Her Cheyenne Warrior

The Indian woman had stopped before a teepee and nodded slightly. Lorna glanced around a final time. While walking, she’d kept an eye out for her friends, but hadn’t seen a glimpse of any of them. She wasn’t a fool. Attempting to run away in the maze of tents would get her nowhere.

With a nod of her own, Lorna bent down and entered through an opening the Indian woman held apart. The interior was primitive. As had been her home the past few months, but while sleeping beneath a wagon, she’d been surrounded by familiar things. Here, she didn’t recognize much of anything. The teepee was circular, with tall logs that allowed her to stand once she’d entered. The narrow poles, at least twice as tall as she, were rather remarkable. They appeared to be identical in length and circumference and neatly fit together at the top, leaving a hole that allowed the sunlight to brighten what might otherwise have been a dark and confining space. Despite the sunlight, it was surprisingly cool inside, and much larger than she’d imagined.

“Nehaeanaha?”

Lorna turned to the other woman and shook her head while shrugging. “I don’t know what you are saying.”

The woman put her fingers to her lips. “Nehaeanaha?”

“Eat?” Lorna mimicked the action. “Nehaeanaha means eat?”

Repeating the action again, the woman nodded. “Nehaeanaha.”

“Why would it need so many syllables?” Lorna asked.

The woman frowned.

Shaking her head, Lorna said, “Never mind.”

“Nehaeanaha?”

Considering their lunch had been interrupted, food didn’t sound too bad. It would give her time to create a plan. “Sure,” Lorna said. “Why not?” Then, trying her best to copy the other woman’s word, she added, “Nehaeanaha.”

The woman’s smile never faded as she gestured for Lorna to sit on a pile of what looked like animal furs before she moved to where several things sat along the edge of the teepee—bowls and such. A few minutes later the woman handed Lorna a wooden bowl with chunks of jerky and a wooden tumbler full of water.

Once her thirst was quenched, Lorna took a bite of the jerky. It was hard and rather tasteless, but she ate it. That was one thing she’d learned since leaving home. Picky eaters went hungry, and hungry people had no energy. She needed all the energy she could get. There was a lot she had to do, and little time.

The woman refilled her bowl as soon as Lorna took out the last piece. Although her stomach could handle more, her jaw couldn’t. “No, thank you,” she said. “I’ve had enough.”

Still smiling, the woman nodded and took away the bowl.

“What is your name?” Lorna asked.

The woman shook her head and shrugged.

Lorna pointed at her chest. “Lorna.” Pointing at the woman, she asked, “Your name?”

The woman nodded and said a single word long enough it would have filled up an entire diary page.

“Uh?” Lorna asked. There was no way she could even attempt to pronounce what had been said.

Smiling brighter, the woman pointed at her lips.

“Happy?” Lorna asked. “You’re happy?” Shaking her head, she added, “I’m glad someone is.”

The woman pointed at her lips again, making her smile bigger.

“I see your smile.” She pulled up a fake one. “See mine?”

The woman giggled.

Lorna giggled, too. These were some strange people. Whether it was her name or not, Smile was a fitting name for the woman. Lorna drank the last of her water and held out the cup. “Thank you.”

Smile returned the cup to the edge of the teepee and then carried something else across the small area. To Lorna’s surprise, it was a hairbrush, a primitive one, but it would do the job. Her hair was a mass of snarls after swimming, and she reached for the brush.

With another ten-syllable word, Smile refused to hand over the brush. Instead, she sat down beside Lorna and started to brush her hair. Anna used to do that, but she’d been merciless when it came to wrenching apart the curls that twisted among each other, whereas Smile was gentle, brushing small sections at a time.

Other memories of England floated through Lorna’s mind. Of her mother. A memory she’d forgotten. Mother had never brushed her hair because once, when Lorna had been very little, Mother had cut it all off. Right to the nape of her neck. Her father had been furious and forbade her mother from ever touching her hair again. Mother hadn’t. Even after her father died. Lorna had been only seven, and didn’t remember a lot about him, considering he’d been absent more than not, but she did remember riding with him, and that hair-cutting incident. How mad he’d been over it.

