To Dream Anew (3 page)

“Beggin’ the lieutenant’s pardon,” the man began, “but how can you say that? The U.S. Army should never have been caught by surprise like this. How could they have been ambushed without warning?”

Zane heard the disbelief and horror in the man’s voice. He felt a certain degree of it himself. If it could happen to someone like Custer, it could happen to anyone.

“I have to believe that if they’d been prepared, this would never have happened.” Zane tried hard to sound convincing. The truth of the matter was, he wasn’t that certain of his words. The territory around them was wild—untamed and unsettled. The Sioux, Crow, and Cheyenne knew it better than the soldiers could hope to. That’s why they used Indian scouts. How could he convince this soldier of something he couldn’t completely come to terms with himself? “It’s a matter of preparation—of training,” Zane added softly.

The man nodded. “I suppose the Indians are long gone now.”

“The report indicates they’ve moved on down into the Big Horn Mountains.”

“I suppose we’ll give chase.” The soldier looked at Zane, seemingly to pull the truth from him.

“I cannot honestly say. I’ve not been given any orders except to make litters for the wounded and see them safely on their way to the steamer,
Far West,
up on the Big Horn River.”

As the sun dipped below the horizon, Zane longed only for a bath and the ability to blot out all that he’d seen that day. The Sioux and Cheyenne had mutilated most of the dead, believing they were somehow denying their enemy wholeness for all eternity. The wounded were another story entirely. Their misery and fear seemed contagious. Zane longed for word from the couriers who’d gone out days before in search of the
Far West
. They were feared dead, but General Terry, the overall commander, held out hope that they would return, and because of this they were soon to move the wounded to safety.

But could safety be found on Indian land? Every man among them wondered if another ambush awaited them upstream. Every noise, every crack or snap of a twig brought men to attention, guns in hand.

For a long time Zane sat on the riverbank staring blankly at the water.
It’s senseless,
he thought.
I figured to be a peacekeeper, not a killer. I believed it was right to serve, to give of myself to the country that had already given me so much
.

“I thought I was honorable.”

But there had been no honor on the banks of the Marias when Major Baker had led the soldiers in a massacre of innocent Blackfoot Indians. There had been no honor when they’d turned the sick and wounded out into the snow and forty-below temperatures.

Other images came to mind. Other encounters and campaigns. Other hurting, frightened people.

It’s not worth it. I can’t make this right in my own mind… . How can I defend it to anyone else?

All around him his men were eager to hunt down the Sioux and Cheyenne responsible for the Custer massacre. Men spoke the name Custer with the same reverence used for God. The man who had at one time been mocked by some and revered by others was now elevated to sainthood in the eyes of many. With every body buried and every new body found, the men saw nothing but the blood-haze of their anger.

They wanted justice for their fallen leader and comrades.

No, they wanted revenge.

These thoughts haunted Zane throughout the next day and the day after that as the wounded were moved out. The irrepressible heat refused to abate. The high temperatures and searing sun made tempers flare and set the men against one another. At Times, Zane had found it necessary to break up fights, yet he couldn’t bring himself to be too hard on the men. They had seen sights such as no man should ever have to see. They had come here innocent in some ways—boys who were seeking adventure. They would never be innocent again.

“Sir! Come quick. They’ll kill her for sure!” a young private called to Zane as he ran toward him.

Zane jumped to his feet. “What is it? They’ll kill who?”

The private gasped for breath. “We found … we found a squaw and papoose. She’s Sioux, and well, you know the boys ain’t feelin’ too friendly toward ’em right now. Especially ’cause the women were the ones doin’ most of the mutilation.”

“Take me to them. Hurry!”

They turned and ran back the same direction the private had come from.
What am I to do with a squaw? What is she doing here still? Her people have long since moved out
. Or had they? Maybe it was a trap.
What if, like Custer, we find ourselves suddenly attacked by thousands of Sioux? What do I do then?
The questions ricocheted through Zane’s mind and his heart sounded a furious beat in his ears as he approached the circle of blue-coated men.

“Put a bullet in her and be done with it,” one man said.

“No, torture her. Torture her like she done to our men.”

