“Hold still, Evelyn.” Margaret Gibbons quickly scrubbed her four-year-old daughter. It was so much easier bathing her here at the pond several yards behind their cabin rather than using precious water that had to be hauled by the barrel from Fort Reno. She scooped water into a deep wooden bowl and poured it over Evelyn to rinse her. The child’s long, blond hair, a mass of curls when it was dry, hung in wet ringlets nearly to her waist. Margaret thought how pretty her daughter was, what a joy to her heart. She had lost two babies since having Evelyn, and she feared this was the only living child she would ever have.
Evelyn laughed with joy at being naked and wet, her big blue eyes dancing with merriment, baby teeth showing through puckery little lips, dimples in her cheeks. Margaret envied her child’s freedom. It was such a hot day that she wished she, too, could strip off her clothes and fall into the water; but even though the pond was hidden by tall grass and a grove of young oak trees, and beyond that a patch of sunflowers, she still felt she would be taking too much of a chance. A hundred or so men roamed the fort grounds only a half mile away, but that was not the only danger. Just south of the fort was the Darlington Indian Agency, occupied mostly by Southern Cheyenne.
Her husband had given her strict orders not to come here alone, but stifling, late-summer temperatures had caused her to throw all caution to the wind. Disobeying his order made her feel she had some say in her life. Ever since she could remember, her parents and her husband were telling her how she must feel, think, behave, speak. Here, alone at the pond, she could just be herself. She could laugh and play with her daughter. She could let the combs out of her hair if she wanted. It was long and blond and wavy like Evelyn’s, but she was never allowed to let it hang loose and free.
It seemed everything about her life was regimented, from when she was very small through her marriage at seventeen. Sometimes she imagined what it might be like to let her hair loose and run naked and screaming through the high grass, embracing the wind and the sun. She loved Edward, but when he made love to her, she wished he would show more passion. She was in turn forced to hold in much of her own passion because she feared he would think her a wanton, sinful woman if she behaved as though making love were anything but a duty, for the sole purpose of bearing children.
Was it sinful to just want to lie with a man? Edward had bedded her and planted his life in her. They had a daughter together. Yet there was so much about that part of marriage that was a mystery to her, even after five years of marriage. Neither had ever seen the other with nothing on, and they had never made love without total darkness. She couldn’t help wonder what it would be like to lie together in the grass, in the warm sunshine.
She closed her eyes. “Father, forgive my sinful thoughts,” she whispered. She was a minister’s wife. She should not be thinking about pleasures of the flesh. Edward was a good man, a righteous man. He had come here because he had felt a calling to bring God’s word to the Indians. By settling near Fort Reno, he could also serve the soldiers there, lonely men who risked their lives trying to keep the unruly Cheyenne on the reservation where they belonged. Edward was convinced that the presence of soldiers was not enough to quell the restlessness of the Indians, who had lately been sneaking off the reservation and making trouble as far north as Kansas and Colorado. Edward believed the Cheyenne needed to learn the white man’s ways, and that started with converting them to Christianity. In his thinking, that was the only way to “tame the wild savages.”
“This is 1875,” Edward had said just last night at supper. “Most Indians except the Sioux in the north have learned they can no longer live the old way. They must conform to a new way of life, and Christianity will help calm their souls and properly civilize them.”
Margaret was not so sure it would be all that easy. They had been here only a short while, and the Indians she had seen hanging around the fort seemed surly, some of them broken and miserable, certainly not eager to embrace the white man’s religion. Surely they felt displaced and lost. The commander at the fort had said that at one time the Southern Cheyenne were some of the fiercest warriors the army had faced, brave fighters who were quite skilled and elusive. The sorry beggars she had seen around the fort did not depict such a people, and she had to wonder what it would be like for her own people if another race came along and pushed them off their land, forced them to live in a place they hated, robbed them of all dignity and possessions, and forced them to change their entire way of thinking and living, lording over them like masters, and handing out food and supplies in meager portions as though they were dogs.
