The Vengeance of Mothers Read online

  Molly says she doesn’t want to kill soldiers, that she’s not going to fight, because Hawk doesn’t want her to. She’s only goin’ along to look after her friend and partner Pretty Nose, because she feels obligated to do so. We told her that in our opinion that makes for a real poor warrior, and we told Phemie, too. What good is a warrior who is not goin’ to fight, and who wants a partner like that? We wonder if maybe the chaplain ain’t been workin’ on Molly with his turn-the-other-cheek crock a’ shite.

  Phemie just chuckled in that deep way of hers that sounds like it comes up from way down in her belly, and said: “Don’t you girls worry about Molly. Pretty Nose told me that she still wants her as her partner. In the heat of battle, she will do everything she can to protect Pretty Nose, and the rest of us, and that includes killing soldiers if she has to. You’ll see, she will rise to the occasion. I would not have asked her to join our society if I did not believe that.”

  All me and Susie can say is that Molly is real lucky to be partnered up with Pretty Nose. That lass wears an unreadable puss, if ever there was one, which we have never quite been able to figure out … we can’t tell if she’s mad or sad, or both, nor ’ave we ever seen her smile … but she can ride and shoot, fire an arrow, throw a lance, a tomahawk, or a knife like no one else … maybe even better than Phemie, or at least as good … and she does it with a kind of quietness … an intensity that’s scary to witness … We figure that’s why the elders made her a war chief, because she’s got both the talent and the stone coldness of a mother’s vengeance like a force of nature. Aye, she’ll take good care of Molly, though no matter what Phemie says, we still ain’t so sure it works the other way.

  16 June 1876

  Pretty Nose and Phemie have been to war council this morning between Little Wolf, Crazy Horse, Sitting Bull, the Minneconjou warrior named Hump, the Santee leader, Inkpaduta, and the heads of each of the warrior societies from all the different bands, two dozen or so. They say it’s a council never before seen in the history of the tribes, for never have so many come together to fight the soldiers.

  Afterward, Phemie tells us to begin gettin’ our tack, weapons, horses, and war outfits ready, because the scouts say Crook’s troops are on the move again and that tomorrow the battle begins. Aye, tomorrow … speakin’ of the jitters, even though we knew this news was comin’, it sets a whole flurry a’ butterflies loose in our guts. To be sure it’s one thing trainin’ and thinkin’ about the glories of battle, the heroic acts we will commit, the enemies we will smite, the sweet vengeance we will take … and it is quite another when the moment is actually upon us … it is only then that we begin to question if we are really up to the task.

  As if readin’ our minds, Phemie says: “Wake well before dawn, ladies. Dress for battle, get your horses from the corral, and come to our communal tipi. There we will paint each other’s faces. As the paint transforms us into warrior women, and the fierceness of our respective visages reveal themselves to one another, our nerves will settle, and we will feel a great calm descend upon us, like a flutter of butterflies settling quietly on a field of wildflowers. With this calm will come an invincible courage, and that is the spirit we shall take into battle.”

  It’s funny, ’cause just Phemie’s words alone calm our jitters. This is the time me and Susie been waitin’ for, the time that’s kept us alive these past months since our girls and our friends were taken from us. We ain’t sissies, we ain’t goin’ to let our nerves get the best of us, we’re the Kelly sisters, white Cheyenne, Strong-heart warrior women, scourge of the Great Plains, we’re here to kill soldiers, scalp and cut off their bollocks.

  So we’ve taken as our animal protector the kingfisher bird, because it’s a cocky little creature, the way it dives so bold into the water to catch fish with its long beak. We’ve even cut our hair to resemble the ragged crest of feathers that sticks up on its big head, and we’ve learned to make the bird’s piercing rattling cry that is sure to strike terror into the hearts of our enemies. Helen Flight’s friend and protégé, Bridge Girl, who is now tipied up with Lady Hall, has painted images of the kingfisher on our horses’ chests, and lightning bolts on their legs. She may not be anywhere near the artist Helen was, but she learned a few things, and she does good work.

  Aye, we are ready for battle, me and Susie. This is our time.

