Renegade Justice

by Judd Cole

  “Bury him tomorrow,” he said, “when you can see what the hell you’re doing. And from now on, keep your weapons to hand. We got us some Cheyennes to kill!”

  From the edge of the basin, well secreted in a dense thicket, Swift Canoe and River of Winds watched the drama between the whites and their fellow Cheyennes.

  Several sleeps earlier, they had spied on Touch the Sky as he found the message from the Bluecoat in the cottonwood tree. Clearly he followed the pony soldier’s orders. Immediately after finding the white man’s talking paper, he and Little Horse had moved their camp closer to this second mustang spread.

  Then, only one sleep earlier, Swift Canoe and River of Winds had followed the two friends as they again checked for messages in the tree. They had run away as soon as they spotted the Bluecoat patrol. Thus, they saw nothing that occurred between the white butchers and their fellow Cheyennes. But Swift Canoe had concluded that the soldiers were coming to meet with Touch the Sky and Little Horse.

  River of Winds said nothing to his companion, who was already like a dog in the hot moon in his thirst for blood. But secretly he suspected that Swift Canoe was right.

  “Brother,” said Swift Canoe now, having watched wordlessly as the paleface coolly shot his wounded companion like a lame horse. “I have thought long over this thing. I have heard stories from warriors whom I trust, warriors who speak one way always. They say that the long knives often secretly attack their own people. This way they blame some enemy and profit from the spoils of war.”

  River of Winds was silent. But he too wondered the same thing Swift Canoe had come to accept as truth: Did this explain the apparent meeting yesterday between the Cheyennes and the Bluecoats? Had Touch the Sky and Little Horse agreed to make war against white settlers to create the appearance that Cheyennes were raiding away from their hunting grounds?

  “Anything is possible,” said River of Winds. “These stories you have heard from the warriors, they are true. But this does not prove that Touch the Sky and Little Horse are spies.”

  “I can tell from your voice, brother, that your own heart does not believe your words. These two are dogs for the white soldier who leaves talking papers in the tree! They not only sell the secrets of Yellow Bear’s tribe to their enemy. They turn a powerful foe against the entire Cheyenne nation!”

  “Anything is possible. We must report to the council soon. Until then, I think with my eyes and ears and nose and not with my head,” said River of Winds.

  “Brother, you have seen more battles and have more winters behind you than I. But sometimes you think too much with your heart too. You will have your proof, and soon. These two bucks learned the art of warfare from Black Elk. Look below and see how well they learned! But brother, even the blind buffalo can scent a wolf! How can your keen eyes not see it? These two Cheyennes are turncoats!”

  Chapter Twelve

  “The tribe is not content,” Arrow Keeper said to the councilors and warriors. “Our chief has finally crossed over in peace, and this is a good thing. But the tribe is unhappy.”

  The old medicine man sat near the center pole of the council lodge, his red Hudson’s Bay blanket drawn tight around his shoulders. Funeral rites for Yellow Bear were over. Now he rested high on a scaffold in a secret forest known only to the Cheyennes.

  This council had been called to discuss the future of the tribe and the upcoming chief-renewal ceremony. The chief-renewal could not be held until all far-flung members of the tribe, now visiting with distant clans, could be summoned by word-bringers.

  “The tribe is unhappy,” said Arrow Keeper, “and I understand this thing. Good meat is scarce. Our annual Spring Dance has been delayed. We have not had our usual gathering to visit with distant clans after the long winter’s isolation. We have not prayed to the Arrows and thanked the Great Spirit for these warm moons.”

  The old men nodded their agreement.

  “Now our chief has crossed over, and we must accomplish these neglected things. The first step belongs to the Headmen. They must decide on an acting peace chief until the renewal ceremony.”

  Black Elk immediately rose. His long war bonnet held one eagle-tail feather for each time he’d counted coup. The crudely sewn-on flap of his dead ear gave him an especially ferocious expression.

  “Fathers and brothers! I am your war chief. You have smoked the common pipe with me many times. May Black Elk die of the yellow vomit if he ever hides in his tipi while his tribe is on the warpath!

  “Headmen, hear my words! Even now Arrow Keeper acts as our peace chief. He is a blooded warrior who has strewn the bones of his enemies on many battlefields! His wisdom is vast like the plains, his medicine strong as the grizzly! Be wise, Headmen, and call on Arrow Keeper to remain as our peace chief until the renewal ceremony!”

