Wastelakapi…Beloved

Chapter 3

Chapter 3According to Gideon, a murder trial was about to begin in Federal Court in Sioux Falls up on the Missouri River. The defendant was familiar to me. I had fought at Drexel Mission alongside a Brulé named Tasunka or Sanika-Wakan-Ota and remembered him as a pleasant-faced young man with a somewhat awkward manner. His white man’s name was Plenty Horses.

As Gideon told the story, Plenty Horses had been sent by the government to the Carlisle Boarding School in Pennsylvania for five years. He returned home just in time to witness the Wounded Knee m******e. Ironically, Carlisle was the same school I falsely claimed to have attended to explain away both my obvious education and why no one knew me at Pine Ridge. After the battle at Drexel Mission, I returned home with the body of my beloved while Plenty Horses rode for Stronghold Table in the badlands of Pine Ridge. The Brulé rose after the m******e and repaired to this natural fortress to protect themselves against an attack by the very soldiers who had murdered their kinsmen at Wounded Knee.

On the seventh of January of this year, Lt. Casey rode into the stronghold with two Cheyenne scouts. He claimed to have come to determine if the uprising could be settled peacefully. The chiefs refused to talk to him because they planned to meet with General Nelson Miles on the following day. As Lt. Casey turned his mount to leave, Plenty Horses raised a Winchester hidden in his blanket and fired into the back of the officer’s head. The young Lakota was arrested and taken to Fort Meade near Sturgis, South Dakota to be tried for murder.

Landreth’s question about whether Bird and I acknowledged the “war” was over—asked in such a strident tone—fell neatly into place when Gideon said the Brulé’s pro bono lawyers planned to defend him with the claim the parties were at war. The thinking was that the slaying of one combatant by another was not murder.

With that understanding came another answer. The sheriff’s hostility toward Bear and me, and now Winter Bird, was motivated at least in part by fear. He likely considered Indians as mindless, no-account savages who didn’t have the backbone to stand like a man alone, but who instantly became sly and treacherous when there were two or more of them. He wasn’t singular in that opinion.

This both empowered and alarmed me. I glanced at Bird. He’d paid close attention to Gideon’s telling, but was his grasp of English sufficient to follow my brother-in-law’s rapid Yankee speech? My friend’s eyes let me know he’d followed enough of it. That increased my wariness. When a man knows someone fears him, he may pursue the matter too vigorously. Besides, this raised another question. Did Landreth consider the war over?

Gideon must have missed our reaction to his revelation because he moved on to other things. Timo Bowers, the Yanube City blacksmith, was still going strong although he must be in his sixties by now. Most men would have retired to the grave well before that age, but his profession kept him in better shape than most. During my eighteenth summer, he had been the first man to bring me to ejaculation.

Caleb Brown still ran Brown’s Emporium, established by his uncle, the original Caleb. He remained a steadfast friend during all the troubles. He and Timo and Andre were the reason why it was impossible to hate all white men.

Then Gideon brought my attention back to him. “John, how are you really doing?”

I waved away his question. “I’m functioning. That’s about all I can expect. Matthew…Matthew was a great loss.”

He nodded. A blond curl fell over his forehead, making him look younger than his thirty-two years. We were of an age. “I understand, you know,” he said.

I looked him straight in his blue eyes just like a white man. “You understand what?”

“I understand what your relationship was. And I saw for myself the depth of the feeling…uh, the love you shared. I can’t imagine violence taking Rachel Ann away from me like that.”

The hair on my neck bristled, but I took a breath and relaxed. While Gideon and I did not view things through the same eyes, he was a decent man, capable of more understanding than most of his kind. “How long have you known?”

“Quite some time now. You weren’t obvious about your relationship, but I have some insight into the Strobaw family that most people don’t, so I figured it out. I also know the family secret,” he said.

I raised an eyebrow.

“I know you and Rachel Ann and your siblings are half-breeds, not quarter bloods.”

“I wondered when Rachel Ann would share that with you.”

“Only recently, and she revealed the reason for the deception. To make it easier for Cuthan to inherit the Mead. But she never revealed your and Matthew’s secret.”

The European part of my brain prompted me to ask a question. “Do you think less of me now that you know I loved a man?”

