In the Shadow of the Hanging Tree Page 10

  “Mister Hanfield is a tyrant and a despicable man. For fifteen years I’ve endured his degradations for the sake of that young woman in there. Go back to the tavern and speak under your breath about scandal with your motley crew of mudsill friends. I’m going to look out for Miss Hanfield, whatever the cost.”

  “She’s not your daughter, Randall.”

  The statement stung. Randall pulled a small sheaf of bills from the inside pocket of his coat, separated some, and held them out to Miles. “This will more than pay for your room and meals. I won’t be quartered with you.”

  Miles looked at the bills for a moment, then took them with a shrug. He sat back down and resumed refilling his pipe.

  Randall walked back inside the hotel, his head hanging, deep in thought. Two years before beginning employment with the Hanfields, his own daughter—who was twelve at the time—took a fever and died, along with his wife and four-year-old son. They’d lived in a small cottage on the estate of his previous employer. Afterward, he tried to continue working for the family as they’d been good to him

  over the years. In the end, though, he found he simply couldn’t bear the memories.

  He moved into a small boarding house and lived off of money he’d saved for the next eighteen months. Finally becoming restless, he’d interviewed with Jonathon Hanfield. He was well aware of the shipping tycoon’s reputation for being difficult, but Randall felt he was up to the task.

  Missus Hanfield had introduced him to the two-year-old Clara, and Randall had fallen for her at once. He learned that he still had love to give, and in his opinion he could never have found a more deserving recipient.

  Clara was no longer seated at the table; she was talking to the same man (presumably the proprietor) who checked them in. She was holding out an envelope, and the man was nodding his head and smiling, although to Randall he appeared put-upon. Knowing Clara as well as he did, Randall chose to leave her to her business. He sat back down and sipped his cold tea.

  A short time later Clara returned to the table. “Mister Cranston was taken aback by my irregular request. Apparently it’s not every day that an unannounced visitor requires correspondence be delivered to a cadet. I explained to him that I was a relative and must get a message of family importance delivered right away. Now I’m I liar and a thief.”

  “Thief? I’m sorry, perhaps it’s time you explained everything to me because I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “Where is Miles?”

  Randall lowered his eyes and shook his head slowly.

  “I understand. I saw the way he looked at me; the way I would have looked at me not very long ago. I know it’s only the first of many such looks. I also knew that you would never look at me that way.

  “Of course I wouldn’t.”

  “I’ve sent a message to William Drayton. He’s John’s closest friend here at the academy. I’ve never met him, but John speaks well of him. I’m hoping he knows where John was sent. My father claims he was posted in the territories. He never said where. If he knew at all, he wouldn’t want me to.

  As soon as I find out, I’m going to join him.”

  “Miss Hanfield, it’s a hard life out west. What will you do for money? And are you sure Mister Elliot will live up to his fatherly duties? What about your father? He’s not likely to let this go. He could make things very difficult for the two of you, not to mention Mister Elliot’s father.”

  “I took over three thousand dollars from my father’s study. I’ve justified this by considering it the only inheritance I will ever claim from him.” She paused, running the tip of her finger around the rim of her empty teacup. “John loves me. I know this in my heart. He’s kind, truly. A quality I feel is lacking in most men; present company excluded, of course. He’ll be a good husband and a fine father. As far as my own father is concerned, he will be consumed with how others will view this. I believe his fear of scandal will override his need for control and revenge. I think he will be content—as content as someone such as him can be—if I simply stay away. He would only have had me sent away anyway, and my child would have been taken from me. I will never, ever allow that.”

  “What about your mother?”

  “She, of all people, will understand.”

  “I’ll escort you wherever you need to go.”

  “Thank you, Randall, but I’ve demanded too much of you already. Miles was right about me ruining his life—and yours. All I could think about this morning was getting away. It was the selfish act of an overindulged child and I’ll never forgive myself. I’ll manage on my own.” Clara smiled ruefully. “I am my father’s daughter, after all.”

