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

  I stood to accept the praise of yipping and trilling from my compatriots, raised my fists in the air, and shook them in triumph as the flood of hot blood began to recede. I looked at Chance and he at me, shaking his head in wonderment. I went to him. “Thank you for that,” I said, still breathless from my exertions, “and, see, I didn’t even have to get him excitable!”

  * * *

  Other events over those three days in which we prevailed, and in some failed, included horse racing. In the long-distance horse race, which is a question of both stamina and speed, as on foot, no one can beat Phemie on her tall white stallion, a wild beast who loves nothing more than to run and, as the alpha horse in his herd, insists on being in the lead. The field was a large one in this race, with at least thirty-five competitors between the two teams, but Phemie crossed the finish line at least ten lengths ahead of the second-fastest horse.

  In the short race, a matter of a quick start off the line, and a burst of speed, the smaller mustangs, ridden by the majority of the Indian warriors, usually prevail. I was proud to come in second, mounted on Lucky.

  Given my brief career as a horse thief, as well as having learned from Wind how to capture the wild equines of the prairie, I should mention a word here about these extraordinary creatures that play such an enormous role in the lives of the Plains tribes. Although the Cheyenne have no written history, they maintain a lively oral one, and within these stories of their ancestors, they tell of the olden days, before the People had horses and went everywhere on foot.

  According to Lady Ann, who seems to know about such matters … and many others, sometimes to distraction, if I may say so … it was the explorer Coronado who first introduced the famed “Barb” horse from the deserts of North Africa to the Americas. These were a mix of Arab and Spanish stock, a small, stocky, athletic breed that adapted well to the dry grasslands of the Southwest. After an uprising of the Pueblo Indians, the Spaniards finally abandoned New Mexico toward the end of the seventeenth century, leaving vast numbers of their livestock behind. They became a valuable commodity of trade between the Pueblos and the other native inhabitants of the region—the Kiowa, Apache, Comanche, Southern Arapaho, and Southern Cheyenne. Many others simply became feral and spread out across the southern plains.

  I was impressed that my Chance, who, despite little formal education, and the fact that he expresses himself considerably less eloquently than our grand lady, knew a great deal about this subject on a purely practical, hands-on level. As a boy, he had learned to ride from his grandfather’s Comanche people, who were widely reputed to be among the greatest horsemen on earth and had amassed vast herds of these animals in west Texas. He says that most cow horses in that part of the world came from this original stock and, due to their strong build and quick-footedness, were particularly well suited to work cattle, my own Lucky clearly a descendant. Eventually, the mustangs made their way to the northern Plains tribes as well, but due to the frequently severe winters, their numbers were never as prolific as in the south.

  Over the centuries, of course, there was a good deal of interbreeding of the Spanish horses with those escaped or stolen by the Indians from white settlers, ranches, cattle drives, and wagon trains passing through. Thus, the mustangs of the western American plains came in all sizes, shapes, and colors, from Phemie’s big, spirited white stallion to small, nimble paints that, when captured in the wild, frequently became the first mount of a favored child.

  Molly, who also rode in the race, because it was a relatively safe event for a woman with child, finished a nose behind me on her mare, Spring, perhaps simply because of our difference in weight. A Shoshone warrior named Falling Star won first place.

  In riding with loose reins, both hands free to shoot arrows at targets from a running horse, Pretty Nose won a spectacular victory against a number of extremely talented Shoshone horsemen. It was a closely contested competition, and a wonderful event to watch. For my part, although I managed the no-reins part well enough, the accuracy of my shooting was abysmal, and I was very quickly eliminated.

  Nor had I been sufficiently talented even to qualify in our intersociety trials for the competition in which one hangs on to the side of the horse while shooting a pistol under its neck. Again, I had managed the first part but never hit a single target in the second. In the real games, Pretty Nose won that event as well. Truly she is a phenomenally gifted warrior, the equal of any man on the field during those days.

  Which is not to say that the Shoshone warriors did not win their fair share of competitions. I mark here the highlights of our Strongheart society, but our visitors, too, had great successes, both on land and on horseback. Indeed, in the shorter-distance footrace, in which a large number of contestants competed, young Little Antelope prevailed, this time beating Phemie. I do not wish to detract from his victory, but I know her well enough to suspect that she graciously allowed the boy to win in order to restore his confidence.

  Not to forget Lady Ann Hall, who, due to her long absence from the tribe, did not feel fit enough to compete in the more strenuous events and instead put on a splendid display of shooting with her double-barreled scattergun. She stationed half a dozen boys spread out in front of her, to each of whom she has given a number. They have small piles of different-size rocks at their feet, some merely small stones, and when she calls out their number, the boy hurls one in the air, as hard and far as he can. Some of the softer rocks turn to a cloud of dust when she hits them, the harder ones cut into pieces or deflected whole onto tangents. Starting with one shot at a time, she is soon calling out two numbers, in different locations, for instance: “One! Six!” and the two boys on opposite ends of the line simultaneously each throw a rock. She swings and powders one after the other, never missing. Our guests were most impressed with her skill, and also appreciative that she supplied our cooks with a supply of prairie grouse to add to the feast on the Shoshone’s last night with us.