  This was greeted with an instant shout of approval from both the warriors and the Headmen. The Headmen did not bother voting with their stones. A quick voice vote confirmed unanimous support for the old shaman.

  “The tribe has spoken with one voice,” said Arrow Keeper, “and I will obey. My first unpleasant duty is to remind all of you that the Lakotas soon leave on their hunt. I have received word from Arapaho runners that Pawnees are on the move north from their hunting grounds below the Weeping Woman River. We must take steps to fortify our camp and strengthen the outlying guard.”

  His last words were directed toward Black Elk. That warrior now said, “All braves must ready their battle rigs and keep them ready.”

  He turned toward Wolf Who Hunts Smiling.

  “Cousin, you must train the junior warriors as quickly as possible! Soon we will have enough beaver pelts to take to the trading post at Red Shale. Then we will have ammunition.”

  Wolf Who Hunts Smiling nodded. His furtive dark eyes were ablaze now with the sense of his own importance. “My warriors will stand and hold when the battle cry sounds!” he said. “Can this be said for Touch the Sky and Little Horse? Now, when the tribe needs every warrior, where are they?”

  Wolf Who Hunts Smiling had recently been speaking with several of the younger warriors, convincing them of the need to protect the tribe from outsiders in spite of the blindness of some of the elders. Now a few of them shouted their approval of his words.

  “We are not here to discuss Touch the Sky,” said Arrow Keeper coldly. “River of Winds and Swift Canoe will make their first report soon enough.”

  “It is never too soon, Father, to expose a turncoat! The sooner we kill these two-faced Cheyennes, the safer our tribe!”

  This too was greeted with a chorus of shouts. Now, for the first time, anger glimmered in Arrow Keeper’s tired old eyes. He surprised everyone by rising nimbly and suddenly unfolding a coyote fur pouch he had been hiding behind his blanket.

  The lodge fell as silent as the forest where they placed their dead. Everyone knew what was in that pouch.

  Arrow Keeper, his gnarled old hands never once trembling, unwrapped four stone-tipped arrows. Their shafts were dyed with bright blue and yellow stripes and fletched with scarlet feathers.

  Arrow Keeper walked close to Wolf Who Hunts Smiling and thrust the arrows toward his face.

  “Do you see these arrows, bloodthirsty Cheyenne buck? These are the sacred Medicine Arrows which you and all other warriors have sworn, with your life, to keep forever sweet and clean! And now, in the presence of the Arrows, will you speak boldly of shedding the blood of your own?”

  Arrow Keeper’s voice was brittle with anger and disappointment. Wolf Who Hunts Smiling was shamed. A hot flush crept up his neck and into his face as he saw all the warriors and Headmen staring at him, their grim faces sharing in Arrow Keeper’s disapproval.

  “But Father! Hear my words.”

  “Silence, cousin!” commanded Black Elk. “Your chief has spoken. Do not further sully our Arrows with your unmanly disrespect!”

  Wolf Who Hunts Smiling obediently closed his mouth and sat down on the robe-covered floor of the lodge. But anger seethed in
side of him. How he hated this tall Cheyenne stranger who always managed to make him look like a fool— even when he wasn’t present!

  “Wake up, niece! Must you always be dreaming?”

  With a guilty start, Honey Eater forced her thoughts back to the present. The beadwork shawl she was supposed to be working on lay untouched in her lap. Her aunt, Sharp Nosed Woman, stared at her with an impatient frown.

  “I am sorry, Aunt. Did you speak?”

  Sharp Nosed Woman shook her head and muttered something under her breath. She was the sister of Honey Eater’s dead mother, Singing Woman, who had been shot dead by Pawnees before Honey Eater’s eyes.

  Sharp Nosed Woman was a middle-aged widow who had lost her brave in the same attack which killed her sister. Honey Eater was required by tribal law, now that her father was gone, to live with her closest female relative until she married. Sharp Nosed Woman loved her niece. But she was a no-nonsense, practical woman who could not understand why girls would wear flowers in their hair or love a warrior who had nothing but his breechclout to his name.

  “Yes, stone ears, I did speak! I asked if you are prepared to send an answer to Black Elk yet.”

