Strongheart: The Lost Journals of May Dodd and Molly McGill Page 25

  I stopped crying and trembling, and I lowered my hands. “Shut up now, Martha,” I said. “What in the hell are you talking about? Yes, I see who it is. I was just a little confused and overwhelmed when first they appeared. And I’m trying to understand how they can possibly be here.”

  “Now that’s the old May I know and love!” she said.

  “Our husbands Little Wolf and Tangle Hair sent us,” said Feather on Head. “Woman Who Moves against the Wind had a vision. She saw our village attacked again by the Army, the babies killed in the lodges by the soldiers’ bullets. They said we would be safe with Holy Woman.”

  “But where is your son, Little Egg, Feather on Head?”

  She shook her head and looked away from me, grief stricken. “After we left you in the cave and found Little Wolf, we had to walk in the cold for ten days to reach the village of Crazy Horse. Pretty Nose and Quiet One looked after Little Bird, and I carried my Little Egg. You remember, Mesoke, that he was not a strong boy. We called him Vòvotse because he was fragile as an egg. I carried him against my skin for two days, but in the middle of the night on the third day he became sick … I could feel his little body burning up against me … and then it grew cold…”

  “I am so sorry, dear. You saved my daughter, but lost your son.”

  “Pretty Walker and Quiet One saved Little Bird. She was stronger than my poor Little Egg.”

  “But how did you get here?”

  “We arrived in your camp last night, as the storm was blowing in,” Feather on Head explained. “The Arapaho family of Tall Bull took us in. We left with them this morning and traveled through the storm. We were very worried for the babies, but we kept them well covered. Do you not wish to hold your daughter now, Mesoke?”

  “Yes … yes, of course I do,” I answered, the tears beginning to flow again as I looked into Wren’s eyes, and she looked back at me. “But she won’t even remember that I am her mother. I have always wondered whose milk has nourished her all this time?”

  “Do you remember in the cave when you were dying and you told Quiet One, Pretty Walker, and me to leave you and to take Little Bird with us?” she asked. “The last thing you did before we left was to put Little Bird on your breast to feed.”

  “Yes, of course, I remember like it was yesterday, and not a day has gone by since when I have not thought of it.” I reached out now and touched my little Wren’s face with my fingers. She smiled at me.

  “Eleven mothers lost their babies on the first night of that terrible walk. And they all still had milk in their breasts. After Little Egg died, I fed Little Bird. And so did your friends, the red-haired twin girls, who also lost their infants. After we finally reached the camp of Crazy Horse, we had a whole camp full of wet nurses.”

  “I am so sorry for you, Feather on Head,” I said, “and so grateful to you for keeping my daughter alive. You are her mother now.”

  “No, Mesoke, you just put your finger in her mouth again,” she said, “as you did when she was born, and she will remember who you are. You are her mother, but I will stay here with you. I still have much milk to give.” She turned now to Martha. “I nurse your son, too, except that he bites me, the little devil.”

  Martha and I unstrapped our infants from the baby boards and took them in our arms. Wind and Chance were both beside me now.

  “Do you remember my Little Bird?” I asked Wind, turning to show her my baby.

  She laughed. “Mesoke, it is you who do not remember,” she said, “because when you gave birth, you were so weak from the storm in which you almost died. It was I who pulled Little Bird from you and into this world.”

  Somehow, my little Wren and I seem to have come full circle, through tempests, blizzards, bone-chilling cold, and back into each other’s arms.

  23 September 1876

  Today I believe is the September equinox, auguring the official beginning of autumn. Since the tempest deposited us in this valley, we have enjoyed the most beautiful weather, cool in the morning and evening, and perfectly temperate during the day. The leaves on the cottonwoods along the river and the aspen in the foothills are assuming their medley of fall colors, turning from green to red, to yellow, to orange.