“What’s going on here?” Zane asked in his most authoritative voice.

The men parted at the sound, and Zane stopped in his tracks to see the young woman, tiny babe in arms. She stared at him in wild-eyed fear. Her long hair was sticking out in disarray around her face and shoulders. She was filthy, caked in dust and blood. She’d been wounded, hit in the head and cut on the arms. The baby began to cry.

“She’s a Sioux, Lieutenant,” the man at his left finally answered. “We found her hiding in the thicket. Her and her brat.”

“She’s probably waiting to kill us in our sleep,” another man called out.

Zane walked forward, watching as the woman cringed and pressed herself back against a tree trunk. “She’s hurt. Get the doctor.”

“Beggin’ the lieutenant’s pardon, but the doc is busy with wounded soldiers. He can’t hardly be stoppin’ to take care of some enemy squaw.”

Zane eyed the man hard. The anger he felt inside threatened to boil over and play itself out in a fist to the man’s smug-looking face. Zane turned and looked at the men around him. “So we are to be no better than them? Is that it? We’ve resorted to openly killing unarmed women and children?”

“You saw what they did,” a grizzled sergeant reminded. “Them Sioux women picked the bones of our dead. They made it so some of the men wouldn’t even be known to their mothers. They killed wounded men if they found them still alive.”

“Did anyone catch this woman in such acts?” Zane questioned.

“No, but she’s got blood on her hands!”

“She’s got blood on her face as well. You’ll notice she has a head wound.” Zane turned to the sergeant in particular and pressed the question again. “Did you see her mutilate any bodies?”

“No, sir,” the man answered in a clipped tone. “Didn’t see her try to help any of them either.”

“From the looks of it,” Zane said, getting a better view of the baby as the woman shifted it in her arms, “I’d say she was probably giving birth during the battle. Looks to me that maybe one of our soldiers tried to kill her—maybe even while she was laboring. Takes a brave man to attack a woman giving birth.” Zane felt torn. He knew these men were angry because of their fallen comrades. He understood their rage, but it grieved him to see that they’d become nothing better than savages themselves.

“Now, I want you,” he said, turning to the sergeant, “to go get the doctor. Bring him to my tent.” Zane didn’t wait for a response but instead turned to one of the other men. “Take her to my tent; it’s just up the ridge. Put her in there and get some hot water so the doctor can treat her wounds.”

The man nodded but looked none too happy, while the sergeant trudged up the path in no apparent hurry. Zane drew a deep breath and turned back to the woman. He stepped closer, relieved to see that she made no attempt to retreat further.

“Ma’am, this soldier is going to escort you to my tent. A doctor will come and see to you and the babe. Do you understand?”

She stared at him for a moment, then nodded. The soldier approached and looked back to Zane. He appeared hesitant as to what he should do.

“Go with him, ma’am.”

For several seconds no one moved, then finally the woman stepped out. She held the baby tightly and let her gaze dart from man to man, looking ready to fight anyone who dared to approach.

Another lieutenant reached out to touch Zane’s arm. “Zane, do you really know what you’re doing?”

The woman’s head snapped up and she eyed them both hard. Just as quickly she looked away and clutched the child ever closer.

“I’m doing what any decent Christian man would do. No one touches her,” Zane commanded, looking to his men. “Do you understand? We will not lower ourselves to the standards of savages. I will personally deal with any man who breaks this order. Understood?”

The men grumbled affirmation. A couple of them cast disgruntled comments to the air, but Zane wasn’t sure who had spoken and decided to let it go. He could comprehend their anger—their frustration. But he also knew these men and knew that most of them would never be able to live with themselves if they harmed this unarmed woman. He wanted more than anything to tell them that. To explain that he knew their hearts were burdened because of the previous days. He wanted to let them know that he understood their anguish and the need to avenge their fallen comrades. But he couldn’t. In that moment, Zane knew they would not hear him—they would not respect him. And right now, he needed their respect.

“Get back to your duties,” Zane commanded in a gruff tone. “If you have trouble following my orders, try to imagine telling your wives and mothers of your desire to murder a new mother and her baby. Try to picture how they would react to such thoughts.”