  “What’s done is done, Miss Hanfield, and no one’s life has been ruined. This is merely a bend in the road. I’m afraid I wouldn’t be able to sleep nights not knowing whether or not you reached your destination, though. I will have to insist that you allow me to escort you. You can pay me the sum of fifty dollars, if it will make you feel better.”

  Clara regarded Randall from across the table. His sincerity was undeniable. Here was a face that was as familiar as her own parents’; a face that was quick to smile and rarely displayed anger. It was a face that had comforted her through the small injuries and heartaches of childhood and adolescence. It was the face of the man she had always wished was her father.

  Clara smiled and offered her hand. “I accept your offer, sir.”

  17

  It was shortly before ten o’clock the following morning when there was a tentative knock on Clara’s door. She’d just come up from breakfasting with Randall in the dining room. Miles didn’t join them, but had long since had the horses hitched and ready to go. Unbeknownst to Clara, he’d threatened to leave them if they weren’t ready to leave by nine. Randall, however, had convinced him to stay with another five dollars from his dwindling supply of cash.

  Clara thanked the young woman who delivered the note, and closed the door.

  Dearest Clara,

  I am sorry I cannot visit you personally as I know your need must be urgent to have brought you here to the academy. In regards to John, his whereabouts are a matter of some debate among the cadets and most of the officers are being quite closed-mouthed about the affair. None of the cadets (including this one) have been made privy to any of the details leading up to his departure. I say most of the officers as there is one (who I shall leave unnamed) who has informed me that John is on his way to Fort Laramie in the Dakota Territory. I believe this information to be reliable as the officer in question is very fond of John.

  I am troubled as to why you are here and I pray all is well.

  Yours truly,

  William

  18

  Clara and Randall devised their plan during the coach ride back. They agreed it was likely that Jonathon Hanfield would already have half of the city searching for them and that they should get as far from New York as they could, as quickly as possible. Clara gave Miles one hundred dollars (omitting the fact that she’d stolen it from her father) and apologized to him for the trouble she’d caused. His response to the apology was mumbled and noncommittal, but he took the money. It was dark when Miles left them at the train station in New Jersey. Randall—stating his name as George Randolph—purchased two tickets that would take them to points west by way of Philadelphia. The train departed at eight-fifteen p.m.

  Five

  1

  Somewhere in Kansas, October 22nd 1861.

  Henry opened his eyes. He stared up into the cloudless sky, disorientated. He was lying on his back and moving backwards. The world spun and grayed as he tried to lift his head. He lay back for a moment until the feeling passed. His whole body ached, but his left leg was bright fire. He looked down at his feet. His leg was bent at an unnatural angle midway between his knee and his ankle. Seeing his leg that way made him queasy, and he threw up on himself. There was an exclamation in a language he didn’t understand, and he looked up, startled. The sudden movement of his head made the wor
ld spin more violently. He fought the urge to vomit again. Two men on horseback were following close behind him. One was pointing at Henry and speaking to the other. They were Indians. He’d never seen one himself, but knew that’s what these men were. One was shirtless, and the other wore something ornamental over his chest and torso. It was constructed of beads—probably bone—and resembled a washboard to Henry.

  They aren’t really red at all, he thought as he looked back down at his legs. He was lying on an animal hide that was laid over a frame of thick branches. He was being dragged through the grass and scrub on it. The two riders behind him were pulling similar devices with their horses.

  He slept.

  Pain jarred him awake. He screamed. There were men—Indians—standing over him, and someone was pulling on his leg. He tried to struggle free, but his right arm wouldn’t move and hands were pushing on his chest. The pain in his leg was unbearable; the leg-puller pulled again and Henry screamed a second time. Someone shoved a stick in his mouth. Henry passed out.