He shook his head. “No one who truly knows you could ever think of you as anything but a man. A good man.”

“You realize, of course, that’s what got Otter and James murdered.” I referred to my spiritual grandfather and his mate, retired Major James Morrow.

He hesitated before nodding mutely.

“And the same thing could happen to me.”

“If it does, it won’t be because of me. I respect you too much to decry you to anyone.”

“I wasn’t sure. We’ve crossed swords before,” I reminded him.

“We look at things from different perspectives, that’s true. I don’t know about you, but I’ve learned from that.”

“You gave me my name and my reputation, you know.”

He pursed his lips. “I did?”

“Back in ‘83, I repeated what you told me about those unusual sunsets and blue moons and lavender suns caused by the eruption of Krakatoa over on the other side of the world. The tribesmen I was talking to instantly named me Medicine Hair and declared me a shaman.” I laughed with a trace of irony. “I told them I learned those things from the army’s telegraph, but they decided I had medicine, anyway.”

“Be damned. Didn’t know. Hope you don’t blame me for…?”

I held up a hand. “It wasn’t you who sent Matthew and me to Pine Ridge. It was that shóta, that snake, Raven. He’s the one who ambushed an army patrol in my front yard. By the way, I know you came with the rest of the family to rebuild this place. I appreciate that.”

Gideon shrugged. “Wasn’t anything.”

I laughed. A genuine one this time. “I imagine not. You merely had to find time during the middle of an Indian war to come help your Indian in-laws rebuild a farm your own command had burned to the ground.”

He was silent for a long moment. “I was there, you know.”

“Where?”

“Wounded Knee.”

My jaw dropped. Something moved in my belly. Had I fired on Rachel Ann’s husband like those families ripped apart in the American’s Civil War?

“Not at the…uh, battle,” he said. “But they called in reinforcements when some of the tribes rose afterward.”

“There was no battle, Gideon.” My voice turned bitter. Chill bumps rippled my back. “It was a m******e, pure and simple. A rifle went off. No one will ever know whose, and the soldiers on the hill opened on us with everything they had. They even shot some of their own troops who’d come down to disarm us.” I paused, but he made no response. “Were you at Drexel Mission, too?”

He shook his head. “We remained at Wounded Knee Creek. I looked for you, John. None of the bodies had been buried by the time we arrived, and I walked the whole area afraid that with the next step, I’d find you or Matthew. I didn’t learn about Matthew until later.”

Rachel Ann interrupted that awkward moment and put both of us to work shifting the furniture in the little house so everything was the way she wanted. Bird had disappeared into the blacksmith shop at some point during my talk with Gideon. I was teaching my Lakota friend the foundry trade and discovered him an apt pupil. He took pride in learning to become a mazkape, as the Lakota called a blacksmith. He did not emerge from the building again until after Gideon had taken his leave for the fort. Doubtless, the sight of that blue uniform bothered him beyond tolerating.

* * * *

I finished my day in the fields and made ready for a bath in the okinare, the sweat lodge. I’d used it only sparingly since returning. I had no ready reason why, although Bird’s presence was likely the cause. He reminded me of another muscled body…and this set me to aching without arousing me to action. Today, I crossed the bridge draped in a towel and entered the hot, stuffy brush and canvas structure. Sweat popped out from every pore almost instantly.

“I’ll join you today,” I said in response to Bird’s grunt of surprise. “We need to talk.”

Bird eyed my nakedness. “So talk.”

“Gideon knows about Matthew and me. He knows we were mates. Lovers.”

“How?”

“He’s been around the Strobaws long enough to have learned to read us, I guess. He knows about Billy Strobaw being the Red Win-tay, and he understands Otter’s and James’s relationship. I tell you this because he will soon begin making assumptions about you so long as you remain nearby.”

“Does that worry you?”

“Nay. He’ll not betray me. Or you, I think.”

Bird seemed to relax. “Then why should I worry? Especially, since there is nothing between us.” His words held a touch of acid.

“Because in time, he will add two and two and come up with five.” I knew Bird understood enough of the white man’s arithmetic system to take my meaning. “Besides, what you say is not true. There is something between us. We have a special bond that predates Matthew’s…” I swallowed hard. “Shambling Bear’s death.”

