PROLOGUE

The Red Dress of Courage

Sioux Territory, Wyoming
Late April, 1873

            Kate Shaw reined in her roan pony atop a rise and drank in the beauty that surrounded her.  Wyoming in early spring was rebounding from another hard winter.  The yellowed grassy slopes around her were already turning to vivid green.  Yellow daisies competed with purple larkspur, and here and there taller thistles bowed and bent to the ever present high plains wind, dancing tirelessly.  The sunshine warmed her yellow braids.  She’d rolled her coat behind her saddle this morning.

            Reverend Jonah Barnes stopped beside her.  He quietly admired the colorful vista, but she noted his eyes strayed more often to her faded red gingham dress than to the multihued flowers around them.

            “Oh, Jonah, this is marvelous.  What a wonderful morning.  After a trip like this, I can almost forget mundane cares of the week and revel in the possibilities of an endless horizon.”

            “That’s a glorious turn of phrase, Kate.  Perhaps you should consider writing poetry—or descriptive prose.”  He removed his hat and wiped his forehead with a bandana.  He put the bandana away and offered Kate his canteen.  She took it and unscrewed the cap to take a long drink.

            Kate returned the canteen and waited as Jonah drank.  At length, they tore their eyes away from the vista and trotted their horses down the rise, moving southward toward the Platte River and home. 

            Warbonnet.  With more than three hundred souls now, the town had doubled in size since Kate arrived.  She’d spent her first nineteen years in Buffalo, New York, but the last three years in Wyoming seemed like a whole new lifetime.

            “Your braids are very becoming, Kate, with beads, ribbon, and those little feathers at the ends.  I didn’t think you’d leave your hair that way.  You told me you've never liked braids.”

            Kate brought the ends of her long braids forward over her shoulders.  This would scandalize her hostess Wizanzan—Moonlight—back in the camp they’d just left.  Braids down the back identified maidens in this Sioux band; wearing longer braids forward meant a woman was married.  They were pretty done this way, she had to admit, but braids had always made her feel like a little girl.  At least this old red dress wasn’t a pinafore.

           “Thank you.  I was wrong and you were right about everything on this trip.  I did conquer my fear of Indians by spending a night in their village.  At first, I couldn’t get to sleep in that teepee full of women, but I must have nodded off at some point.  I’m aware, though, of a rock that spent the night in the small of my back.”

            “You did well your first overnight with the Sioux.  You were braver than those two short visits last fall, when they were camped closer to town.”

            Kate smiled at the thought.  She’d come to Wyoming despite her fears of depredations against white women by “red savages.”  Tales spread by Eastern newspapers, This had been their first visit since the long winter and the first time she’d stayed the night. 

            “I must say,” Jonah continued, “that despite the absence of most of their hunters this time, Red Legs’ band was just as appreciative of Zhi-zhi Pahin as they’ve ever been.”

            Kate stole a sideways glance at Jonah as he said her Lakota name.  Red Legs and his warriors had given her that name two summers ago when she encountered them on a raid to steal horses from the Crow.  Zhi-zhi Pahin, they’d called her.  “Golden Hair.” 

            “That’s just because Red Legs and his men thought I brought them good medicine on their horse raid up in the Yellowstone country.  The most horses they’d ever taken and no casualties among their own warriors or the pursuing Crow.  I didn’t think I’d ever become inspiration for a band of horse thieves.  Oh, the surprises Wyoming can spring on you.”

            Jonah turned his horse left at a small rock that stood at the top of a fan-shaped draw.  He meant to descend into the vale at this point.

            “Why here, Jonah?  Can’t we ride along the ridge a little longer?  It’s glorious up here and I don’t see any wildflowers down there.”

            “Indeed, there are usually none there yet.  I always used to approach Warbonnet from the north when I was a circuit rider.  This draw goes down to Sloan’s Ford, where we can cross to the south bank of the Platte and approach town from the east.”

            They started down the long slope in silence.  They were halfway to the mouth of the draw when Jonah pulled up suddenly.

            “What is it?” Kate asked.

            “Maybe nothing.  Saul has begun to limp a little.  I want to look at his right rear shoe.”  The young preacher got down next to a small stump.

            “That suits me, too.  I can stretch this back of mine and Opie can crop some of this new grass.”  Kate got down, but didn’t keep her pony’s reins.  She knew the horse wouldn’t stray far.

            “Ahhh, a pebble caught in his loose shoe.  It’s rubbing the soft sole.  I can get it out, but perhaps I’ll walk him for a while down this draw.”

           Kate sat on a small stump while Jonah got out his clasp knife.  Down the slope, a brown haze rose between them and the river, nearly a mile away.  She recalled what such a haze could mean out here.  Her misgivings led her to jump to her feet and speak rather too sharply.