  18 June 1876

  Like Phemie told us to be, we’re up before dawn that morning, we dress and walk down to the roped-off horse corral by the river, where the boys take turns sleepin’ by a small fire and walkin’ the perimeter to guard against enemy horse thieves. We find our mounts, bridle and saddle ’em, and lead ’em to the meeting lodge just as dawn is breaking. The others are similarly arriving and three other boys are gathered there to look after the horses.

  The old crone, Tóhtoo’a’e, Prairie Woman, who lives in Phemie and Black Man’s lodge has a fire burning inside, with a pot of stewed buffalo meat and roots simmerin’, a tin coffeepot steamin’ beside it. It all smells grand, and though we didn’t think we had much appetite when we first arrived, we do now. Everyone sits down in a circle around the fire, and Tóhtoo’a’e pours us each a half tin cupful of coffee. After she has taken the stew off the fire and it has cooled a bit we pass the pot around and each take some out with our fingers. Everyone is real quiet, lost in our own thoughts for the day, and no one wishes to break the silence.

  Finally Phemie says: “We stay together today as much as possible. You’ve all ridden this country enough now to know the general lay of the land—the draws, hills, and valleys. That is a great advantage to us, and one the soldiers do not have. Remember, we take our direction from Pretty Nose, she is our leader, she makes the decisions, and we follow. As we have worked on in our drills, we strike fast and hard, and we fall back. The soldiers are more numerous than we but they are ponderous and move slowly. Our ponies are quicker, more agile, and we move like the wind.

  “We will encounter infantry troops as well as cavalry. As long as the infantry men are mounted on their mules they will be easy targets for us to strike. However, when engaged they will dismount and form skirmish lines and then they will be dangerous, for there will be at least some skilled marksmen among them, and they have longer-range rifles than we. Do nothing foolhardy such as trying to ride in on them. And always keep an eye out for riflemen hidden on the tops of the hills. Remember, our strategy is to surprise, strike fast and deadly, then fall back and regroup before we strike again.

  “If in the confusion of the fight … and believe me, it will be confusing at times … if you get separated from our group or lost, try to join up with any of our other warrior societies, or those of the Lakota or Arapaho. You do not want to be caught out there alone. This is your first battle; be strong, be brave, but take no unnecessary risks. Except … remember our cardinal rule: we do not leave one of our own wounded on the battlefield. We are the Strong-heart Women. We take care of each other.”

  After Phemie finishes talking to us in English, Pretty Nose addresses her women in Cheyenne, saying roughly the same things.

  Now we set about painting our faces, me and Susie workin’ on each other. We’ve already worked out our designs, we’re both goin’ with red greasepaint background and yellow lightning bolts on our cheeks. We figure that’ll scare the shite out of the bluecoats when they see twin visions of hell bearin’ down on ’em, faces painted, our wild red hair shaped like the crest of the kingfisher.

  Molly and Lady Hall are not usin’ the face paint. “I do not wish to hide behind a mask,” says Molly. “If I must do this, I shall do it as myself, and not disguised.”

  It is daylight now when we step back outside. We gather our horses, check our gear and weapons. We’re all sportin’ shirts of flannel, cotton, or buckskin; men’s buckskin breechclouts and leggings; moccasins of deer, elk, or buffalo hide; we got coats of bright-colored blanket with loose sleeves and a hood, made special for us by the women of the tribe. Me and Susie carry Army Colt .45 single-ac
tion revolvers holstered at our waist on the right side, these taken off the train that was carryin’ the greenhorns, and lucky we are to have ’em, too. Hangin’ from the left side of our gun belts we got trade scalping knives in beaded sheaths, and small tomahawks for close-in fighting. On our backs, we each got a quiver of arrows, and light bows tethered to our saddles, these in case we run out of bullets.

  The other girls are similarly outfitted with some variations depending on their preference and ability with certain weapons. For instance, Molly has her Colt .45 and a Winchester 1873 rifle. Even though she says she ain’t goin’ to fight, she says in case she has to, she wants at least to be prepared, which we take as a good sign. Phemie carries a lance and a rifle in a scabbard at her side, and a holstered Colt; Pretty Nose and Buffalo Calf Road Woman got pistols, rifles, and coup sticks, because that is a big part of the Cheyenne war tradition, the means by which they amass honors on the battlefield. Me and Susie ain’t at all interested in countin’ coup or gatherin’ honors, we just want to kill.