Smile said something, and the memories disappeared as quickly as they’d formed. “I don’t understand what you’re saying,” Lorna said again.

With her smile never faltering, the woman rose and crossed the small space again. This time toward a pile of things on the other side of the opening. When she turned around, she was holding a hide dress, much like the one she wore. She then pointed at how Lorna’s dress was still wet in spots.

Lorna shook her head. “Oh, no,” she said. “My hair needed to be brushed, but we aren’t playing dress up. Wet or not, I’m not putting that on. I need to find my friends.” It was clear Smile didn’t understand. Lorna rose and crossed the room. Taking the dress from the other woman, she folded it and placed it on top of a pile of other things. “My friends,” she repeated. “The other women with me. I must find them so we can leave.” Waving a hand toward the teepee surrounding them, she said, “We can’t stay here. We are going to California.” Since the other woman didn’t understand a word she said, Lorna added, “I need to check on an investment, one my father willed to me. I’ll be a very rich woman then. I could pay you to help me escape.”

Lorna sighed then, knowing the Indian woman had no idea what she’d said. “I’ve told you more than I’ve told the women I’m traveling with.”

Still smiling, Smile nodded again.

Lorna shrugged but she smiled, too, and nodded. It felt good to tell someone else, even if they didn’t understand. “When I find Elliot Chadwick—he was my father’s partner, and I met his brother in New York—I’m going to see my stepfather pays for what he did to me.”

Chapter Four

Black Horse circled the wagons one more time. They carried foodstuff and clothing, pots and pans, blankets and odd things he did not know the purpose of, but which held no value to him. There were no cases of books like the other holy men and women had tried passing out; nor were there guns or fire water.

He turned to Ayashe, who was gingerly picking through things.

“I no remember what some things are...are for, but no secrets. No traps,” she said. Known as Little One to Tsitsistas, Ayashe had lived with their band for many seasons. A band of Southern Cheyenne had brought her north one hunting season. Before that, she had been on a wagon train that had been attacked. Too young to be a slave, she had been left with his band when the southerners returned to their land. Black Horse believed One Who Heals—a powerful and respected medicine woman—had been the reason the southerners had left Little One behind. They turned children of all ages into slaves, even those younger than Little One had been, but One Who Heals was firmly against such behavior.

He had asked Little One to search the wagon, to look for things the white men might use as traps, or for things the other men could have been after.

“Men no want stuff,” Ayashe said, dropping a blanket. “Bad men want the uh...uh...woman. Women.”

There were times she could not remember the right words. One Who Heals had told him he must make her speak her language, so she did not forget it, and he abided by that, but insisted it was only with him that she used English. Others having such knowledge could be dangerous. The language was strange, and had been hard to learn, but he was thankful he had. It had been useful many times.

Already having come to the same conclusion about what the white men at the river had wanted, Black Horse nodded. He turned to scan the compound. Men like that would not remain without horses for long. They also carried trouble. After telling the warriors to put everything back in the wagon, he gestured toward Little One. “Come.”

Near his lodge, he stopped a young boy and told him to have She Who Smiles bring the white woman to him. Four men were no threat against his warriors, but he wanted to know why they were on Cheyenne land.

He then seated himself in the center of his lodge. In colder times, there would be a fire smoldering in front of him, but during the long sun days, cooking was done outside, keeping the lodges a cool reprieve from the heat. Ayashe sat beside him, as requested. She had grown into a woman over the past winter. Warriors would soon start requesting her as their wife, and it would be up to him to determine whom she would marry. A task he would contemplate very seriously, as he did all the decisions he made for his band. This one would be difficult. He looked upon Ayashe as a sister, and cared much for her.

The flaps of the teepee opened and the white woman poked her head in as if not certain she would enter or not. He almost grinned. The desire surprised him. He was not happy to see her again. Holding his lips tight, he gestured she should enter.

She pulled her head back out and whispered something he could not decipher, but heard She Who Smiles’s soft voice responding.