  I have had no time for journal entries these past days, for we have all been occupied in setting up our village, no easy task, but one of the utmost importance. Lacking lodgepole pine trees to make proper tipis in the band’s last camp, and, due to the storm, unable to transport those they did have, the men, women, and older children have ridden into the mountains to cut saplings and drag them back to the site of the village, which is beginning to take shape.

  Chance and I are making our lodge in the circle of the Strongheart society, who have made me an honorary member, until such time that I can prove myself on the battlefield as a horsewoman, archer, gunwoman, and wielder of knife, lance, and tomahawk. The current members are all well ahead of me in some of these skills, even Martha, I am loath to admit, and I find it rather humiliating that I must be put to the test before being initiated. Wind, due to her status in the tribe, has already been granted full membership as a Strongheart. Fortunately she has given me a good deal of preparation as a warrior, and I do consider myself the equal of any of the others on horseback—with the notable exception of Wind, herself, Pretty Nose, and Phemie. All three of these accomplished equestrians have learned the ultimate skill of riding without holding the reins, having trained their horses to react to subtle pressure from their knees, thighs, calves, and feet, and even to respond to voice commands. Chance, too, owns this skill, having learned it from his half-Comanche grandfather, a tribe widely considered to be the finest horsemen on the southern plains. Of course, this ability offers an invaluable advantage to the warrior, who then has both hands free to wield his or her sundry weapons. I have been working with Wind to master it, but this will clearly take some time.

  A word about the Strongheart chief, Pretty Nose. She is an Arapaho girl, with some Cheyenne blood, as I understand it, younger, I would guess, than I, and an absolutely magnificent specimen of a warrior woman—beautiful, strong, stately, and fearsome. She appears, as well, to be a single-minded soul, and despite all the work to be done in making winter camp, she still finds time to lead her soldiers in practicing for war.

  To see her mounted on her painted war mustang, armed and dressed for battle, brings to my mind the Amazons of Greek mythology, whom I read about in my youth, and found so thrilling that I dreamed of becoming one … an odd ambition for a young girl growing up as a member of Chicago “society.” However, it was exactly due to the stifling nature of that world that I was so attracted to these tales, and yet another reason, perhaps, that I rebelled against my family, ended up in a lunatic asylum, and find myself here among these people.

  Now I actually have the opportunity to realize my childhood dreams, to become a pagan Amazon, and I have as my models Pretty Nose and, of course, my dear Phemie, who has always been equally imposing as an African warrior woman. The two of them make for quite a sight mounted together for battle, and the farm girl, Molly McGill, too, when she joins their practice sessions, against the wishes of her husband, Hawk, cuts an impressive figure. Not one to shirk a challenge or play second fiddle to anyone, I intend to join this pantheon of warriors as their full equal.

  Assuming the fine weather holds, war games in which men and women alike compete are scheduled to begin as soon as the village is fully in place, stocked for the winter with game, tanned hides, firewood, and buffalo chips for the fires. When all is done is the traditional time for games and recreation, before winter descends and all are tipi-bound.

  In the meantime, in what little spare time we have, I have been practicing with Phemie those other skills I must master to qualify as a full member of the Strongheart society. It is true that I have always been a competitive sort, perhaps to a fault, and I have no intention of being left behind any of the others in any contest. I have to admit, but only to myself, that I particularly look forward to match
ing my skills against Molly, who, in my long absence, I can’t help but feel, has usurped my position as a leader among the women. Good God, adversity has not humbled me, rather only increased my vanity …

  The broad valley in which we have settled and the mountains that surround it on all sides are well stocked with game animals of all sorts, buffalo and antelope in the flats, mule deer and elk in the high country, all fattened up for the coming winter. The Englishwoman, Lady Ann, with whom I have had a chance to visit, returned from New York with a new scattergun and delights in hunting the prairie chickens and sharp-tailed grouse that inhabit the hilly plains and the blue grouse in the mountains. Her presence here so reminds me of Helen; in fact, she has moved into a lodge with the young lover they have shared, Bridge Girl, assistant to my friend, the old scoundrel Dog Woman … who, much as I have tormented her in the past, I admit to adoring as the most unique of individuals. Rounding out the ample supply of nourishment provided by this rich country, the band’s Mennonite chaplain, Christian Goodman, is particularly adept at fishing the river that flows near our village and the smaller feeder creeks that enter it from the mountains, all filled with fat trout, which he distributes to any in the band who desire them.

