Her Cheyenne Warrior

“We don’t have a choice,” Meg answered. “We only have one gun, and if you haven’t noticed, there are twenty of them.”

“I don’t care how many there are!”

“You may want to be killed,” Meg said, “but I’d like to see tomorrow.”

“Which we won’t if we go with them,” Lorna insisted.

“These are Cheyenne Indians. They’re peaceful.”

Just then the beast grabbed her by the back of her camisole again, and the back her bloomers. “You call this peaceful?” she shouted at Meg between screaming at him to let her go.

Lorna kicked and continued to scream, but the black-haired heathen carried her to the wagon and tossed her inside as if she weighed no more than a feather pillow. Unable to catch hold of anything, she hit the other women and they all tumbled among the crates and chests. Before they managed to get up, a brave jumped in the back.

His presence had Tillie and Betty whimpering, and Meg pulling Lorna’s hair.

“Stay down,” Meg hissed. “The Cheyenne are peaceful Indians, but I’m sure they’ll only take so much from a white woman.”

“I’ll only take so much from them.” Lorna wrenched her hair away from Meg. The wagon lurched and she planted a hand on top of a trunk to spin around. Another brave was driving. “Did you hitch up the mules?”

“No,” Meg said. “The braves did while you were arguing with their chief in the middle of the river.”

“How do you know so much about Indians?” Lorna asked.

“I told you, I made the trip to California before.”

Meg had told her that, but Lorna hadn’t believed it. Whether she acted like it or not, Meg wasn’t old enough to have gone all the way to California and back to Missouri. At least that was what Lorna had believed up until now. Meg did seem to know a lot about a variety of things they’d needed to know along the way, including Indians, it appeared, but she had figured Meg had learned most of it from reading about it. Just as she had. She’d also hoped they wouldn’t encounter any Indians. None.

Flustered, Lorna said, “He’s not a chief. He doesn’t have a single feather in his hair.” Or clothes on his body, other than a pair of hide britches and moccasins. She chose not to mention that. The others had to have noticed.

“They don’t wear war bonnets all the time,” Meg said. “White people portray that in paintings and books because it makes the Indians look fiercer.”

Lorna glanced at the brave sitting on the back of the wagon. “No, it doesn’t.” If you asked her, a few white feathers among all that black hair might make them look more human. Not that humans had feathers, but wearing nothing other than hide breeches and moccasins, these men looked more like animals than humans. Especially the beast who’d plucked her out of the water. The one who’d stolen her gun. She would get that back. Soon.

She was where she was because of a man, and another, no matter what color his skin might happen to be, was not going to be the reason her life changed again. Was not! She’d fight to the death this time. To the very death.

“Give me those,” she snapped while snatching her clothes from beneath the feet of the brave who sat on the tailgate. It was difficult with the wagon rambling along at a speed it had never gone before, and with the others crowded around her, but Lorna managed to get dressed—minus the habit—and put on her boots.

She then scrambled past Meg and over the trunks until she stuck her head out of the front opening. The brave was too busy trying to control the mules to do much else. Lorna climbed over the back of the seat—despite how Meg tugged on her skirt—and sat down next to him. The other wagon was following them at the same speed. The braves surrounding them had their horses at a gallop, too. The mules would give out long before their horses would; even she could see that.

Whether he was a chief or not, the man on the black horse was a fool to force the animals to continue at this speed. She needed these mules to get her to California.

“What’s his name?” she asked, pointing toward the leader of the band. The one atop the finest horseflesh she’d seen since coming to America. If she had an animal like that, she could have ridden all the way to California, and been there long before now.

The brave hadn’t even glanced her way.

“What do you call him? That one on the black horse?”

The brave didn’t respond.

“Him,” she repeated, “on that black horse, what is his name?”

The brave grunted and slapped the reins across the backs of the mules again.

Lorna let out a grunt, too, before she cupped her hands around her mouth. “Hey, you on the black horse!” When he glanced over one shoulder, she added, “You better slow down! Mules can’t run like horses!”