Did Edward ever think of it that way? Did he ever try to understand how they must feel? He acted as though they should gladly embrace their new life and new religion. He was bringing them something wonderful and they should be grateful, but there was no joy in their eyes, and few bothered to listen to his preaching. She wanted desperately to talk to Edward about her own theories on helping the Cheyenne, but she knew he would resent his wife giving him advice. Her place was to take care of home and meals and have babies, and to keep quiet in the area of decision making.
She sighed with frustration. She had not wanted to come to Indian Territory. This place was not as pretty or green or cool as Massachusetts. This little pond was like nothing more than a puddle compared with Massachusetts Bay and the Atlantic Ocean. There were no gulls here, no smell of salt water, no cool ocean breezes. There were trees here, but they were not huge and fat and old like those in Massachusetts. The soil here was red clay, not dark and rich. She felt Edward could be better serving his calling somewhere else, perhaps in a new community in Kansas or Nebraska or Colorado, where white Christian families needed a church and a minister.
“Mommy, get wet with me!” Evelyn splashed water at her mother, interrupting her thoughts.
Margaret laughed. “Oh, you’re not being fair, Evy! Mommy is still dressed. Now you come out of there and get dressed yourself. We have to get back to—” Her words ended in a gasp. A horse had appeared from out of the thick stand of trees to her right. It was painted with stripes, a sun, and arrows. On it sat a dark-skinned man wearing only a loincloth, his black hair hanging long and loose and a leather band tied around his head. He was sweating and looked ill, but there was no doubt he was strong and fierce. He sat staring at them, and Margaret wondered how long he had been watching them before he made an appearance. What did he want?
She realized then that little Evy was naked. She quickly grabbed a towel and wrapped it around her daughter, devastated and frightened that an Indian man had seen a little white girl that way. She picked her up and held her close. “Go away!” she said to the Indian.
His eyelids drooped a little, and suddenly he slumped forward and slid off his horse. Margaret stepped back, keeping a tight hold on Evy, who watched in curious wonder. “Is he sick, Mommy?”
Margaret watched him quietly for a moment. Should she run away and leave him there? Was he dying? A good Christian would go to his aid, no matter the color of his skin. Her heart pounded with fear, and her thoughts raced in confusion. What would Edward have her do? He would probably say she should leave him and run to the fort for help and protection. Again the tiny feeling of rebellion stirred in her soul, making her want to do exactly the opposite. She set Evy on a blanket. “You stay right there, Evy, do you hear? Put on your dress. I know you can do it by yourself.”
“Yes, Mommy.” The child whispered the words, as though she was part of a wonderful, scary adventure. She stood rigid, not bothering with her dress yet, more intent on watching her mother and the wild Indian who had just intruded on their privacy. Her father had taught her she must stay away from the Indians, especially the Indian men, but she found them fascinating, and she wished she could play with some of the Indian children around the fort, but her father would not allow it.
Margaret stepped cautiously closer, and just as she reached the man, he rolled to his side with a groan, making her jump back. Little Evy gasped and covered her mouth with her hand.
“Water,” the man muttered. “I need to reach…water.”
When Margaret first saw him, she had been too frightened to notice any details about him. Now she saw that he had ugly red marks on his neck, almost like burns, and his entire neck and jawline were badly bruised. “The pond is just a few feet away,” she answered, thinking it was good he at least spoke English. He couldn’t be all that much of a savage if he had taken the time to learn the white man’s language. Many of the Indians around the fort still spoke little English. “What happened to you? Can I help you?”
“White men…cattlemen…” That was all he said as he got to his knees.
Margaret reached out hesitantly. She had yet to even touch one of these Indians, and it seemed outright indecent to be touching one who was nearly naked. Again she was disturbed by a curiosity that was surely sinful, for she found herself looking upon his brawny, bare arms and chest with fascination. She had never seen Edward without his shirt on. She grasped his arm, felt his hard muscles as she daringly moved his arm around her shoulders and put her own arm around his waist. “Let me help you to the pond.”
