Where the Broken Heart Still Beats (6 page)

Of course the sisters still saw each other, but now Crooked Leg had a lot of work to do, more than when she was at home with her parents. Her husband's older wives made her do all the water carrying and wood gathering, and there was no time anymore to sit and talk. Being a wife was not like being a daughter, Crooked Leg told her unhappily.

Then one day Crooked Leg ran off with one of the handsome young braves, and when the couple came back after many days had passed, there was a lot of trouble. The young brave was whipped and forced to give the old man horses and other presents, and Crooked Leg's old husband had cut off the tip of her nose to teach her a lesson. Now no one else would want her, and she would have to stay with him.

Naduah made up her mind that she would not be stupid enough to do something that would result in losing part of her nose.

Then it was her time to marry. Crooked Leg, a gossip, had run all the way from the old man's lodge to tell Naduah what she had heard: Peta Nocona wanted Naduah for a wife.

Peta Nocona was old enough to have proved himself a capable hunter and raider. Already a chief because of his many successful raids, he had a reputation for stealing even the most carefully guarded horses from white men, slipping in and cutting loose the horses he wanted while their owners snored. As a warrior he had counted many coups in battle and had taken an impressive number of scalps. And so he had a good reputation and owned many horses, unlike the younger men who had not yet proved themselves nor accumulated enough wealth to secure a desirable wife. Peta Nocona would be able to provide plenty of meat and skins for his family, and he would be brave in battle. This would reflect well on her.

Yet he was far from old, and was fine looking, too: taller than Naduah, which was unusual because she was taller than all of the women of the People and most of the men as well. His long hair was thick and black, his lips were thin and straight, and his narrow nose arched like an eagle's beak.

Naduah could tell that Crooked Leg was envious. Not only was Peta Nocona the right age as well as being strong, respected, and also wealthy, but Naduah would be his first wife. She would have the power and prestige no matter how many younger wives he took. She would be the one to carry his shield when they moved the camp.

Crooked Leg complained that if Speckled Eagle had not been in such a hurry to marry her off to the old man, Peta Nocona might have wanted to marry her, too, if not as his first wife then in a year or two as his second. Everybody knew it was better to take sisters as wives. They would get along better and not fight among themselves.

Naduah let her talk, not bothering to point out that Crooked Leg was the older sister, Naduah the younger. Peta Nocona would not have married the older sister after he had married the younger one.

The string of horses Peta Nocona led to Speckled Eagle's lodge were all excellent animals, but one of them was pure white, the rarest and finest of all. Of course her father knew all along that Peta Nocona had such a horse, and Peta Nocona must have known that Speckled Eagle admired it—there was not a man in the camp who did not want that horse.

There had not been much discussion about the arrangement. Calls Louder, Naduah's mother, was satisfied and did not put up her usual argument.

Speckled Eagle asked Naduah: Have you anything against this, daughter? She knew that if she did, she would be listened to. Perhaps not granted her wish, but heard, because she was now a favored daughter.

She said she did not.

Her father told her to take the gift horses to his herd—all but the white horse. That one would stay outside his lodge, Speckled Eagle added with a satisfied smile.

Before she left the tipi, she dressed in her best buckskin skirt with fine leather fringes swinging from the uneven hem and the seams, a buckskin blouse stitched with bands of red and black beads, and her finest moccasins. She streaked the part in her light brown hair with vermilion, and she painted her ears red on the inside, daubed her cheeks with orange circles, and took special care with the red and yellow stripes on her eyelids. Last, she put on her favorite necklace of bear claws, taken from bears Speckled Eagle had killed. Then she was ready, knowing that she looked good, as a woman of the People should.

When she came back from taking Peta Nocona's horses to her father's herd, the young chief was waiting for her. He was dressed up, too, in a long blue breechcloth with buckskin leggings and a shirt decorated with silver buttons and glass beads. She took a good look at his clothes. Until now his mother had made them for him and kept them in good condition, but after today it would be Naduah's job, and she knew she would do it well.