He turned back, his long hair flying in the wind just like his horse’s mane. The two of them, man and horse, appeared to be one, their movements were so in tune.

“Did you hear me?” she asked.

“Everyone heard you,” Meg said from inside the wagon. “Hush up before you irritate him.”

“I don’t care if I irritate him,” Lorna answered. “He’s already irritated me.”

“He saved us from Lerber.” That was Betty. “They all did. Shouldn’t we be thankful for that? Show a little appreciation?”

Lorna spun around to let the other woman know her thoughts on that. Words weren’t needed. Betty cowered and scooted farther back in the wagon.

“My guess,” Meg said, “is that is Black Horse. He’s the leader of a band of Northern Cheyenne.”

Lorna shot her gaze to Meg. “How do you know that?” The name certainly fit the man.

“I’m just guessing,” Meg said. “They’ll slow down after we cross the river. They are putting distance between us and Lerber.”

“Distance? Why?” Lorna asked. “They killed Lerber.”

“No, they didn’t. I told you they are Cheyenne. They just stole their horses.”

“You can’t be sure of that.” Lorna certainly wasn’t.

“They are the reason I said we had to take the northern route,” Meg said. “The Indians are friendlier. Southern Indians, even bands of Cheyenne, are the ones that kill and kidnap people off wagon trains. They use them as slaves.”

Lorna had assumed Indians were all the same, no matter what band they were. “How can you possibly know that?”

Meg chewed on her bottom lip as if contemplating. After closing her eyes, she sighed. “My father was a wagon master. He led a total of eight trains to California. Two of them, I was with him.”

Lorna hadn’t pressed to know about a family Meg never mentioned. “Where is he now?”

“Dead.”

The word was said with such finality Lorna wouldn’t have pushed further, even if she hadn’t seen the tears Meg swiped at as she sat down and looked the other way.

Lorna swiveled and grabbed the edge of the wagon seat. The horses and riders ahead of them veered left and the wagons followed, slowing their speed as they grew nearer to the trees lining the river. A pathway she’d never have believed wide enough for the wagon, let alone even have noticed, widened and led them down to the river. The brave handled the mules with far more skill than she’d have imagined, or than she had herself. As long as she was being honest with herself she might as well admit it. With little more than a tug on the reins and a high-pitched yelp, he had the mules entering the river. The water was shallow. Even in the middle, the deepest point, it didn’t pass the wheel hubs.

In no time they’d crossed the river and traveled into the trees lining the bank on the other side. Just as Meg had suggested, their pace slowed and remained so as they made their way through a considerable expanse of trees and brush. The trail was only as wide as the wagon, and once again, Lorna sensed that you had to know this trail existed in order to find it. She did have to admit the shade was a substantial relief from the blazing sun they’d traveled under for the past several weeks. She’d take it back though, the heat of the sun that was, to regain her freedom from this heathen as big as the black horse he rode upon.

He hadn’t turned around, not once, to check to see if they’d made it across the river or not, but she’d rarely taken her eyes off him.

“Where are you taking us?” she asked the brave beside her.

A frown wrinkled his forehead, which didn’t surprise her. English was as foreign to him as their language was to her. Turning toward Meg, she asked, “Where are they taking us?”

“Their village would be my guess,” Meg said.

“Why?”

“I haven’t figured that out yet.”

“I have,” Lorna said. “To kill us, right after they rape us.”

“No, they won’t,” Meg insisted. “But that is what Lerber would have done.”

Lorna didn’t doubt Meg was right about Lerber, nor did she doubt that this band of heathens would do the same. Despite Meg’s claims. She’d read about the American Indians, in periodicals from both England and New York. Anger rose inside her. If only the railroad went all the way to the West Coast she would have been riding in a comfortable railcar, like the one she’d traveled in from New York to Missouri. There had been heavy velvet curtains to block out the sun and a real bed. Tension stiffened her neck. Getting to California was worth sleeping on the hard ground, and no one, not even a band of killer Indians was going to stop her from getting there.

“Look at that.”