          “Jonah, there’s a—”

           Her calling out at that moment must have caused the preacher to jab too hard with his knife.  Saul whinnied and lashed out with the pricked hoof, catching Jonah in the chest and knocking him flat.  Kate tried to break his fall, but the man’s head thunked against the stump.  The pricked Saul sprang away up the slope, following closely by Opie.

           Kate called after the horses, but they didn't slow down.  She went to Jonah and checked him carefully, as a doctor’s daughter had learned to do.  He was breathing regularly, but the back of his head seemed tender.  He moaned when Kate touched him.

           She rose to her feet. 

           Oh, bother.  She'd have to tramp all the way up the slope and see where the horses had stopped.  But there was no help for it.  She gathered her skirts and looked from Jonah down the draw.
The brown haze was higher now, and closer.  Kate’s misgivings turned to fear.  She crouched and placed her palm on the ground.  She could feel the vibration of the earth.  Buffalo!  No wonder no wildflowers grew here.  Jonah’s customary route to Sloan’s Ford must also be the Indians' favorite avenue to drive increasingly scarce buffalo north.

           Kate looked around quickly.  The herd was still a minute away but coming fast.  Their pursuers—the warriors who’d been absent last night—would want to tire the animals on this long slope. 

           She and Jonah were closer to a steep wall of the draw.  Maybe a hundred yards.  If they could get there, they’d be safe from the thundering hooves.  The hunters behind the buffalo would drive them right over this spot and never see two people on foot until too late.

           Five hundred yards now, Kate estimated.

           She reached down and took Jonah by the shoulders.  The slim preacher wasn’t bulky, but he was tall and must have outweighed her by sixty or seventy pounds.  She could barely move him a foot from the stump.  There was no time to cover the distance.

           Four hundred yards. 

           She could hear the rumble now, as well as feel it.  What would Monday Malone do?  The young marshal had survived a cattle stampede while afoot by shooting some of the animals, then burrowing under the carcasses as the herd parted or clambered over the bodies of the fallen.
Three hundred yards.  But Kate’s rifle—Monday’s old Henry repeater—was in a scabbard on Opie.  Far out of reach.           

          Two hundred yards.  Leaders could be easily distinguished now. A few shaggy brown bodies stood out against the cloud of dust.  What had Monday told her Comanche women did to channel a herd?   They waved blankets.  Buffalo saw the flimsy wool fabric as solid obstacles and shied away.  But her blanket was rolled behind Opie’s saddle.

          A hundred yards.  So this was it.  After all she’d survived in the last three years, she and Jonah would be crushed by this onrushing tide.  Unlikely the warriors would notice their bodies afterward, even her bright hair and faded red dress. 

           Her dress!  That had to work.  It was all she had.  Kate gripped the bodice and tore away all the buttons.  Then she crossed her arms and pulled the dress over her head.  She took it by the shoulders.  The first animals were charging by on either side now.  Would those behind them be able to see her pathetic rag and react to it?

           Kate began to flip her dress from side to side, blinking as the rising dust started to sting her eyes and choke her.  She moved forward slightly to stand over Jonah’s body.  Would this rhythm be enough to fool the creatures?  They ran with their heads down.  Would they even see her?

           She couldn’t keep her eyes open.  Her whole world became noise and vibration.  Cows and calves bawled.  The wind of their passing threatened to collapse her insignificant banner.  Her shoulders and back ached from the effort with this makeshift flag.

           Breathing became harder.  Dust filled her nose.  She dared not open her mouth.  She could feel it settle on her hair, on her bare shoulders.  She shook her head even as she strained to keep waving.  It was working, but for how long?  How many more buffalo?  She was tiring. 

          O God, give me strength.

           Kate imagined the herd might be thinning.  There was less noise, less vibration.  She tried to open her eyes.  Bad idea.  The swirling dust that clogged her nose and throat stung her eyes anew.   Tears coursed down her dusty cheeks as she continued to wave the dress.  At least her eyes could produce some moisture.  She wished she could spit.  She settled for coughing and nearly threw up.  She fell to her knees. 

           As the sound and fury of the buffalo faded, Kate laid the dress on the ground.  Her shoulders ached.  She tried to relieve the pain in the small of her back.  No use. 

           She became aware of new sounds.  A few hooves.  Horses?  No jingling of tack.  Indians.  Men!  She groped blindly for her dress, found it, and struggled back to her feet.

           She brushed a hand over her face and got off enough dust that she could blink rapidly and see, with some difficulty.  Nearly a dozen warriors sat on their painted ponies looking at her.  She held her dress in front of her.

           Kate glanced down.  Her bosom, her camisole, her drawers, everything was the same dun color.  Her hair must look the same.  She shook her head to get rid of the dust, but the dusty braids flew around and hit her in the face as she did so, making her cough again.  With her hair so caked, would they recognize her as Zhi-zhi Pahin?  A white woman surely, from her underclothes.  Some of them got down from their ponies. 