His long hair was parted in the middle and tied into two bunches, and he had painted a streak of yellow through his part. The scalp lock, combed from the crown of his head, was tied with eagle feathers. One side of his face was painted blue; the other side was decorated with yellow and white stripes. She was well pleased with him.

They nodded to each other, smiling, and she felt sure that he was pleased with her, too. She followed him to his tipi. Now she was his wife. She would carry his shield when the camp was moved and make certain it was in its place outside the entrance to their tipi. She was proud of the scalps on Peta Nocona's shield, a sign that he was a great warrior.

But, like Crooked Leg, she had not realized how much work it was to be a wife, even though she had seen the women in her own family who seemed never to stop from the moment they awakened in the morning until they fell asleep at night. And there were two wives to please her father! Two of them—plus their own daughters—to prepare all the food and make all the clothes starting with the animal's skin, two of them to make the tipi covers and prepare for moving the camp and setting everything up in a new place, two of them to wait on him and tend to his wishes!

Each of Speckled Eagle's wives had her own tipi where she and her children slept. At night she tied a long leather thong to her wrist. The thong ran from her bed to her husband's, so that he could summon her whenever he wished during the night by yanking on it.

But Naduah was Peta Nocona's only wife, sharing his tipi with him and their children until their sons were old enough to move to their own separate tipis. There were times when she would have given a great deal for another wife to help her with her work, never imagining that someday her work would be taken away from her. Or that one day she would be making loaves of bread for this white family.

The first time Naduah saw the white women making bread, she had been astonished. It still seemed strange to watch the ball of dough swell up; when she punched it down, it would always rise again. What was this living thing that grew in the bowl? There was something in the dough that she did not understand, although they tried to explain it to her. It must be a spirit of some kind, she decided, like the spirits that dwelled in wild animals and in trees and rivers and hills. The People would be interested in this. She would take some to them, when she went back.

Making bread was the one thing she really liked to do. She enjoyed the taste of it, too. But it was the smell of it baking that summoned the memories of when she was very young, like Sarah, before she came to the People. Her mother had taught her to make this bread. In fact, had she not been making bread on that morning when—?
When what?
Her mind always went blank. She could not remember what it was that happened that morning—only the bread and its familiar, delicious smell.

As Loo-see stitched on her quilt and talked about her sister's wedding, Naduah patted the dough into loaves. She kept an eye on Topsannah, dressed in strange white people's clothes, playing white people's games with white children. How could her daughter learn the things she needed to know in order to be a wife of the People when both of them were prisoners here, so far from home?

The idea of escaping was never far from Naduah's mind. Her first attempt had been foolish; she had not planned carefully enough, and, of course, they had caught up with her and brought her back. After that there was always someone watching her—usually Loo-see during the day and the others taking turns at night—to make sure she did not try again. But time had passed, and they were no longer so careful. The days and nights were mild now, and she had the buffalo robe for protection if she needed it.

She knew well enough how dangerous such a journey would be. The main problem was food. Another was water. She would take what she could, but if the search for the People was long, there would be nothing more to eat when that food was gone. The cold weather was past, but this was still long before the plum bushes and grapevines and persimmon trees would bear fruit or the roots and bulbs and plants of the prairie would begin to grow. The People called this "The Season When Babies Cry for Food," because it was the time when their supply of buffalo jerky and pemmican was nearly exhausted, and all of them were hungry.

Even if she were well supplied, which way should she go? Some of the People could read the stars. Although she sometimes stared at the night skies above the cabin, they told her nothing. She would, she decided, ride in the direction of the setting sun where she would eventually find her way back to the People. Or they would find her.

And if she died out there on the vast, empty plains, it was better than dying here.

No sooner do I begin to feel more confident about Cynthia Ann, that she is truly finding contentment here among her family, than something terrible happens.