He turned and walked back up the path to where his tent had been erected. He wondered if the doctor would refuse the request to help. He worried that the woman would die in spite of their care. Then he worried that if she lived, someone would seek to kill her and the baby.

He waited outside his tent, hearing the baby cry from within. The doctor finally came some thirty minutes later, looking apprehensive as he approached Zane.

“I understand you have found a wounded squaw and her infant.”

“Yes, Captain. I would appreciate it if you would attend to them. They’re inside my tent.”

The man, older than Zane by a decade, looked at the tent momentarily. “Wouldn’t it be better to just let them die?”

“I don’t know, sir,” Zane replied. “Would it? Is that what Christian men are called to do?”

“This hasn’t been an easy situation. I’ve treated Indians before. I’m not averse to it. However, I have wounded soldiers To deal with and no one is going to take this interference kindly.”

“I’m asking you to see to her. I think she just gave birth. That baby didn’t look very old. She may well die anyway, but at least we will have done the honorable thing.”

“Even if
they
didn’t—is that it?” the doctor questioned.

“Exactly. I can’t help what they did or didn’t do. I can only stand before God with my own deeds.”

“Very well. I’ll see her.”

Zane waited outside the tent for what seemed an eternity. He could hear the captain talk to the young woman in broken Sioux and slow, methodic English. Her answers were muffled and Zane had no way of understanding what she might be saying.

Pacing back and forth in front of the tent, Zane tried not to notice the men who watched him. They were curious to say the least, but they were also angry. Angry at him for interfering with their chance for revenge. Still, Zane couldn’t imagine the barely-eighteen-year-old Thom Martin taking a gun to the woman, even if she were Sioux. He couldn’t see Sam Daden scalping the squaw—especially after he’d spent his first day helping the wounded by throwing up every time he ate something. Then there were Joe Riddle and Will Vernon. They both talked tough and held a great deal of anger for the losses on the battlefield, but Zane didn’t think killing a woman and baby to be in their capabilities.

“Lieutenant, I’d like to speak with you,” the doctor said as he emerged from the tent.

“Yes, sir?”

Zane could see that the captain looked perplexed. He rubbed his jaw and shook his head. “You were right. The woman gave birth just a few days back. Her head wound is more superficial than dangerous, and the baby is in good shape, although born a bit early.” He glanced back at the tent and then returned to eye Zane. “I’m not sure what to think. I guess I’d rather you take a look for yourself.”

Zane shifted his weight. “What do you mean, sir?” His brows knit together. “If you don’t understand, how am I supposed to help?”

“The woman isn’t Sioux.”

“So is she Cheyenne?”

“No. She’s white.”

Zane thought he’d misunderstood. “White?”

The doctor gave a deep sigh. “That’s right. As I washed her wounds I realized she wasn’t Indian at all. She’s as fair as either of us. Speaks English perfectly well.”

“Come to think of it, I spoke to her in English and she had no trouble understanding,” Zane remembered.

The doctor shook his head. “She said she was taken hostage by the Sioux. The baby is the result of being raped by a Sioux warrior. Seems she hated the tribe as much as we do, but she loves that baby.”

“What do we do?”

They moved toward the tent. “Come with me.”

“Yes, sir.”

Zane followed the doctor inside. He turned to secure the flap and give them more light as evening set upon them. This accomplished, he turned and beheld the woman for several moments. His eyes widened at the sight. She was clean now, her dark brown hair smoothed back from her face and flowing freely down her back. She watched him with the same intent interest with which he watched her.

“It can’t be,” he whispered.

She was the spitting image of Susannah Chadwick—his mother.

Without thinking, Zane realized the truth. “Ardith?” he asked, remembering his feisty ten-year-old sister who’d disappeared so many years ago in a swollen river. They’d all believed her to have drowned.

The woman eyed him critically. “I knew it was you. But I didn’t know which one of the twins you were until that soldier called your name. I told the doctor you were my brother.”

He felt awash in emotion. She had often called the twin brothers by their combined names to save time and effort. He used to get mad at her laziness, figuring that everyone could tell him from his twin, Morgan. Now, however, it would sound wondrous to his ears.