A moment later, the woman entered. A strange sensation stirring inside him made him frown. Her hair had been combed, but otherwise she looked no different than before. There was still hate in her eyes.

“Tell her to sit down,” he told Ayashe in Cheyenne. “And ask her name.”

Used to translating, Little One said, “Black Horse says you sit, and tell your name.”

“You speak English?” the woman asked, her eyes instantly bright and wide.

“You sit,” Little One said.

The woman did so, without glancing his way. “What’s your name?” she asked.

“Ayashe, Little One. What they call you?”

“Lorna, my name is Lorna Bradford. Where are my friends? Where are our wagons?”

Although not necessary, the routine was for Ayashe to translate everything said into Cheyenne, and she did so.

Black Horse pondered the woman’s name for a moment, and wished he could say it aloud, for it sounded odd in his head. He responded by saying her friends and wagons were safe, and waited for that to be translated by Little One.

“Safe? Where? Where are they?”

Little One repeated what the woman had said, and then told the white woman that he had questions he wanted her to answer.

“I won’t tell him anything until I’m told where my friends are,” the woman responded, giving him a solid glare.

Black Horse held his response until Little One repeated the command. He lifted a brow and shook his head. Once again in Cheyenne, he said, “Tell her she is in no position to demand things.”

Upon hearing his words translated, the woman crossed her arms and glared harder.

He lifted his chin just as bold and defiant, silently telling her he could sit here as long as she could. Longer. They would not break camp to follow the buffalo until a scouting party returned with news that they had found the main herd. Only stragglers had been spotted so far, but the Sun Dance had been performed. The sacred buffalo skull, stuffed with grass to assure plenty of vegetation for the buffalo and therefore plenty of buffalo for the people, sat near the sun pole in the center of the village, rejuvenating its soul to call out to the great herds. The herds would soon arrive. Sweet Medicine never failed.

His thoughts returned to the white woman. The idea of her in his lodge when darkness arrived stirred his blood. Turning to Little One, he said, “Tell her once she answers my questions, you will take her to her friends.”

Little One was still speaking when Lorna started shaking her head. “No, tell him to bring them here, to his tent, or teepee, or whatever you call it. Once I see they are unhurt, I’ll answer his questions.”

Black Horse bit the tip of his tongue. Unhurt? Who did she think they were? The Comanche? While Little One repeated what the woman had said, Black Horse kept his stare leveled on Poeso—a much more fitting name than Lorna. If he had called one of the other women into his lodge in the first place, he would already have his answers.

Never shifting his gaze, he told Little One to find a camp crier to run and tell the warrior families to bring the other women to his lodge.

Without question, Little One rose.

Poeso grabbed Little One’s arm. “Where are you going?” Fear once again clouded her blue eyes when she turned on him. “Where are you sending her?”

Although her fear did not please him, Black Horse offered no answer. Neither did Little One as she broke free and slipped out of the lodge. Poeso started to rise, but he grabbed her arm, forcing her to stay put.

“Let go of me, you brute,” she whispered.

The fear flashing in her eyes turned his stomach cold. She tried to twist from his hold; and though he considered letting her go, he knew she would run if he did. For a brief second, he considered telling her—in her language—that she was in no danger, but chose against it. Little One would return soon.

“You are nothing but a beast, a heathen,” she said between her teeth, hissing like a cat. “And I want my gun back.”

The thought of her little gun made him grin.

“You think that’s funny? You think it’s funny to abuse a woman?”

He was far from abusing her. If she calmed her temper she would know that. He rather liked her hissing and snapping. It made her eyes sparkle and her cheeks turn red. Furthermore, few women dared speak to him so. None. Not in a very long time. Hopping Rabbit used to snap at him when they were married. He had given her the name Hopping Rabbit then, after she’d become his wife, because of how she used to hop about the lodge.

Holding his breath, he waited for the pain that appeared in his chest whenever he thought of his dead wife to build, and then let it go as he blew out the air. It had been two winters and two summers since she had died. Their baby, still inside her, had died, too. That was the way. Death was part of the continuation of life. Everything came from and went back to the earth to rebirth another time, but the end of one life had never hurt him like Hopping Rabbit’s. He never blamed himself for the death of someone as he did his wife and child. Because he had killed them.