  Finally, I must also mention that there was a coup stick game arranged for the children of the two tribes in which the respective teams scattered out down in the trees by the river, some of the younger simply trying to find a place to secrete themselves from members of the other team, hoping that one of the “enemies” would come by, at which point they could leap out from their hiding place and touch them with the stick before being touched. The older and bolder among them sneaked through the trees and bushes, trying to find an “enemy” upon whom to count coup, and if two from opposite teams came face to face, they executed an athletic dance to touch first and avoid being touched. Those upon whom coup had been counted had to lie down and pretend to be dead. This the children played tirelessly for three days, making up and changing the teams and the rules as they wished, at one point even emulating the adults with all girls against all boys, so that in this case children of the different tribes were together on the same team. All day long we heard arising from the river bottom the laughter, giggles, shouts, and squeals of surprise as they counted coup upon each other. Are there any sounds sweeter and more beautiful on earth than those of children playing? There would be no carnage here …

  And that, perhaps, is the finest thing about these war games, as exemplified by the children—the general spirit of conviviality and good sportsmanship … well, except in my case, as I was certainly the worst offender of that bonhomie when I knocked poor Short Bull off his feet, winning my wrestling match unfairly, to be quite honest. Yet, belying the warrior’s rather brutish appearance, he turned out to be a charming fellow who was not only amused by my tactic but actually congratulated me for it, saying that it was just the kind of thing a smart, overmatched warrior would do in such a situation. He surprised me by addressing me in English, and he explained that he had learned it from a British explorer who had come down from Canada and married into the tribe.

  “You caught me off guard,” he said, “and you were as strong as any man I have wrestled, and I do not often lose. But just remember, I will be ready for your tricks the n
ext time we meet.”

  “Ah, yes, but I have yet another trick,” I answered, with a sly smile, “that I did not have the opportunity to show you.”

  “I look forward to it.”

  “Well … I think perhaps you should.”

  The children’s joyful exuberance reminded us, too, of the other wonderful quality of these games: they were just that—games—challenging and great fun, and no one was killed or even seriously injured. Nor did either tribe keep count of the total wins and losses, for some events were repeated more than once, with different contestants competing, and with different results, so that there was no final winner or loser proclaimed, no prizes or trophies given out to the prevailing team. All of us just admired the skill and prowess of the others.

  * * *

  I will only tell of one notable incident that occurred at our last feast and dance, celebrating the end of the war games. I have no idea how they managed to talk Dog Woman into it, and it came as a complete surprise to all of us … except for the participants. This … performance … I must call it, was evidently organized by the French girl in Molly’s group, who goes by the stage name of Lulu LaRue, a charming little thing, with whom I enjoy chatting in my limited command of her language. Lulu, like Christian Goodman, eschews all violence, even in game form, and is not, obviously, a member of the Stronghearts. She seems to have been an aspiring actress, songstress, and dancer in France, who came to America, fell on hard times, and got involved with the wrong man … such a familiar tale that is, and one that might apply to most of us in both groups of brides.

  Well after all had finished eating, and midway into the dance portion of the evening, Dog Woman cleared all dancers from the circle, and in a sonorous voice announced a special performance for our new friends, the Shoshone. She then clapped her hands briskly, and Lulu led Astrid, Warpath Woman, Lady Ann, Pretty Nose, Hannah, Kills in the Morning Woman, Phemie, Little Snowbird (Molly’s protégée, Sehoso, who is training to become a Strongheart, Molly herself sitting out the dance, being with child and having exerted herself sufficiently in the horse race), Maria, and Martha, into the circle. Each of the women in the troop wore over their hide dresses a kind of short skirt made from bouquets of yellow autumn prairie grass tied together. Except for Lulu, who was beaming proudly, the others wore expressions somewhere between mild embarrassment and amusement. Lulu signaled to a number of our band’s musicians who were strategically stationed outside the dance circle. These included two flute players, two drummers, and two gourd shakers. They struck up a tune—not the most refined of melodies, I have to say, but a rather original effort nevertheless—an Indian beat with a certain undeniably French flavor. As the music began, the dancers, arms hooked together at the elbows, executed a little prancing step in unison, turning to the right, making a slight kick with the right foot, turning to the left, slight kick with the left, repeated back and forth. As the music increased in tempo … albeit rather off-key, the kicks grew incrementally higher. Those who wore hide shifts (all of them except for Lady Ann, who wore her knickers, with the grass skirt atop) had untied or at least loosened the leather lacing to free their legs, and as they kicked one saw the briefest flashes of bare flesh, their little tutus flying up and down. Of course, I realized then that this was a version of the French cancan, about which I had once read in the Chicago Tribune—an entirely scandalous affair, as that newspaper reported.

  Now, at the direction of Lulu, the girls all unlinked their arms, placed their hands on their hips, elbows pointing out, and facing straight ahead in a line, with broad, bold, unabashed smiles on their faces, began kicking, higher and higher … well, some of them kicked higher than others … “Remember, my girls,” Lulu called out, “kick the stars from the sky!” This she repeated in French, Cheyenne, and Arapaho, and that was the first I knew that she was such a natural linguist.