“Aye, there was a feeling that wasn’t acted on. I don’t know what wakhan you hold over me because I still have that feeling. But you…” He paused and raked me with his eyes. “You have lost your feeling for me. For everyone and everything.” He indicated the strong, slightly curved manhood jutting proudly from his loins. “There was a time when you would match me in my excitement even though we both knew we would do nothing so long as Bear stood between us.” He shook his handsome head. “Now you show no feeling. No lust, no desire. You are dead down there.”

I absorbed the pain of his words without showing it. What he said was true. I could appreciate the length of his c**k, the girth. I could scan his lean muscled body and feel…nothing. Not even shame for my inability to react. Grateful for the sweat streaming from every pore, I hoped it hid tears brimming my eyes.

“I will repeat the words I spoke to you over five summers ago,” Bird said. “I am here for you whenever you want or need me.”

I swallowed and made a motion with my hand. “I can help you find relief.”

He did not hesitate. “You’ll not touch me until you want me. I don’t know if that will ever be, but that’s the only way it will come about.”

“I understand. But I can watch while you take care of yourself. Perhaps that will add pepper to the thing.”

Doubt clouded his eyes before he slowly ran his hand down his sweaty flat stomach and cupped his ballsack. Then, watching me intently, he took his swollen che in hand and scaled back the foreskin. His prominent bulb was flushed with blood. It could have been sweat, but I think there was a dew drop of excitement juice at his slit. Then he stroked himself. He never took his eyes from me as he worked harder, faster. His face flushed alarmingly. Was the excitement and effort in this close, moist heat too much for him? As I opened my mouth to put the question, his legs twitched. His entire body stiffened, and he suppressed a loud groan. His c**k swelled in his hand as copious amounts of semen spewed from the tip and splattered his chest. The long eruption subsided into oozing as he continued to pump. Finally, he dropped back against a lodge pole and drew a shaky breath.

“Thank you, Medicine Hair.” Bird had adopted the custom of addressing me by my Indian name when speaking Lakota and my English name when talking American.

I spoke through a clogged throat as the image of another faded from my mind. “You’re welcome, my friend. I wish it could be more. Perhaps in time.”

“Aye, perhaps.”

* * * *

My reaction to what happened in the sweat bath surprised me. I spent the evening hours being touchy about the most common, ordinary things. The stew wasn’t spicy enough. Winter Bird’s amiability touched a nerve.

Rachel Ann saved me by bringing over my two nephews for a visit before bedtime. While I had come to love both boys in the few weeks they’d been on the farm, I struggled to keep from showing favoritism toward Ides. He reminded me of Matthew at that age. I saw the same restless nature in the boy. His would be a warrior’s heart. With whatever trouble that brought.

Prompted by my conversations with Bird in Lakota, Ides expressed interest in learning the language beyond the smattering of words he’d picked up at Teacher’s Mead. He also insisted on an Indian name. Bird immediately took to calling him Istá To or Blue Eyes in Lakota.

Ides reminded me of Matthew physically. Not in his features, which were sharper than my mate’s, but by the shape of the head, by the shoulders that promised to be broad, by the glossy black hair he had started to let grow long. But the boy’s eyes shattered the illusion. The intense blue of a summer sky, they were beautiful yet troublesome. They marked him clearly as someone living in one world but belonging in another. Would either ever fully accept him?

Evenings were the worst time of day for me. I missed the easy companionship Matthew and I had shared then, missed knowing that soon we would be abed where he always demonstrated his physical love so expertly. Tonight, Ides eased my burden by poking at me with questions.

“What was life like at Rivers Bend? Were you really a chief?” The child’s eager voice, so full of curiosity and interest, penetrated the miasma that gripped me and brought me to the here and now.

“Life was hard. Never enough to eat. No firewood to fight off the winter winds.”

“Why didn’t you just go to the cold room and get something to eat?” His question was spurious, as I could see that he clearly knew the answer. His queries were a ruse to provoke me into telling him more. Clever.

I answered his question as if it were a serious one. “Because there was no food in the cold room. The crops had failed, and there was no wild game, and the cattle had died from the cold. We thought about eating little boys but decided against it when their mamas started to cry.”

