Savage Arrow

Her thoughts and eyes were drawn back to Reginald when he stopped his buggy and laughed throatily.

“I lied,” he said, his voice filled with a strange glee. “I didn’t bring you into town for a new bonnet, but for you to watch the Indians coming into Tombstone today to beg. Because of the trouble I’ve had with the likes of Chief Thunder Horse, it gives me pure joy to see what is happening to these Indians.”

He leaned closer to Jessie’s face. “Chief Thunder Horse’s days are numbered,” he said between clenched teeth. “Then, like these savages you’ll see today, he’ll be lowered to begging, too.”

Jessie gazed through the thick-lensed glasses into what she felt was pure evil.

She tried to hide the shudder that engulfed her. She didn’t want Reginald to know the depths of her loathing for him, not until she found a way to escape his madness.

“Which Indians are these?” she asked as calmly as she could when she saw a number of Indian warriors walking down the middle of the street.

“Cheyenne,” Reginald said, looking away from Jessie and focusing on the Indians. “These Cheyenne live on a reservation a few miles outside of Tombstone.”

“A reservation?” Jessie said, swallowing hard. She had heard of the harsh lives the Indians lived on reservations, where they were no longer free as they had been since the beginning of time.

She had never seen a reservation, and had never desired to. She didn’t want to look upon the faces of those who had lost everything to the white man, even their pride.

She wanted to ask Reginald if Thunder Horse lived on a reservation, too, but knew better than to mention his name.

But hadn’t Thunder Horse said he lived in a village? Surely if he lived on a reservation, he would call it that, and would have spoken the name with much venom. She had heard that Indians hated to be rounded up like cattle to live on land that was no longer theirs but instead, the United States Government’s.

“Just watch what happens here today,” Reginald said, drawing his horse and buggy to the side of the road, yet remaining inside it. “Jessie, this is ‘beef issue’ day for this band of Cheyenne. Deprived of the hunt as they had always known it, the Indian warriors gather at that cattle pen over yonder to ‘hunt’ their quarry.”

Reginald pointed to a pen, filled with cows. She felt sick to her stomach as she turned toward the warriors again and saw them painting their faces as though they were going to war. When they were finished, they secured quivers of arrows to their backs, then walked toward the penned-up cows, carrying long, huge bows.

“Jessie, let me explain this to you so that you’ll know the true meaning of what’s about to happen,” Reginald said, gazing at the warriors as they took positions around the outside of the fence, their eyes narrowing in eagerness. “The government agents buy the cattle necessary for this hunt from local ranchers, who are glad to have a handy market for their stock. The Indians have claimed the right to kill and butcher their cattle today.”

“But I still don’t understand,” Jessie murmured, not sure if she even wanted to.

“The warriors are going to pursue the white man’s buffalo—in other words, these cows,” Reginald said throatily, obviously anticipating what was about to happen. “They feel this is their last chance to play out their ritual hunt and also ensure themselves of fresh meat.”

“It seems so . . . so . . . indecent of the government to put the Indians in this position,” Jessie said, looking around a

t the Indian women and children who were gathering to watch and encourage their husbands, fathers, brothers, and cousins. For whoever killed the most cows today would be the ones who would have full bellies for the long winter ahead of them.

“What’s indecent is Indians themselves,” Reginald snarled, his eyes narrowing angrily. “They’re nothing but a bunch of filthy savages. I’d hate to get near any of them. I’m sure I’d have fleas all over me from their long, filthy hair.”

“Reginald!” Jessie gasped, paling at the depths of his hatred.

But her thoughts returned to the hunt at hand when the warriors began whooping and hollering as they slaughtered one cow after another. Arrows protruded from the cows that now lay on the ground, dead.

But still several remained that were not yet slain. And those that were still alive were frantic to escape as they clamored and fought to get away from the massacre.

“Lord!” Jessie cried as one of the bulls broke down a section of the fence and began running wildly down the street.

The bull was running straight toward the spot where several Indian children were playing, completely unaware of the approaching danger. Suddenly all but one of the children scattered, screaming.

Jessie saw that the one remaining child, a young brave, stood stone still, his eyes wide with fear, as the bull ran closer and closer to him.

Unable to stay there and merely watch the inevitable, Jessie jumped down from the buggy.

She lifted the hem of her skirt and raced toward the child although Reginald was screaming at her to stop. She grabbed the boy out of the way just in time to save him.

Jessie knelt down and hugged the boy, feeling his fear. He was panting in terror and clinging desperately to her.

When he said something in Cheyenne to her, she guessed that he must be saying “Thank you.”

A young woman she assumed was his mother came crying and took him into her arms. Her tear-filled eyes showed Jessie just how much she appreciated what Jessie had done.