A white man at the fort, not a soldier, but one who trades many things, had said Hopping Rabbit would like the white material. It was tiny and soft and had flowers sewn on it. Little One had called it a handkerchief, and Hopping Rabbit had liked it. She held it to her nose, drawing in its smell and smiling. For two days. On the third she became ill. On the fifth, she died. One Who Heals said it was the white man’s sickness. That her medicine could not stop the white man’s poison.

“I know you can hear me. You might not understand my words, but you can hear me.”

Black Horse sighed as his attention returned to the white woman. The Shoshone, miles and miles away, could probably hear her. He did not need that. Did not need his or any band believing he was befriending the white man.

“Where did you go?” she asked as Little One entered the lodge. “What did you do?”

Little One smiled as she sat down, but said nothing. Pride filled him. She was more Cheyenne than white.

“What? You can only speak when he tells you?” Poeso asked. “Speak only when spoken to? You can’t live your life like that. You have to stand up for yourself. Speak your own mind. If you give a man an inch, they’ll take a mile. Don’t let this beast rule you. You—”

“My brother is not a beast,” Little One said sharply.

Black Horse’s stomach flipped. Little One could be as snippy as this white woman when the need occurred. A trait all white women must possess. He should have called One Who Heals into his lodge. Perhaps her great medicine would work on Poeso.

“And I speak whenever I want,” Little One continued. “When I have something to say.”

The white woman looked startled, and snapped her lips closed as noises sounded outside the tent. Her gaze shot to him. He told Little One to open the doorway so she could see her friends.

Little One nodded and rose, and then said, “You stay. Just look.”

As soon as the flap was pulled back, Poeso shouted, “Meg, Betty, Tillie, are you all right?”

“We’re fine, are you?”

“Yes, I’ll be out in a minute.”

Black Horse waved a hand, and Little One let the flap fall back into place and returned to sit beside him. It took a moment for him to remember what information he wanted from this woman. The wind that had entered his lodge had filled the air with Poeso’s scent, and that had stirred a longing in him. “Ask her who those men were at the river.”

Little One did so, and “Hoodlums” was Lorna’s answer.

That much he knew, but waited for Little One to translate it into bad men. “What did they want?”

She sat quiet for a moment after Little One repeated his question, and glanced toward the flap covering the entrance of his lodge. “Ever since Betty’s husband died, Jacob Lerber, the leader of that group of men, had been watching her, waiting to catch her alone. We were all part of the same wagon train, until Tillie became ill after her husband died. That’s when Meg and Betty and I took her and left the wagon train. She needed a doctor. We found one, and as soon as she was better we continued on. We are on our way to California. We don’t have anything of value. Just the supplies we need. There is no reason to keep us here. We won’t tell anyone where your camp is, if that’s what he’s afraid of. In truth, we hope we don’t see anyone along the way. Four women traveling alone might look like an easy target, but we aren’t. We have weapons.”

Black Horse found himself biting his lips together to keep from grinning at how she contradicted herself, and at her mention of weapons. A tiny pistol and old rifle were not weapons. He noted something else while she spoke. Her voice was like that of the people from across the great waters. His father called it England. Where many of the white men come from. Long ago they crossed the great water to take land away from various Indian tribes. They broke promises and angered many. Several tribes, including the Southern Cheyenne along with their Arapaho allies raided unprotected settlements and wagon trains. The retribution of that was still to come. Black Horse had envisioned that would happen when the white men stopped their war against each other. One Who Heals had confirmed it.

Little One told him, “I’m not repeating all that.”

Black Horse nodded and gave himself time to settle his roaming thoughts. The white men fighting each other was good for the tribes. The more men killed, the fewer the Indians needed to battle. Peace and harmony had been the way of Tsitsistas for many generations, long before they had to start following the buffalo to feed their families. He strived for that kind of peace, the kind his father’s father had told stories about. Such harmony could not be found with mistrust living between the bands and the white man. Too many tricks had been played by the white man’s gifts and words. Just as the white trader had tricked him with the poison in the gift he had brought home to Hopping Rabbit, others had been tricked, and others had died. Their poison took many shapes and arrived in many ways. This did not make him hate all white men or seek to harm them. That would spoil his blood, and that of his tribe. A leader could not do that, but he listened carefully to his insides when it came to trusting anyone.