           The first Indians bent to look at Jonah.  “Wicasa Tankan Oyate,” the Sioux used to call him—Man Without a Tribe—because he traveled alone.  Since he settled in Warbonnet, they began to call him “Wicasa Tankan Wikoska,” Man Without a Woman.

           She wanted to tell them he was indeed Wicasa, a friend of Spotted Tail and not to be harmed.  She wanted to tell them she was Zhi-zhi Pahin.  But when she tried to talk, she couldn’t manage a decent croak.  The warriors gathered round her.  Those behind her touched her braids.  Hanging behind her now, they meant she was a maiden and so belonged to no man.

           The name Zhi-zhi Pahin went round the dismounted warriors.  One warrior, taller than most and with what looked like a burn scar on his left shoulder, pushed through the group to look at her.  From the bulge in the front of his breechclout, she knew what he was thinking.  She fumbled for the hem of her dress, to pull it over her head.  The scarred warrior snatched it from her grasp.

           But at a word of command from the back of the group, the warriors parted and let an undistinguished medium-sized man come forward.  He must be some sort of leader.  He gestured to the man with Kate’s dress, who grudgingly returned it to her.  He spoke again and two warriors quickly took off after the buffalo.  The leader spoke to Kate’s would-be assailant.  He must have said something disparaging, because the man turned angrily and vaulted onto the back of his pony.  All the men except Kate’s rescuer sped away.

           The man came over to Kate.  She pulled her dress over her head, mindful there were no buttons on the front any more.

           The Indian held out a canteen with “U.S. Army” stamped on it.  Kate didn’t care to think how he acquired it, but sipped a little water to wash the dust out of her mouth, spit, then drank from it gratefully.  She knelt by Jonah and blew dust from his face, then cradled his head and dripped a little water into his mouth.  He swallowed and groaned.  He might come around soon.

           Kate stood to hand back the canteen and saw the first two Indians returning with Saul and Opie.  It looked like all their gear was intact, including Kate’s rifle.

           “Wopida,” she said, the only word of thanks that she knew.  She made the sign for "thank you," bringing her right palm away from her face and nodding a slight sort of bow.  Kate gave the leader back the canteen and touched her chest.  “Zhi-zhi Pahin,” she said, introducing herself.  He made no reply. 

           The leader took the reins of their horses and sent his last two warriors on their way.  He turned to Kate and placed a hand on his own chest.

          “Tashonka Witco,” he said.  Then he added something she couldn’t understand, gesturing to where the buffalo came from, where they went, and indicated the gathering of his warriors.  Was he apologizing for the behavior of his men?  She couldn’t be sure.  The Sioux were as likely to apologize as they would be to smile, she thought.

           At length, he reached out and touched her chest lightly.  “Wachisa Tancodan om Tatonka,” he said.  He repeated it before removing his hand.  Was he giving her a new name?  She knew “tatonka” meant buffalo.  When she didn’t seem to comprehend, he pantomimed dancing as he said “wachisa.”  Then he pointed to her, up and down, and said “tancodan.”  She was all dusty.  Did the name mean “Dusty Buffalo Dancer?”  He turned and vaulted smoothly atop his horse.

          “Wopida,” Kate called again.  He reached down to shake her hand.  He might not know English, but at least he knew that white man’s custom.  As he rode away, Kate heard Jonah stir.  She quickly got a canteen from his saddlehorn for him.

           In a few minutes, the preacher could sit up, propped against the little stump.  Kate recounted the buffalo stampede to explain the crushed grass and dust all over them both. 

           After Jonah drank some more, she reluctantly helped him to his feet.  He showed her he could walk, and thus probably ride.  Kate told him of their final visitor, the Indian who gave them water and ordered their horses returned.  When she repeated his name, Tashonka Witco, Jonah stopped fumbling with his stirrup.

          “Was that really the name he gave you, Kate?”

          “Yes.  As faithfully as I can render it.”

          “Was he average height, broad across the chest, scar to the right of his nose, about 30 years old?”
          “Yes, that sounds like him.  Why?  Do you know him?  Is he a friend of yours?”

          “Hardly.  I don’t know him, but I’ve seen him and heard about him.  So have you, Kate.  Was there anything peculiar about his hair?”

          “His hair?  Well, it was black and worn loose, with two feathers in it that hung downward.  He had one braid on the right side of his head.  Oh, I remember something else.  He had a pebble on a thong that passed under his right arm.  A smooth little stone.”

           “Oh my God,” Jonah said.  This was most unlike him, Kate thought.  He never took the Lord’s name except in prayer.

          “Kate, your rescuer is not the friend of any white man—or woman either, for that matter.  It seems we are beholden today to Crazy Horse.”