

  “I’ve never heard you cuss before.”

  “A man has his limits. What else didn’t ya tell me?”

  “That I have a baby daughter who is with the tribe.”

  “You bring her along with you or have her by your chief?”

  “Well … that’s a little complicated, too, Chance. You see … I became with child by an Army captain at Fort Robinson, before we went to the Cheyenne. But Little Wolf and the rest of the tribe believe that he is the father.”

  Chance just stared at me now in utter disbelief. “A little complicated?” he said. “What else?”

  “I was married back in Chicago to another man … well, not really married, what they call a common-law marriage. We had two children together.”

  He was silent now for a long time, staring straight ahead as we rode.

  Finally, he turned to me again, his face hard, his voice different than I’d ever heard it before, angry and as venomous as a coiled viper striking. “No wonder ya go around kissin’ strange cowboys ya don’t even know. You’re a bit of whore, ain’t ya, May?”

  “That’s an ugly word, Chance. I am not a whore.”

  “How about a loosey goosey, then, or a hussy?”

  “If it makes you feel better, you can call me whatever you want … except a whore … you have every right to do so. And this is exactly why I didn’t tell you these things from the beginning. Yes, I’ve made mistakes in my life, I have regrets. But these are just the details out of the context of a much larger story that you can’t possibly understand. I guess I hoped maybe a time might come between us when I would be able to tell you that story. And maybe you wouldn’t detest me for it. But now, I see the revulsion on your face, and I don’t blame you for that, either.”

  “See, the thing is, May, I don’t need to hear the rest of your story, them details ya just give me are plenty enough for me.”

  He reined his horse around and spoke to Wind in Comanche, and she answered him. He put his heels to its flanks and hollered “Heeeawww git on now,” and broke into a gallop, fleeing from me as fast as he could.

  “What did he say to you, Wind?” I asked, my stomach queasy, tears of shame and anger coming to my eyes as I watched him go.

  “He asked me if I knew where we were going, and I said yes.”

  “Didn’t I tell you that all my loves end badly?”

  THE LOST JOURNALS OF MOLLY McGILL

  The Real World Behind This One

  They told the People they could dance a new world into being. There would be landslides, earthquakes, and big winds. Hills would pile up on each other. The earth would roll up like a carpet with all the white man’s ugly things—the stinking new animals, sheep and pigs, the fences, the telegraph poles, the mines and factories. Underneath would be the wonderful old-new world as it had been before the white fat-takers came … The white men will be rolled up, disappear, go back to their own continent.

  —from Lame Deer, Seeker of Visions by John (Fire) Lame Deer and Richard Erdoes

  5 September 1876

  “Gertie, if you think for one minute,” said Lady Ann Hall, stepping forward, “that we intend to turn around and go back from whence we came, after all these weeks, these months of travel, let me assure you, that is quite out of the question. First of all, the notion of ghost camps, though excellent fodder for a tale by which schoolgirls might scare each other on sleepovers, is utterly preposterous. And I must say, I am surprised that a grown woman of your vast experience in these plains would even entertain the veracity of such apocryphal nonsense. And quite frankly, even if this did happen to be a ghost camp, I smell the marvelous odors of game roasting over open fires, and I, for one, would be honored to accept an invitation to sit down with these charming poltergeists and share in the feast.”

  “Aye, I ain’t one to pass up a good scran, meself,” said Hannah. “I didn’t know that ghosts can cook. I’m puttin’ me bum down right here.”

  “As you ladies can see, I have not yet succeeded in purging the vulgar Scouse language from my maidservant’s mouth.”

  “Yeah, OK, you’re right, Ann, and Hannah,” Gertie admitted. “I just got a bit of a chill when I seen May and Molly standin’ there together. Honey,” she said to May, “we had it on the best authority that you died in a cave after the Mackenzie attack. Brother Anthony hisself gave you last rites, and I know him to be a man who don’t tell lies. And you, Molly, I seen you with my own eyes jump from that cliff. Lady Hall here has been tellin’ me some cockamamie story that maybe Phemie and Pretty Nose rescued you, but that ain’t what I seen. We been arguin’ about it on the trail ever since we left. But goddammit, here you two are, together. I don’t know how the hell that happened, but I figger I’m gonna soon find out. In the meantime, honey,” she said, approaching May, “I don’t expect ole Dirty Gertie smells any sweeter than usual, but you asked for a bear hug, an’ here it comes. An’ I’m warnin’ ya, you’re next, Molly.” She opened her arms and she and May embraced. “Goddammit to hell, it really is you, girl, and all flesh and blood. Welcome back to life.”

  “Thank you, Gertie, it is fine to be here,” May said.

  “You know, Cap’n Bourke told me he caught sight of a woman in the mercantile back at Tent City a while back who he thought might be you. That shook him up real bad. An’ ya know what I told him? I says, Cap’n, you either seen a ghost, or you seen a woman who looked a little like May Dodd, an’ you didn’t get a real good look at her either. An’ he tells me the stablemaster said her name was Abigail Ames, she was married and she an’ her husband were horse traders from Grand Island, Nebraska. An’ I says, Cap’n, you don’t go from being dead in a cave above the Powder River with a bullet hole in your back to being a married horse trader from Nebraska in three months. An’ he says, I guess you’re right, Gertie … But I wasn’t right, was I? That was you, wasn’t it, honey?”

  “It was, Gertie, yes.”

  “Damn…”

  And then Gertie gave me a big bear hug. “By the way, Molly,” she said, holding on tight, “me and my ole mule, Badger, been cartin’ your goddamned ledger books around long enough now. I know I said I wasn’t goin’ to, but I read ’em, too, thinkin’, you bein’ dead a’ course, you wouldn’t mind too much. But now me an’ Bad
ger is both gettin’ old an’ tired and we’re real ready to give ’em back to ya.” After Gertie finally let go of me, she looked back and forth between May and me, tears pooling up in her eyes, and she began to weep, great sobs, which, in my experience, is not an event one often … or possibly even ever … witnesses from Gertie. “The hell,” she said when she finally collected herself, wiping the back of her hand across her runny nose. “Not only am I gettin’ old, I’m gettin’ soft … look what you gals has done, you’ve turned ole’ Gertie into a damn crybaby.”