“Did you tell him what I said?” Poeso asked.

“Yes,” Little One answered.

“It didn’t sound like it.”

“The Cheyenne language is different from yours,” Little One explained. “It is easier.”

“It doesn’t sound easier,” she answered.

In order to hide his grin, Black Horse told Little One, “Ask her if others are coming. Going to California. Like her. Holy women dressed in black.”

“No,” the woman answered when Little One translated his question. “We aren’t real nuns. We bought the outfits in Missouri as disguises. It was Meg’s idea. Said we’d be safer wearing them. We gave Betty and Tillie our extra ones after their husbands died and we left the wagon train.”

Black Horse withheld another grin as Little One repeated portions of what had been said. For someone not set on speaking, Poeso said plenty. He turned to Little One. “Tell her they are welcome to spend the night in our camp and leave in the morning.”

Little One frowned, but nodded and did as instructed.

“We don’t want to spend the night,” she said. “We’ll leave now.”

He waved a hand, signaling that was fine with him. He was done with this white woman. Their outfits would keep them safe from other tribes. Many thought those kind of holy white women had special powers. He knew better, but it made no difference, and he would tell his warriors to watch for the white men and steal their horses again if needed.

When Little One finished saying she could leave, Poeso turned to him. “I’ll take my gun now.”

He laughed. “Tell her she can have it after she rides away.”

“After I ride away? That would be impossible,” she said after Little One translated.

“My brother is done with you,” Little One replied. “You leave lodge. See your friends.”

“I’m not leaving without my gun,” she insisted.

Little One looked at him. She was as frustrated with this woman as he. Which was not surprising. Little One was even more wary of whites than he. Black Horse shrugged his shoulder. He would not give this woman her pistol, no matter how tiny it was, until she was far away. “Tell her a brave will follow them as far as the river and give it to her then.”

That seemed to satisfy both of them, and in unison, Little One and the white woman rose to their feet. Neither bid farewell. He did not expect them to, but did wonder what would become of this woman. This poeso. She had the spirit of a mountain lion, and he allowed a grin to form at that thought. If those men from the river were smart, they would forget about these women, especially this one. She was filled with trouble and sprouted it as she walked.

* * *

Lorna couldn’t get out of the teepee fast enough. The chief didn’t frighten her, but he did make her blood boil. He was so arrogant and haughty, she wanted to— Her train of thought stopped right there. Rushing forward, she hugged each of her friends.

“You are all right?” she asked. “No one hurt you?”

“Heavens, no,” Tillie said. “They have been so kind. I had a delightful lunch.”

“I did, too,” Betty supplied. “With a wonderful couple who had three little boys, and...”

Lorna stopped listening to turn to Meg. Once again, the look on her friend’s face almost stopped her heart. “Meg? Meg, what is it?”

Meg didn’t turn her way, and Lorna spun to see what was holding her friend’s interest so deeply that she’d all but turned to stone.

Little One was staring back at Meg, and frowning, as if confused.

Lorna bounced a glance between the two of them, wondering what each of them saw. Neither of them was frightening. In fact, other than that Little One had brown skin and Meg white, the two looked vaguely similar to one another.

Meg finally spoke, but it was to Little One. “Carolyn?”

“No,” Lorna said, “her name is Little One. The Cheyenne call her Aleaha, or something like that.”

“Carolyn.” Meg pulled the habit off her head. “It’s me, Margaret. Your sister.”

Lorna was not expecting that. Neither was Betty or Tillie, considering how they gasped. She spun, only to spy Little One with one hand clasped across her mouth and tears trickling down her cheeks.

Turning back toward Meg, Lorna felt her shoulders slumping. Meg was crying, too, and the next moment, Meg and Little One were hugging.