He stumbled beside her to the water’s edge, then walked a few feet into the water and let himself fall into it. Margaret watched him put his head back to wet his hair and cool himself. He said something in his own tongue as he angrily splashed more water onto the burns on his neck.
He seemed better with the relief of the water. He would apparently be all right, and Margaret realized she should take Evy and leave, but her legs would not move. She watched him move out of the water, a powerful-looking man with a physique she imagined was like the Greek gods she had learned about in school. She noticed scars on his breasts above the nipples, and wondered how they had gotten there.
“Mommy, button my dress.”
Margaret looked down at Evy, who stood there grinning at the Indian. “I’m Evy,” she said, totally unafraid. “And this is my mommy. Who are you?”
“Evy, don’t—”
“I am Wild Horse,” the man answered, his voice raspy and strained, as though his throat was sore.
Wild Horse! Margaret had heard the soldiers talk about this man. They called him a troublemaker, one of those who often fled the reservation to try to live the old way. He was supposed to be dangerous. He had run away again only a week ago, and it was rumored he was responsible for raiding farms farther north, shooting at settlers and stealing supplies. Fear gripped her, yet still she could not move. His dark eyes showed no animosity toward Evy when he answered her, but when he moved his gaze to Margaret, those eyes changed. He looked her over curiously, and she could see in that look a man’s satisfaction in what he saw, but there was also a hint of contempt there. “You are…preacher’s woman.”
Margaret could not recall ever having seen him around the fort or the chapel. “How do you know that?”
“No other white women…here. My people tell me of white man who comes to bring his God to us. He brings with him a woman with hair like sun and eyes like sky.”
Margaret felt suddenly warmer, touched by the way he had described her. Run, Margaret! she warned herself, yet something held her there. She swallowed against her fear, and she grasped Evy’s shoulders tightly. The child’s simple gingham dress was still unbuttoned in the back, but Margaret was too afraid to take her eyes off Wild Horse to stop and button it. “What happened to you? What are those marks on your neck?”
There it was! A bitter hatred moved into those frightening dark eyes. Without answering, he turned away and walked unsteadily to his horse, which stood drinking at the water’s edge. He took a red bandana from his supplies and knelt beside the animal, dipping the bandana into the water to wet it. He held it to the burns on his neck.
Margaret wondered at her own bravery—or was it stupidity? She walked closer. “Please, let me help you. Tell me what happened.”
Wild Horse stared across the pond at some jays that flitted about, wishing he could be free again, like them. “White men take cattle through our lands…in places they do not belong.” He winced with pain. “They try to hang me. They track stray cattle…to where I was camped. They surrounded me, pointed weapons at me, and made me give up my own. They say I stole cattle. I did not. They strayed there.” He shivered and dipped the bandana into the water and again applied it to the burns. “It was just excuse for those men to hang an Indian and get away with it. They put a rope over limb of a tree and they forced me onto horse, put rope around my neck, take horse away.” He shivered with rage. “They laughed…while I hung there…slowly choking.”
“Dear God,” Margaret whispered, her heart filled with pity. Was he telling the truth? Or had he really stolen the cattle? Even if he had, was that any reason to string a man up then and there? How could any man do such a thing and watch and laugh? “How did you get away?” Why was she standing here talking to this man who was known to make trouble? Why was her fear fast leaving her?
“It was becoming dark. They stayed only a moment…then rode away. I felt my breath leaving me…felt myself dying, and my rage at those men gave me strength to wrestle my wrists free of ropes with which they tied me. I could not let myself die that way. Hanging means the spirit is cut off and cannot escape to follow Ekutsihimmiyo to land of freedom in afterlife. I reached up. I prayed to Maheo to give me strength to grasp rope above me and pull myself up to tree limb. I got one arm over it and with my other hand I loosened knot around my neck and got out of it. I fell to ground…do not know how long I was there. It was morning when I awoke.” He sat down in the grass and put his hands to his head as though it ached. “I was confused…could not think where to go. I let my horse go where he pleased, and he carried me back here where my people are.”