Lorna turned at Tillie’s hushed exclamation. As the wagon rolled out of the trees, a valley of green grass spread out before them, with a winding stream running through the center of it. Teepees that looked exactly like ones in the books she’d read were set up on both sides of the stream, hundreds of them. The scent of wood smoke filled the air and a group was running out to meet them on the trail. It wasn’t until they grew closer that she realized the group was mainly children and dogs. Some of the dogs were as tall as the children they ran beside, others tiny enough to run through the children’s legs, and many of them were decorated with feathers and paint. She’d read about Indians doing such things to their horses, but not their dogs.

What strange creatures they were, these Indians, and for a brief moment, she wondered what her mother would think of this peculiar sight. Mother hated America, which was partially why Lorna had chosen to return here. Maybe these creatures were part of the reason her mother hated her father’s homeland so severely.

Lorna had told herself she’d love America, if for no other reason than to spite her mother, but painted dogs were hard to ignore. As hard to ignore as the man on the black horse.

Most of the children now ran a circle around him, yipping and clapping. The last trek of their journey he’d led them at a pace the mules were much more accustomed to—slow, miserably slow. As their train rumbled forward, the smaller children and their dogs headed back toward the camp, whooping and yelling in their language. It sounded ugly and harsh, especially when shouted at such a volume. A few of the group, older boys it appeared, ventured all the way to the wagons, where they chattered among themselves and pointed at her sitting on the seat as if she were a circus attraction.

Usually, children and their innocent tactics humored her, but these, as scantily dressed as the big man on the black horse, were alarming. She waved a hand to shoo them away, but they laughed and continued walking alongside the wagon. Shouting, telling them to be gone did little more than make them laugh harder, and mimic her.

“Aren’t they adorable,” Tillie whispered.

It hadn’t been a question, but Lorna answered as if it had been. “Hell, no!”

“Sister Lorna!” Tillie reprimanded. “You shouldn’t curse.”

Being scolded wasn’t necessary. She’d rarely said a curse word before in her life, but today, they were jumping out of her mouth like frogs. Justly so. “I’m no more of a sister than you are, and I doubt the disguise will do us any good here.”

“Nonetheless, you shouldn’t curse. Especially not in front of children.”

“These are Indians,” she answered. “Heathens. The children are just like their parents. Their leader,” she added with renewed scorn. “Besides, they can’t understand a word we say.” Then lifting a hand, she pointed to the others now rushing out to greet them. “None of them.”

“Oh, my,” Tillie whispered.

“Oh, yes,” Lorna mocked. “Oh, my.”

There was now a great amount of shouting, and barking dogs, and those whooping sounds that made the hair on the back of her neck stand straight. The entire village, or at least half of it, now approached the wagon. Old and young lined the trail, babbling strange words and pointing as if watching a parade. The men were shirtless, other than a few who actually had on shirts or vests—stolen from white men they’d killed most likely—and the women had on hide dresses covered with beads and other trinkets. Most of the men wore ankle-high moccasins on their feet, but some men and almost all of the women wore fringe-topped boots made of hide that came up to their knees.

Their little wagon train, still led by the beast Black Horse, traveled all the way to the center of the encampment before stopping. The men on horseback, all except their leader, road several fast circles around the wagons, yipping loudly. The ones leading the horses they’d stolen from Lerber were the loudest, and in turn, received the loudest cheers from the crowd that had gathered.

Their screeches and chants were enough to make a person’s blood run cold. Lorna’s did, and she turned to Meg. “Friendly, you say.”

The astonishment, which was a combination of fear and shock, on Meg’s face sent Lorna’s heart into her throat.

Chapter Three

The white women in the wagon cowered together, holding on to each other as fear filled their eyes. Except for the water woman. She had not covered her mass of curls with the black material like the others, and her stare was not full of fear. It was cold and directed at him. Returning her stare, Black Horse lifted his chin, and allowed the celebration to continue. Acquiring horses, no matter how small the number, was a great accomplishment for any warrior. Because all bands were preparing for the hunting season, raids on Crow or Shoshone for horses had not happened since Tsitsistas had started to move north, and his warriors were enjoying the reception as much as if they had brought home dozens of ponies.