  As we’re mountin’ and preparin’ to move out, damned if Christian Goodman doesn’t ride into our camp. He’s dressed in buckskin and moccasins, and he wears his hair in braids with a single feather stickin’ out of the back of his beaded headband. His skin is bronzed now from our many days in the saddle, and he looks like any other brave. We don’t need to say that he ain’t carryin’ a weapon.

  Phemie asks him what he’s doin’ here, and he says he’s comin’ with us. Phemie says that ain’t possible, because he’s not a member of our society, and we only allow women.

  “Believe me, I do not wish to be a member of your society,” says he. “I am simply accompanying you as a spiritual advisor.” Aye, just what we need among us as we go into battle … another noncombatant.

  “We are going into battle, Christian,” says Phemie. “There will be soldiers shooting at us.”

  “Yes, of course, I am well aware of that. Precisely why you need spiritual support.”

  “You will only get in the way, and you might be killed. I do not wish to be responsible for you.”

  “I fully understand the risk. I will not get in your way, nor are you or anyone else responsible for me. Indeed, it is I who feels responsible for your souls in this ungodly venture. And, after all, Phemie, you can hardly prevent me from following along, can you?”

  Phemie just shakes her head, reins her big white stallion, and we ride out to join the other bands who are coming together on the hillsides.

  The Sioux scouts are reporting to Crazy Horse, who sits his horse on a rise, and the Cheyenne scouts to Little Wolf, mounted on the crest of another hill. The two chiefs still ain’t bosom buddies, but at least they’ve agreed to fight together. And in their war headdresses, the feathered tails of which fall nearly to the ground, they make an impressive sight. After each has a brief parlay with the scouts, as if by some invisible signal, the warrior bands begin to ride out in different directions. Course, all we know to do is what we been told, and that is to follow Pretty Nose.

  We ride down valley for a half hour or so, catching sight of other bands cresting hills or comin’ down side draws that empty into our valley, some of ’em joining us. We begin to hear scattered gunshots in the hills above, then the sound of coyotes howling, except it ain’t coyotes, it’s a signal from the scouts, because Pretty Nose turns her horse in that direction and kicks him into a gallop up the hill. We follow, as do at least three other bands.

  Reaching the top, we see Indians ridin’ hard down below in the swale but they ain’t Cheyenne, Lakota, or Arapaho. We been told there would be Crow and Shoshone warriors in the fight against us, and we see now that the Army has outfitted ’em all with red sashes worn across their chests so that the soldiers don’t mistake ’em for us. Many of these are also wearing Army cavalry hats with the tops cut out, and feathers stickin’ out of ’em, and some have blue cavalry coats. We see now why they’re runnin’ because comin’ down the far hill toward ’em, spread out, whoopin’ up a storm and shootin’, is a mass of our own warriors, three times the size of theirs. Now and then the Crow and Shoshone, whichever they be, we can’t tell, turn in the saddle and shoot at their pursuers. Pretty Nose must assume that the fleeing Indians are heading back toward the main body of the Army, because instead of joining the chase she keeps us to the top of the hill and we follow along parallel to ’em, the same direction they are taking. Yet more warriors have joined up with us now.

  It is not long before we spot the first infantry troops headin’ our way. We know they’re infantry because like the scouts said, they’re ridin’ mules. They see us, too, and just like Phemie said, they dismount, form a skirmish line on the ground, and begin shootin’ at us. We start to spread out, and here is where, as she also warned us they would, things start right quick to get confusing. The soldiers have the longer-range Springfield rifles, of which we were only given two, one Pretty Nose carries, the other Phemie, they being the best shots among us. As we spread out, horses at a dead run, with the sound of gunfire, Indian yells, and bullets flyin’, it is impossible to keep track of anyone besides our own partner and even that ain’t easy. In addition, behind and among and surroundin’ us on all sides now are a mass of at least two to three hundred other warriors … Lakota, Cheyenne, Arapaho, and more comin’, so that our group begins to get broken up and separated from each other. Some of the bands splinter off to approach the soldiers from different angles, others going after the enemy Indians. Me and Susie get swept up in a wave of horsemen galloping down a side draw, and by now we’ve completely lost track of the others. We’re hopin’ that at least some of our women got carried away with us.