She ran away again. It was much the same as the last time—only this time she took Grandfather's gelding from the shed and two other horses, not ours. She took her buffalo robe, of course, and she supplied herself with several loaves of bread—she has learned to make it, and very good it is, too—and some jars of Mama's preserves. And, oddly enough, she also took our can of starter, as though she planned to bake more bread on her journey. Where she thought she would find flour, I cannot say.

This time the weather was favorable—we are having a dry spring, for once—and she left no tracks. But she rode into the Bigelows' farm ten miles west of here and made off with two of his horses! The dogs set up a clamor, and Mr. Bigelow pursued her and after a long chase managed to capture her when her horse stepped into a hole. He told us when he brought her back that she fought like a wildcat. That was five days ago. At this moment she appears so subdued, so calm, that I cannot believe she bit and scratched him, although he claims to have the marks to prove it.

Mama and Martha are quite beside themselves over this, but Grandfather says that we must forgive her and pray for her. So there is much prayer going on in our household, for patience for ourselves as much as anything. Frankly she does appear to be completely heathen and is unmoved by our efforts. She has forgotten that her own father's father, Elder John Parker, actually founded a church in Illinois and brought it here to Texas, that had it not been for Elder John and his faith, she would not be here at all.

At least it was not while I was watching her that she ran away. Papa fell asleep when it was his turn to guard her through the night!

Two days ago a Mr. A. F. Corning arrived from Fort Worth with his camera. He had heard about Cynthia Ann—our cousin is very famous in these parts now, the Rescued Captive—and wanted to make a photograph of her. I tried to explain to her what was happening, but how does one go about explaining such a thing?

At any rate, she sat on a bench (
not
on the buffalo robe!), and while Mr. Corning was preparing to make his portrait, Topsannah crawled up on Cynthia Ann's lap to nurse. Cynthia Ann obligingly opened her shirtwaist and the child began to suck. Mama has not been able to persuade Cynthia Ann that she should not nurse the child in public; in this matter she is truly like an animal and thinks nothing of baring her breast, no matter who is present. "She is hungry," Cynthia Ann said, and we were so pleased at her English that we could not be displeased by her behavior.

Mama felt that this was not a fit subject for a photograph, but Mr. Corning seemed quite charmed by the maternal scene and captured it, despite my mother's protests. Mama announced that this so-called portrait will not be displayed in our home, but Grandfather has suggested that it be framed so that only Cynthia Ann's head and shoulders may be seen.

On top of all this, there is even more excitement. Cynthia Ann has been invited to journey to Austin next month to a meeting of the legislature, where she will be recognized by the State of Texas as the most famous of the captive women. We plan to accompany her, and since I have never traveled so far from home, I am in a fever of anticipation.

Mrs. Richard Bigelow—the one whose horses were stolen—and Mrs. Nathaniel Raymond and Mrs. John Henry Brown, all Birdville neighbors, have begun to come by each day to help get her ready. They are making her a handsome cloak of lightweight gray wool trimmed in black soutache and a blue and white silk dress with a pretty white collar. Mrs. Raymond has promised to lend Cynthia Ann a handsome silver brooch to complete the costume. It is quite a sociable atmosphere here at our cabin as the women gather to prepare Cynthia Ann for this great occasion.

Does she grasp what is happening? I think not. Her mind is so unlike ours. And her sadness seems as deep today as it did when she first came to us two months ago. It seems very odd to me that at one moment Cynthia Ann is trying to run away and we are all occupied in trying to bring her back and keep her here, and the next she is to be honored by our government.

Grandfather has come up with a fine idea. He has promised Cynthia Ann that if she does her best to learn the language and ways of the white man, she will be allowed to visit her Indian people again. He explained this to her slowly and carefully, and I could see in her eyes that she understood him. That very hour she came and sat beside me—drew up a stool, not her buffalo robe—and said quite plainly, "I learn to speak your way now."