Four other bands had joined his to follow the great herds of buffalo, which was the way their fathers and their fathers’ fathers had done it. Displaying the rewards of the day before other warriors caused great excitement for his entire band.

The bands would separate again after the hunt, each leader taking his people to where they would continue to hunt for deer and elk and then reside until the snow once again melted. As long as the white soldiers continued fighting each other far away, where the sun rose each morning, his people would have another peaceful winter.

A shiver tickled his spine and he hardened his stare at the white woman. More than one tribe had been led into a trap set by the white man. The massacre in Nebraska had been a trap, and the white man’s want of the yellow rocks had caused many other battles. Two winters ago in the land the whites called Minnesota a large number of Sioux had been killed and the survivors had been forced to move west, into Cheyenne land. This spring, after the tribal council, messengers had said the white man found more yellow rock north of Cheyenne land. There would be more battles. More tricks. More traps.

Black Horse lifted a hand. The reception had lasted long enough. “Nehetaa’e!”

His command was instantly obeyed. The warriors slowed their ponies and those gathered near quieted. He then commanded four braves who were married to each take a white woman to their lodges and have their wives look after them. Then he commanded others to take the wagons outside the last circle of lodges and search them thoroughly.

Mahpe he’e, water woman, as he’d aptly named her in his mind, was again the only one to protest, biting and scratching Rising Sun as he attempted to lift her out of the wagon. Black Horse turned away, knowing the warrior was much stronger. After dismounting, he handed Horse over to the young boy waiting for the duty.

“Hotoa’e?” the boy asked.

“Hova’ahane,” Black Horse answered, shaking his head. They had not found buffalo on this day, but soon would. Sweet Medicine promised a successful hunt. Not just to his band, but the others camped with them.

The boy, Rising Sun’s child, nodded and started to lead Horse away, but stopped at the sound of his father’s howl. Black Horse spun around to spy the woman launching herself into the air, claws out.

He caught her by both arms and held her in the air. She would have landed on his back and dug those claws deep into his skin if he had not turned around. Like a mountain cat. Poeso was a much better name for her. She was as wild and most likely as devious as a cat.

Her feet struck his shins as she shouted into his face, “Give me my gun, you ugly heathen!”

He spun her around, but that just made her kick backward. The heels of her boots made his shins smart. Grasping both of her arms in one hand, he wrapped his other arm around her waist to hold her close to his side where her feet could no longer meet with his legs. He lifted his head to shout for Rising Sun to come get her, but the warrior had dread in his eyes. His wife, Little Dove, who was wiping at the blood trickling down her husband’s arm, did not look at him. Did not need to. Black Horse recognized that she did not want the responsibility of the white woman any more than her husband, but they would take her if he told them to.

The white woman was still shouting, and squirming. Black Horse had had enough, and told her so. “Nehetaa’e!”

“Don’t shout at me in that wretched language!” she yelled in return.

Black Horse tightened his hold and glanced around, looking for someone to take the woman. Not a single warrior met his gaze. They all stood stock still, waiting to hear who he would command to take her. Except Sleeps All Day, who scurried away as if suddenly remembering an imminent task. The celebration must have awoken him. Sleeps All Day, along with those he oversaw, stood guard through the moon hours while others slept, and took great pride in his post. He was also unmarried, and therefore not one who could take the woman.

A just leader does not request others to do things he would not do himself, and Black Horse stood by that. Always had. It was part of the reason his band was so strong.

Turning slowly, Black Horse caught the gaze of the only person looking at him. She Who Smiles. His mother-in-law was a gentle woman, not one he could turn this wild poeso over to, even though She Who Smiles stepped closer, nodding.

It was a moment before the white woman stopped shouting long enough to hear She Who Smiles’s soft voice.

Poeso twisted and after giving his mother-in-law a cold glare, turned it on him. “What does she want?”