Evy ran off to chase a butterfly, her dress still flopping open in the back. Margaret felt lost in a torrent of confusion. “You need to tell the soldiers what happened,” she told him.
His dark eyes flashed when he looked up at her. “And you think they would believe me?” he asked with a sneer. “You have not been here long. You do not know how it is for my people. Those men have surely already told their side…that I stole cattle. In eyes of soldiers I am called bad…troublemaker.” He straightened with pride. “I leave this place because I hate it! This is not way for my people to live. We should be free to hunt where we like. This food they give us”—he spit—“it is bad. I go hunt for fresh meat, but I do not steal white man’s cattle!”
Margaret backed away again, realizing his anger was building. She called to Evy, and the girl came running. She knelt down to button her dress, but before she could finish, the child darted away and pointed her chubby little hand toward Wild Horse, touching his cheek with one finger. “I never touched an Indian before,” she said with a sweet grin.
To Margaret’s surprise, Wild Horse smiled, a handsome grin that erased all the hatred that had been in his eyes moments before. “I once had little girl like you. Her hair was not golden. It was dark like mine.” He took a piece of his long hair and held it out for her to see. “Still, she had pretty smile…like yours.”
Evy frowned. “Where is she? Can I play with her?”
A terrible sadness came into his eyes. “She and her mother are gone to place where there is always peace, where grass is always green and water is always cool and clear and there are many buffalo.”
“Will they come back?”
Margaret felt a deep ache in her heart at how he looked away, unable to answer right away. She came closer again, no longer afraid for Evy. “I think Wild Horse is telling you that his daughter and wife have gone to heaven, Evy.” Wild Horse looked up at her gratefully, and she saw tears in his eyes. Such tragedy in that look! She had not even considered these people might have deep feelings for their loved ones the same as whites.
“Oh!” Evy answered, her eyes growing brighter again. “They’re with Jesus then!”
Wild Horse smiled sadly. “We call Him Maheo.” He put a hand to his throat again and bent over, choking and gasping for breath.
Margaret moved to his side, alarmed. “You must be badly injured. You must tell someone about this, Wild Horse.”
He shook his head. “When white men who hanged me…discover I did not die they will tell even bigger lies. They will be afraid I will tell truth of what they did to me. They will…make sure soldiers believe I stole cattle. I must hide until they have…gone on north and I know they will cause no more trouble. My people will help me. They will hide me. I will stay here until tonight. Then I will…find my way into agency. That is last place soldiers will look for me. I have friends there…who will hide me in their homes until I am stronger and can get away again.”
“What about your horse? Won’t it be recognized?”
He took a moment to get his breath. “They will wash off paint…mix into herd of other horses.” He met her eyes. “You are only one who knows. I must trust you…but how can I? You are…white. You will feel it is your duty to tell your husband and soldiers I am here.”
Margaret thought of Edward again. Yes, he would most certainly consider it her duty to report what had happened. It seemed she might be able to help Wild Horse by telling his story for him, but instinct told her what soldiers would think of her talking to the man alone. They would probably laugh at her for believing him, and Edward would be furious that she had come alone to the pond and had subjected herself to what he would consider a terrible danger.
“I believe you’re telling the truth,” she told Wild Horse. “I won’t say anything.”
He drew in his breath, feeling his throat constricting. Was it swelling on the inside? Would he still die from this awful horror? Never would he forget the feeling of that rope tightening around his neck. It would haunt him forever. “How can I…trust you?”
Margaret stood up and folded her arms. “If you think you can’t, then you’ll just have to kill me, won’t you?”