  He was being dragged behind a horse again. For how long? Hours? Days? Pain shot up his leg as he was jounced over the uneven ground. The sun was hot on his face…

  2

  Colorado Territory, October 29th 1861

  He awoke; his leg throbbed dully. He was inside a tent made of animal skins. The tent was bigger than Henry and Eliza’s little house had been, and it tapered to a near point at the top where it was open to the sky. Smoke drifted lazily out of the hole. The quality of the light coming from the hole told Henry that it was either dawn or evening.

  There was a small fire burning in the middle of the tent just to Henry’s left. He attempted to push himself up to a sitting position so he could see more, but when he tried he found that he still couldn’t move his right arm. He threw off the hide that was covering him and saw that his arm was being held fast against his body with thin strips of hide. He was completely naked. His left leg was splinted with smooth sticks that were held in place with more strips of hide, and there was some sort of poultice tied to his right knee. He began trying to untie the strips holding his arm in place. The arm didn’t appear injured, and outside of some pain in his shoulder when he flexed his hand, it seemed fine.

  “Hová’aháne!” a man spoke urgently from behind him. The speaker came into view on Henry’s right and hunkered next to him. He took Henry’s left wrist gently but firmly and pulled Henry’s hand away from the knotted thongs. “Névé’nėheševe,” he said soothingly before letting go of Henry’s wrist.

  “Why is my arm tied?” Henry asked. “Do you understand me?”

  The man simply smiled. He was quite a bit older than Henry. His long, black hair was streaked with gray, and his brown eyes were so dark as to appear almost black. After a moment he pulled the buffalo hide back over Henry’s body up to his chest, said a few more words Henry couldn’t understand, then stood and left.

  Henry twisted his head and looked after the man as he exited the tent. The pain in his leg was making it hard to concentrate. He also felt pain on his scalp and inspected the area with his fingers. There was a good-sized lump near the crown and he winced when he touched it. Knocked my head pretty good, he thought.

  He wasn’t afraid. It was obvious the Indians wanted to help him—had most likely saved his life. Why was the real question. He wondered if they were the ones following him all along, or if they’d rescued him from his pursuers.

  The tent opened, and the man returned along with three other men and two women. He squatted next to Henry, put a hand behind Henry’s head, and lifted gently while holding a horn cup to Henry’s lips. Henry hadn’t realized how thirsty he was until the water hit his mouth. He gulped it down as fast as he could swallow, water running down his chin. The man chuckled, and there was some subdued conversation from the people behind him.

  Henry looked up at the people, then back at the man in front of him. He tapped his chest with his finger. “I’m Henry…Henry.”

  The man smiled and nodded. He put a hand to flat on his own chest. “Mo’ohnee’ėstse.”

  “Ma-oh—”

  “Mo’ohnee’ėstse,” the man repeated.

  Henry got it pretty close.

  For the next several days he was nursed by the Indians. Mo’ohnee’ėstse and a woman, who Henry reckoned was his wife, brought Henry food and water and helped him outside to do his necessary. Mo’ohnee’ėstse was patient with him and quick to understand the things Henry was trying to convey. He even seemed to understand some English. At one point Henry wanted his (stolen) trousers, and Mo’ohnee’ėstse had brought them, cut off the left leg from the knee down, and helped Henry into them. Others came and went; some brought food—meat, mostly—some just stood and looked at him, speaking softly to one another. He wondered if they’d ever seen someone like him before.

  He awoke from a doze with sunlight from the open tent flap shining on his face. Mo’ohnee’ėstse entered, followed by another Indian—one of the men who’d stood in the tent on previous occasions, silently observing Henry. He appeared to be a little older than Mo’ohnee’ėstse, and was dressed in a white muslin shirt and deerskin trousers. His long hair was woven into two braids. A third man filed in behind them.

  A white man.

  The man was fiftyish and stoutly built. He looked at Henry curiously, then at the Indian in the muslin shirt. The Indian nodded slightly and the man sat down cross-legged in front of Henry.