  We have a little cover in the coulee, but we’re still gettin’ fired on. Those in the band with whom we now find ourselves ain’t returnin’ fire yet, because the riflemen are still out of our range. At least two separate battles, maybe more, are being fought now, crossing and overlapping, as all the groups have splintered, chasing and being chased, charging and countercharging. All we can hear now is more gunfire, bugles blowing, horses whinnying, and the battle cries of all sides, white and Indian. It’s like some crazy dream that doesn’t make any sense.

  As we reach the head of the draw, ridin’ hard, we come out on a kind of bench where we are fully exposed again. The first skirmish line of riflemen that was shootin’ at us see now that we’ve outflanked ’em. They begin to remount and fall back, but a second line holds their ground and keeps firing. Two warriors’ horses near us get shot out from under ’em with great pained bellows as they go down, and we see one Lakota ridin’ right alongside shot out of his saddle. Me and Susie just keep ridin’ toward the soldiers hard as we can. I don’t know what we’re thinkin’ … it’s just exactly what Phemie told us not to do. Aye, the fact is we’re not thinkin’ at all, we’re just ridin’, and later when we talk about it, we realize that we were both in a kind of trance, only one thought between us, and that was to catch one of those soldiers and kill him. Bullets are flyin’ all around us now, but we don’t care, we don’t worry about gettin’ hit, and we ain’t scared, either, we just keep ridin’ …

  Now we’ve practically reached their second skirmish line, and those soldiers, too, begin to fall back, but they don’t remount their mules. They’re backin’ up on foot, firin’, some of ’em droppin’ their rifles and running in panic. One of the retreating riflemen in front of us stops to reload his rifle. But when he sees me and Susie bearin’ down on him, he drops it and draws a revolver. For some reason … I don’t know why … neither me nor Susie even think to take our Colts from their holsters, instead I pull my tomahawk from my waist and we both together make the high, shrill rattlin’ cry of the kingfisher, risin’ from our chest, and comin’ outta our mouths like the bird itself lives in there. We’re close enough to him now that the soldier must see we’re a pair a’ girls, screamin’ like crazed banshees, our horses still at a dead run toward him. He points his revolver at me and fires, I hear the bullet whistle righ
t past my ear, I can feel the hot sting of wind off it. We rein up at the last second, our little prairie ponies skiddin’ to a halt, and we both leap from their backs and onto the soldier, topplin’ him over backward. He cries out as he falls and drops his gun. When we land Susie rolls off to the side and draws her knife from the scabbard and I’m on top straddlin’ him. I raise my tomahawk high and look down into his eyes, wide in terror. “Please don’t kill me,” he says, “I didn’t mean ya no harm.” But the tomahawk is already comin’ down, as if swingin’ itself, cleaving his skull right between the eyes, spraying me with blood. Susie has her knife out, rips his hat off his head, lifts his coppertop hair in one hand and slices off a good-sized chunk of scalp with the other. I unbuckle the lad’s belt, yank down his trousers and skivvies, and Susie cuts his nut sack off, raises it in the air with the scalp, the whole mess drippin’ warm blood through her fingers, the two of us howlin’ like a pair a’ she-wolves on a fresh kill … in the red mist of battle there is no time to think about what we’ve done, that will come later. The other warriors are now chasin’ down the rest of the infantrymen, who run in disarray, overwhelmed by our sheer numbers, one by one they are caught, killed, scalped.

  Though it’s hard to say for sure as we’ve lost any sense of time, the battle goes on for a good six hours, up and down the valley of the Rosebud and its tributaries—like this first, a series of disconnected skirmishes between our different bands, Army forces, and enemy Indians, all movin’ through the hills, draws, and creek bottoms, makin’ charges and countercharges, retreats and counterretreats, attackin’ and fallin’ back. It ain’t anything like we expected it to be, and doesn’t seem to have any form or sense to it … but then maybe that’s just the way war is … Me and Susie join up with a number of different bands in the course of the fightin’, we’re independent warriors now, separated all this time from our society, killin’ three more soldiers between us and takin’ their trophies like we did the first.