  The spectators were enthralled, whether shocked by or enjoying the spectacle, I could not say, though some were laughing uproariously, the children wide-eyed and giggling. I myself was laughing, both in appreciation and amusement. Poor Lady Ann, while apparently enjoying herself more than any of them, did not display the same dexterity on the dance floor as she did in the field with her scattergun, her kicks hilariously clumsy and poorly timed … though that is unkind of me to say, for she was so utterly enthusiastic. Lulu herself danced like a true professional, able to kick well over her head. Pretty Nose, Warpath Woman, and Kills in the Morning Woman each seemed to possess a certain natural grace of movement, dancing with the same light-footed, supple facility with which they rode horses; Phemie, too, her dance step as regal and elegant as everything she does; little Hannah, wonderfully lithe; Astrid, her kick especially athletic; young Sehoso slender and coltish, matching Lulu’s kick for kick; and Martha, whom I had already seen dancing, performing with her new nimble confidence.

  “I ain’t never seen nothin’ like this before!” said my Comanche cowboy, Chance, seated beside me and speaking in a voice of pure wonderment.

  The dancers, too, had started laughing at their own efforts, clearly having great fun. Although this was a gross breach of social dance etiquette, Dog Woman, to my astonishment, was simply watching the performance with an expression of great satisfaction, even pride, on her face, as if she had organized the entire thing … and perhaps she had, for permission must have been requested and given for her to be so sanguine.

  The spectacle was contagious, and all present, regardless of whether they approved or not, were well caught up in it, especially the children, who began rushing into the circle, trying to mimic the kicks of the troupe, some quite well, others giggling so hard they fell down, rolling on the ground in hilarity.

  I thought this a fine way to end these games between men and women warriors of enemy tribes, although I do not believe that any of us here felt like enemies. I looked around now at this gathering, at the dancers, the guests, and the members of our own band—Cheyenne, Arapaho, Shoshone, French, Mexican, Norwegian, American, British, African, and those of mixed blood like Hawk, part white, part Cheyenne, part Sioux. To this list, I wish I could add Irish and Swiss … my other friends … Meggie, Susie, Gretchen, Daisy, and their half-breed babies … and my dear little Sara, who was the very first of us to die in the savagery of mankind’s wars.

  I began to weep, remembering them each so vividly, so acutely, wishing that they were here now to share in the camaraderie, the joy, and the peace.

  THE DISAPPEARED

  by Molly Standing Bear

  In 2016, 5,712 indigenous women and girls were reported missing, but only 116 were logged by the U.S. Department of Justice’s federal missing persons database, according to the National Crime Information Center.

  506: The number of indigenous women and girls who have disappeared or been killed in seventy-one urban American cities in 2016, according to a November report by Urban Indian Health Institute.

  1 in 3: That’s how many Native American women have been raped or experienced an attempted rape, according to the Justice Department, more than twice the national average.

  84 percent: That’s how many indigenous women have experienced physical, sexual, or psychological violence in their lifetime, according to the National Institute of Justice.

  —The New York Times (April 12, 2019)

  “Do you know why I keep coming back here every now and then?” I asked JW Dodd one night during a visit to his trailer. I had been coming to check on him periodically, and on this night, I rode my horse over.

  “Because I’m your sex slave?”

  “That’s not funny. No, because I’m like that little bitch dog I told you about. I come back to have a safe place to sleep.”

  “You’re homeless?”

  “You could say that. I don’t have a permanent home. I move around a lot.”

  “And the rest of the time, where do you sleep? Where do you keep your horse?”

  “Here and there. I have friends. I keep my horse at a friend’s ranch. In good weather
I sleep outside, make a little nest of insulation behind the trading post … only kidding about that last part.”

  “This is not really my business, Molly,” he said, serious now, “except that it is, in a way … I have to ask you, do you sleep with other men? And I’m not asking out of any kind of jealousy or possessiveness, only for reasons of hygiene … protection, you understand?”

  “Yeah, of course, I understand, JW,” I answered. “I’m surprised you haven’t asked me sooner.”

  “Well, it’s been on my mind, but for some reason, I’ve had the feeling you were smarter than that, and you wouldn’t take unnecessary risks.”

  “But I have with you. So why wouldn’t I with others?” I asked.

  “Well, because I was thinking you probably trusted that I don’t take unnecessary risks, either. You may have noticed that I’m a rather tidy, borderline germaphobe.”

  “Yeah, I got that part. OK, so that makes two of us … except for being a germaphobe, which I am not … so we’re both smart about protected sex, except with each other.”

  “Yeah, something like that.” He shrugged.

  “I don’t sleep with anyone else, JW,” I said, “just so you know. I used to be stupid, but not anymore.”

  “OK, so thanks for telling me that, Molly.” Then he got pensive: “It’s funny, we really don’t know much about each other, do we?” he asked. “You don’t tell me anything about yourself, and I don’t ask you questions any longer because every time I do, you’re either evasive or flat-out won’t answer them. And you never ask me any personal questions, either.”