  To be sure, I have had very little time for such pursuits, but I did sneak out with the chaplain early one morning for a couple of hours, leaving Wren with Feather on Head, and taking with me the fishing pole and gear I had acquired at the trading post in Tent City. I found Christian not only to be a fine angler but also excellent company, and we came away with a sack full of fish.

  During our short time together, we spoke at length about his denomination, which seems to be a rather reasonable one, except for the typically patriarchal structure it shares with virtually every such religious and political institution of mankind. They all, savage and civilized alike, if you can even differentiate between the two, are fully designed by the male sex, relegating women to giving birth, raising children, and doing the chores, effectively removing them from any share of the power. In addition, as I frankly pointed out to the chaplain, as admirable and Christlike as I find the strict tenets of nonviolence in his faith, it does seem to be particularly ill-suited to the reality of life on the plains.

  “Believe me, May,” he answered, “that is an argument frequently expressed by your warrior friends, whom my wife, Astrid, I’m sorry to say, has joined … this I attribute to her Viking blood. But I ask you this: What has been the benefit to humanity of mankind’s constant wars? What have they ever brought us besides chaos, death, and suffering? Isn’t peace and harmony among peoples what all ultimately seek?”

  “Well, that appears to be the problem, Christian, doesn’t it? For not all humanity seeks those goals. Some, possibly even most, seek dominance over others. And to resist being dominated, and, in the case of these people, to resist being eradicated or imprisoned, one must fight back.”

  “Even if fighting back is futile?”

  “Yes, this is their land, the earth upon which they have lived for ten thousand years. Isn’t it worth dying to protect?”

  “Yes, perhaps it is,” the chaplain said after some reflection. “But if, as I think you know in your heart, May, there is no possibility of victory against the far more numerous and powerful foe you face, are you really willing to sacrifice the life of your child for a hopeless cause?”

  I quickly realized that this was not an argument I could win. “No,” I admitted, “that I am not willing to do, Christian.”

  * * *

  For the sake of practicality, Chance and I, with, of course, my daughter, Wren … how wonderful this is to write!… and her wet nurse, Feather on Head, as well as my little Horse Boy will be sharing the same lodge. However, the humble wikiup we transported from our previous camp is far too small to comfortably accommodate us all for the coming winter. And so we are in the process of building a new one.

  Chance has joined the buffalo hunters, along with several of our Strongheart women, including Phemie and Pretty Nose, to harvest sufficient beasts for hides and meat to dry to see us through the long cold season. He has acquitted himself well in this pursuit, having hunted the animals in Texas when he was still a boy, and from his running horse, he knows exactly the spot in which to thrust a lance or shoot an arrow to bring them down. I know from my time among the People that it can be a dangerous pursuit, one in which injuries are not uncommon, and are sometimes even fatal.

  Feather on Head and I, old friends and tent mates, and accustomed to the work of squaws, join the other women in the field after a successful hunt to skin the buffalo, quarter them, load the sections on travois, and drag them back to the village with the help of horses and/or dogs. Indeed, we have recently acquired a canine, or, I should say, he has acquired us, having wandered one day up to our lodge under construction, while Feather on Head and I were busy butchering the meat and laying it out to dry, fleshing and tanning the hides, and attaching them to stretching racks Chance has built for us. He has also cut and peeled the lodge poles, and with them erected the frame to our new, luxuriously large tipi. Now we will simply wait for the tanning process to be completed so that we can stitch the hides together and attach them to the poles. The rest of the band is at work on similar projects, all keeping in mind that we race against the approaching season, and hoping for what we whites call an “Indian” summer of mild autumn weather.