Black Horse had to bite his tongue to keep from answering in her language. There had been no fear in her eyes before, but it was there now. For no reason. She Who Smiles never raised a hand at anyone. Not even him. Not even after he’d killed her daughter. She Who Smiles did not blame him for Hopping Rabbit’s death. No one did. Except him. He had fallen for one of the white man’s traps, and it had stolen his family from him. If he had been a mere brave, he would have revenged the death of his wife and his son, but a leader had to think of what was best for all, not just for himself.

“What does she want?” the white woman repeated, this time with excruciatingly slow pronunciation.

Burying his thoughts in that dark and hollow grave inside him, he nodded. “Epeva’e,” he said, telling her it was all right for her to go with She Who Smiles.

Lorna shook her head. She had no idea what he’d just said, but understood she was to go with this woman. Not likely. She wasn’t about to go anywhere without her gun. As Black Horse’s hold lessened, she spun. During her fight to get away from the other Indian in order to retrieve her gun from him, she’d lost sight of Meg, Tillie and Betty.

The area that had been as crowded as a marketplace was now empty, and eerily quiet. Even the wagons were gone. She spun back around. Black Horse had completely released her, but there was no sense in attempting to attack him again. His strength was beyond her. Her ribs could very well be bruised from the hold he’d had on her a moment ago.

Softly, the tiny woman whispered something in their language. Coming from her, the words didn’t sound nearly as harsh or ugly as when he spoke. The woman had kind eyes and her long black hair was streaked with gray, which made her look soft and pretty rather than old as one would think.

“I don’t know what you are saying,” Lorna said, frustrated. “I don’t know what anyone is saying, or doing, or...” She pinched at the bridge of her nose in an attempt to hold back the tears. Crying would not accomplish anything, nor would it change anything. She’d promised herself she’d never be in this predicament again. Never be at the mercy of someone else. Ever. She’d crossed the ocean alone, and traveled from New York to Missouri alone.

Lorna lifted her chin. She could do this, too. Glancing between Black Horse and the tiny woman, she chose the woman. Escaping her would be easy. Then she’d find Meg, Tillie and Betty, and the wagons. By nightfall, they’d be well away from these heathens.

Squaring her shoulders, she stepped away from the man and closer to the woman.

They said a few words to each other, things she couldn’t understand, but Lorna didn’t let that bother her. She’d find a way to get her gun back. It was still in the pouch hanging off his waist. Considering his strength, getting it back would not be easy, but not a whole lot had been easy the past year, and that hadn’t stopped her.

He gave her a nod before turning and walking away. Lorna watched to make note of which tent, or teepee as she had read they were called, he entered. As she’d informed Meg, she’d read about the American Indians while on the train from New York and wasn’t completely ignorant of their ways. However, the teepee he ducked down to enter looked no different from the dozens surrounding it. She tried counting from the end of the row, so she’d know which one was his, but there wasn’t a row. Instead, the teepees made a complete circle. Several circles actually. One large one with several smaller ones inside it.

The woman said something softly and gestured for Lorna to follow. She did, all the while trying to make sense of the layout and how to get back to the teepee Black Horse had entered. The farther they walked, the more confusing it became. The circles of teepees were not full circles, but half circles that formed another circle, and then another one. The entire area was a full circle of teepees. The layout was as symmetric as it was perplexing.

Other women and children, as well as a few men, went about their business, never glancing their way as she followed the older woman. The chatter that had once gone silent was about them again, but this time it wasn’t frightening, it just was. Like the noise at the market square or in a neighborhood full of children and good cheer. So were the colors. The teepees were brightly decorated, and Lorna couldn’t imagine where the Indians got the paint from, for it surely wasn’t something people on wagon trains hauled, and she assumed that was how the Indians got most everything they needed. They stole it.

Unless, of course, there was an army post nearby. Most of those had been abandoned, from what Meg said. The soldiers were needed back east to fight against one another. The thrill of having an army post nearby quickly dissolved. From what Meg had said, the few army men left in the west could not be trusted. Then again, she hadn’t been right about the Cheyenne Indians being friendly, so maybe there was a lot she wasn’t right about.

Friendly Indians would have chased away Lerber and his cronies and left them alone. Not have stolen their wagons and brought them here.