He watched her blue eyes for several long, quiet seconds. He liked this white woman whose name he didn’t know. What was it about her that had compelled him to tell her his story in the first place? Why did he feel he could trust her?
She pressed Evy’s shoulders. “Evy, you must not tell your father or anyone about seeing Wild Horse here at the pond today. If the soldiers find out, they will hunt for him because they think he did something bad, but he did not, so we are going to keep his secret. Can you do that? Do you understand?”
The child nodded. “I won’t tell, Mommy. I can keep a secret.”
Margaret knelt beside her. “That’s a good girl. It’s the right thing to do, Evy. You aren’t doing anything bad, I promise. You’re just helping Wild Horse by not telling anyone he was here.” She looked at Wild Horse. “If I can find a way to help you, to prove those men had no right to try to hang you, I’ll do it.”
Wild Horse was astounded at her willingness to help. “It would not matter. I was not supposed to leave agency. I fear they will soon put me on iron horse that takes bad Indians to that faraway place where they say it is very hot with many insects…that place where many of my people die of homesickness and diseases from white men and from insects.”
Margaret frowned. She had read that some of the more notorious Apache leaders and now some of the Plains tribal leaders were being shipped off to prisons in Florida, where they could not be anywhere near their people and keep them stirred up. Was that what he meant? “Wild Horse, I’m not sure just what I can do, but I can at least find out what the soldiers are saying and let you know.”
His eyes showed his surprise. “I do not understand why you would do this.”
Because it is exactly the opposite of what my husband would say I should do, she thought. “I don’t know, except that I believe you and I am sorry for what you have suffered. No man should be put through such humiliation. I can’t help wonder what your life would be like right now if settlers and soldiers had never come here.”
He dabbed the bandana to the burns on his neck. “It would be very different…and my wife and child would be alive today.”
She wanted to know more about him, his beliefs, about the being he called Maheo, whom had compared to her own Christ. She realized that in order to bring their own religion to these people, they first needed to understand them, what they felt on the inside, what they believed. Edward did not feel that was necessary. What difference did it make what they believed? The important thing was that they learn the white man’s way.
She wished there were more time to talk to him. In only these few minutes she had come to feel comfortable around him, and she was full of questions. But if she stayed here any longer, someone might come looking for her, and Wild Horse would be discovered. “I have to get back or I’ll be missed. I’m not even supposed to come here, but whenever my husband leaves to go preach at the agency, I am free to do what I please. He won’t take us there.” She blushed in embarrassment at the meaning of the remark.
Wild Horse sighed deeply. “He does not wish for his woman and child to be near Cheyenne.” He shook his head. “Go now. Your people will say bad things about you if they find you helping me.”
She turned and picked up the blanket, soap, and towel she had brought with her. “I’m sorry, Wild Horse. I wish I could do more. I will pray for you.”
You are not like the others, he thought. He had met very few white women, none who showed no fear. And this one was so beautiful. He wanted to touch her, to smell her hair, but she was forbidden…and she already had a man. “Do not concern yourself with me. Soon I will be gone again.”
“But how can I get word to you of what the soldiers are saying?”
“My people will hear. They will tell me.”
Their eyes held in a strange attraction neither of them understood. She turned then to leave.
“Wait,” he called in a raspy voice.
Margaret looked back at him. “What is it?”
He studied her form beneath the plain cotton dress she wore. Her waist was slender; her breasts looked full and firm. He wondered how she might look with that golden hair undone, falling over her pale skin. “I do not know what you are called.”
What was the powerful force in his look? Margaret felt like a curious child who had found something new and wonderful, but it was unlikely she would ever see him again. What difference should it make to him what her name was? “Margaret,” she answered. “Most just call me Maggie.”
She hurried away then, and Wild Horse watched after her. “Maggie,” he repeated in a raspy voice. He closed his eyes and lay down in the grass, astounded at his thoughts. He hated whites, more now than ever; yet he was imagining what it might be like to have that pretty, forbidden white woman lying naked beside him.