  Henry eyed the man warily.

  “My name’s William Bent,” the man said. “You look a little worse for wear…Henry, is it?”

  “Yessir, that’s right. I was thrown from a horse.”

  “That’s what I was told. Standing Elk,” he nodded toward Mo’ohnee’ėstse, “had to put the animal out of its misery. It’s probably been dried and eaten by now. I hope you weren’t too partial to it.”

  Henry glanced at Mo’ohnee’ėstse.

  “You’re his guest—and the guest of Chief Black Kettle.” This time he gestured with an open hand to the man in the muslin shirt, who nodded at Henry. “Standing Elk claims your destiny and his are entwined. He says he dreamed of a great warrior. He says he saw a dark man with the spirit of a bear, and that the man had a scar on his face and would bring great medicine to his people. He says he’s supposed to be this man’s guide in this world. Of course, there was a time I’d be inclined to dismiss talk like that as superstitious nonsense by folks that don’t know any better, but I’ve spent a long time among these people—my sons are half Cheyenne—and I’ve seen enough to know sometimes there’s more to this life than meets the eye. Besides, who am I to scoff at another man’s beliefs? There was also a time I’d be inclined to question what a colored man would be doing in the middle of Kansas carrying a twenty dollar pistol, lying next to a dead horse, with a posse chasing after him.”

  He eyed Henry speculatively for a moment before continuing. “These men seem to think you have some value…do you?”

  Henry thought of the man by the river, and of his failure to save Eliza.

  “I don’t know, sir.”

  “I respect an honest answer. A man like you could do worse than living with the Cheyenne. They’re fine people: fair and generous. Standing Elk and his hunting party saved your life; I guess you know that. If they hadn’t been following a group of Pawnee that ran off with some of their horses, they never would have come across you.

  The men who were chasing you turned around when they spotted the Cheyenne. You must not have been very important to them.”

  Bent glanced back at Black Kettle before continuing.

  “Anyhow, I have to be on my way. Black Kettle just wanted me to have a look at you. You’ll meet my children eventually; two of my sons are about your age.” He stood and looked down at Henry. “Gifts are meaningful to the Cheyenne—very meaningful. Standing Elk was admiring that Colt pistol of yours. Good luck to you, Henry.”

  “Mister Bent?”

  “Yes?”

  “Can you ask Mo’o
hn—Standing Elk, why my arm is tied to my body?”

  “You dislocated your shoulder. You have to let everything heal up or it’ll keep coming out of place. You rest now and let them take care of you.”

  3

  Henry spent the next twenty months with Standing Elk and the Cheyenne. As suggested by William Bent, he gifted the pistol to Standing Elk. In return, Standing Elk and his only wife, Walking Woman, gave Henry the lodge he had convalesced in, four buffalo hides, a pair of doeskin trousers, and a gray mare to replace the horse Henry had lost. Henry had mixed feelings about the whole affair, as the pistol wasn’t really his to give, and the horse had never belonged to him either.

  For the first time in his life Henry was surrounded by people who accepted him as nothing less or more than they saw themselves. Granted, there was a sort of hierarchy within the band, but it was subtle and of no comparison to Henry’s life of masters, overseers, and foremen. Henry learned that respect was earned among the Cheyenne, not purchased or given as a birthright. His heart ached daily for Eliza, and he wondered what she would have made of the Indians.

  At the beginning the Indians’ attitude toward Henry ran the gamut from simple curiosity, to awe, to indifference.

  All respected Standing Elk’s dream, and therefore treated Henry kindly. Most went out of their way to teach him things. The better part of them had never seen a person of African descent, and marveled over things like the way Henry’s hair grew in tight curls. His scars, both on his face and his back were also of great interest. Stories began among the children (and even some adults) that Henry was a great warrior of his people. Black Kettle and some of the elders (including Standing Elk), however, knew that a goodish number of whites were in the habit of keeping people of Henry’s race as slaves.