“Awww…”

“Some wanted to eat little girls because they wouldn’t be so tough and stringy.”

“You’re teasing me.”

“Yes, I am. It was a bad time. Many died of cold and hunger and disease.”

His eyes clouded. He understood pain. “But if you were the chief, why didn’t you help them?”

“I was not a chief. I was the village’s headman, which was a little different. And I tried. Uncle Matthew and I both tried. And we were making some headway, too.” I paused. “Until the troubles.”

His facial expression announced he had decided to approach things from another direction. “Did you ever do the Ghost Dance?”

“Occasionally.”

“Did you wear the shirt?”

“I usually wore a shirt.”

“Nooo! I mean the Ghost Shirt.”

I shook my head. “I never believed in a Ghost Shirt. Nor the dance, either. We could dance until the end of time, but it wouldn’t change things. It just…”

“Go ahead,” Rachel Ann said from the chair where she was repairing some of the children’s clothing. “Tell him. He ought to know.”

I sighed. “It just frightened the whites. Stirred up the army. Made them think we were about to go to war.”

“The army? My dad’s army?”

“Yes, your dad’s army.”

“Well, you did go to war, didn’t you?”

How could I make him see without testing his loyalty to his father? “No. But there was a misunderstanding and some shots got fired. After that, the war broke out.”

“And it got Uncle Matthew killed?”

“Ides!” his mother said.

“That’s all right, Rachel Ann. Yes, that’s when Matthew died. In the middle of the battle.”

“Did you fight? You know, did you shoot anyone?”

I nodded. “To protect myself, I did.”

The boy was lost in his own thoughts for a bit. Then he roused. “I went to war, too, you know?”

I c****d an eyebrow at him. “How so?”

“The boys at the school. They tried to beat me up and told me to go back to the reservation.”

My heart slowed and became heavy. “I didn’t know.”

He straightened his back. “But I showed them. I fought them back. All of them.”

His mother spoke up. “That’s why we went to Teacher’s Mead. The teacher couldn’t or wouldn’t keep her pupils in hand.”

“I thought it was because the wives made you uncomfortable.”

She lifted her head from the needlework. “That, too. It was better to go back home.”

“Sorry. Maybe if Matthew and I hadn’t gone—”

“Hush up. Your being there didn’t make a bit of difference. It was our blood they objected to. The boys and their mothers too.”

My sister gathered her things and prepared to go to her cabin. Gripped by an emotion I did not understand, I stood and embraced Ides. “I love you, son. And I’m proud of you for standing up to them. Always remember that.”

I picked up Gabe and gave him a hug, as well. Brown-haired and brown-eyed, he did not provoke recollections of my beloved, but I felt a stirring of love for this child, as well.

After they left to traipse the fifty yards to the small house, Bird said goodnight and retired to his bedroom, so I washed up and went to mine.

I was fleeing something. Or running toward something without knowing which. Ides, with his looks and his questions, had evoked memories of Shambling Bear—not Matthew, but his Indian incarnation—to the point I would have sworn he was present in my bedchamber. I stripped to my sleeping shift, a simple cotton chenake or loincloth, and fell into bed. But sleep would not come. I closed my eyes and conjured a vivid image of my beloved. Tall, muscled, fit, naked, handsome. I moaned aloud and tore away the apron. I broke into a sweat even though cool night air caressed my bare skin.

Holding desperately to the image imprinted on some portion of my brain, I took myself in hand and pulled back my foreskin. I fingered my slit. A pleasant sensation, but not an erotic one. I stroked my c**k and felt it grow. But it never really hardened, and though I flailed myself desperately, I eventually opened my eyes and gave up the effort.

Panting from my feckless exertions, moaning from frustrated passion, I thought of Matthew’s trek on the Western Road and longed to join him on that lonely path. Why I had not done so, made little sense to me. I did not fear death. But perhaps my mother’s Christian influence stayed my hand from actively seeking it.

I released my flagging manhood, threw an arm over my eyes, and gave a great sob as I descended into a hell of recollections. I saw a bloodied chest, heard the rale of a pierced lung, and relived a desperate flight to escape the sound of gunfire and galloping horses and screams. I don’t know how long I tossed on the mattress before falling into a shallow, restless sleep.