  Back to the subject of our new dog, he is an enormous, long-legged, shaggy beast, of a race common among the Indians. I have no idea from whence he came, nor do I recall having seen him about the village before we arrived here. He simply walked in, lay down, and watched us work, hoping, no doubt, that a piece of flesh or fat might find its way to him, which, indeed, some occasionally do. We had Little Bird propped up as usual beside us on her baby board, so that she could watch us work, thereby absorbing the daily rhythms of this nomadic life. She was absolutely fascinated by the dog, staring at him, smiling, cooing, gurgling, as if trying to engage him in conversation, and finally, he, too, appearing curious, came to his feet, stretched languidly, and began to move toward her. Not knowing what his intentions were, I instinctively stood and snatched her up on the board, and the dog simply lay down again, perhaps sensing my apprehension. I set her board back in its position, leaning against one of the tipi poles, and stood next to her for a while while he reclined beside it, seemingly quite comfortable and nonthreatening, she expressing baby-talk delight to have a new friend at her side. And thus did this dog, whom I have named Falstaff, after the Shakespearean knight Sir John Falstaff, insinuate himself into our family, becoming especially attached to Wren, and she to him. He’s a fine fellow, always available for a meal, but always waiting politely until one is offered him.

  A few more words about my Comanche cowboy, who has been quite readily accepted by the band, thanks largely to the recommendation of Gertie and Wind, and simply because he is such an essentially likable and helpful fellow. All of his possessions have been returned to him, including his cowboy attire, boots, and hat—much to the dismay of one of the younger sentries, Bad Horse, Hátavesévé’háme, who, being the third to count coup upon him, had claimed these items. He has also regained possession of his six-shooter, knives, and sword, and, most importantly, the beloved dappled stallion he calls King, a distinctly nonnative name, for kings do not exist in the Indian world.

  Because he is a wrangler, and so knowledgeable on the subject of equines, Chance has proposed to the People a quite practical idea to supplement the scanty feed available for the herd in wintertime. Traditionally, the animals are left to forage what they can, digging down through the snow when not too deep, to reach grass that retains few nutrients, or eating bark off the trees, a similarly poor source of food. As a result, during severe winters, many die of malnutrition and exposure due to their severe loss of weight. Thus, Chance, when not hunting or building our tipi, is working tirelessly in the field with his sword as a scythe, cutting the tall fall grasses before they have completely dried, an
d stacking them in round formations about the village, for use as winter feed for the horses. As helpers in this labor, he has enlisted the aid of the camp’s boys and girls, who use the longest knives they have been able to acquire from their families—some of the warrior knives having blades as long as sixteen inches.

  All admire Chance’s industriousness. However, there is some resentment among the Cheyenne regarding my having taken up with another man, especially a white man, when I am still considered to be one of Little Wolf’s three wives. This is a censure I fully expected to face, for it is one thing for a man to “throw away” a wife, as they put it, yet quite another for a woman to do so to a husband, especially when that man is the Sweet Medicine Chief. However, I remember well a conversation I had with Little Wolf, after finally convincing him to surrender his band, and only a short time before the Mackenzie attack. I told him that once at the agency, he would be required by the whites to give up two of us—Feather on Head and me—and retain Quiet One as his sole wife. She was the first bride, the elder, the ruler of the lodge, and his favorite, and he agreed to do so, albeit a bit reluctantly. And so, having previously notified Little Wolf of this fact, and now being separated from him, at least until the spring thaw, I can rationalize having taken a second husband … and will just have to endure the disapprobation of the tribe. It is not the first time I’ve broken tribal precedent. Personally, I do not feel the need to make excuses for my behavior … After all, what’s good for the goose is good for the gander!

  1 October 1876

  I should mention now something that has clearly been in the back of everyone’s mind since our propitious arrival in this splendid valley several weeks ago. Yet we have all been so occupied with our individual families’ heretofore described preparations, as well as those shared collectively by all in the tribe, that no one of my acquaintance has even verbally broached the subject … and that is: Where in the world are we?