  Honey Eater said nothing, though her pretty face mirrored her anguish and grief and confusion. She still wore the black shawl of mourning, and already Black Elk had sent the gift of horses!

  “Niece, have you eaten strong mushrooms? Or did the Great Spirit grant you much beauty and the sense of a rabbit to go with it? You must marry! And none better than Black Elk. True, his dead ear is unpleasant to behold. But this is a small thing.”

  “I am not troubled by his ear,” Honey Eater told her aunt impatiently. “Black Elk received that hurt defending his tribe. I would gladly marry a brave with ten times this many wounds, if in my heart I loved him.”

  “Loved him? Well, and have you looked at the goods piled outside of this tipi? I could love a buck capable of providing me with these things. Indeed, niece, I loved one who provided much less. And even he was a comfort on cold nights.”

  Sharp Nosed Woman smiled as she enjoyed some private memory. Then she made the cutoff sign, which one did when speaking of the dead.

  “Your aunt did not marry so wisely as your mother. Do not play the fox with me, little one. Everyone in the tribe knows you love Touch the Sky. True, he is pleasing to look at. But do you see meat racks behind his tipi? How many blankets does he own?”

  “How could he own anything?” said Honey Eater bitterly. “He has spent all of his time defending his life from enemies within his own tribe!”

  “Is this a wise thing, loving a man with so many enemies?”

  Before Honey Eater could reply, her name was shouted outside the tipi.

  She recognized Black Elk’s voice and realized the council must be over. She felt her throat constricting at the prospect of facing him. Honey Eater rose and crossed to the entrance flap, lifting it aside and stepping outside.

  “Honey Eater,” said Black Elk, one hand indicating the travois piled high with goods which lay near the tipi. By custom, no one could touch it until Black Elk had received his reply. “This is only a portion of the bride-price which I offer to your clan. The horses have already been selected, and I have made new bridles for all. Will you give me my answer now?”

  Honey Eater had practiced for this moment. Now, eyes respectfully downcast, her voice pleasant but determined, she said, “Black Elk, I am a Cheyenne maiden. I know my duty to my tribe. I know also the respect due to so great a warrior as you. But I cannot give you this answer. Not yet.”

  “Why?” demanded Black Elk. “True, Yellow Bear’s final journey has left you sad, and you need time to heal this grief. But Honey Eater, only think! I am not asking you to perform the ceremony right away, only to pledge your love to me. I want to hear the crier racing through our camp, telling all that we will marry! Tell me yes now.”

  She shook her head. “I cannot. Not until—not until River of Winds and Swift Canoe have reported.”

  “What?” Black Elk’s eyes were fierce with jealous anger. “So you can learn about your tall young brave? Learn if he has been hurt or killed fighting for those who would kill all Indians like lice?”

  “Black Elk, I do not have two hearts,” Honey Eater said gently. “And my one heart is filled with him.”

  Again Black Elk indicated the pile of goods. The travois overflowed with new robes and furs, skins of soft kid leather, new tipi covers, highly prized white man’s tobacco, bright wool blankets.

  “What can he offer?” said Black Elk scornfully. “His brave love talk may move your heart. But it is buffalo robes which warm your cold bones! You are in love with a turncoat who fights white men’s battles!”

  “I cannot believe he is a turncoat,” said Honey Eater. “He would not betray us! He would fight to the death for any Cheyenne in this tribe, including his enemies.”

  Black Elk fought hard to keep the rage from showing in his face. But his dark eyes snapped sparks at these words.

  “You have sweet words for him! But you are still a child in these matters. Very well, we will wait until the report from River of Winds and Swift Canoe. Then we will wait no longer. You will announce your decision. Your war chief has spoken!”

  Chapter Thirteen

  Very early on the morning following the chase in the rocky basin, Touch the Sky and Little Horse briefly revisited the scene of their escape. Luck was with them: The whites had not found Touch the Sky’s throwing axe. He spotted it in the trampled dirt and slipped it back into his legging sash. Then they rode the hidden game trails and long coulees which eventually connected with Hanchon property.

  Touch the Sky wanted to talk to his father about last night’s attempt to eavesdrop on Steele’s men. The friends agreed that Little Horse would ride out near their former campsite to check the cottonwood for messages. Touch the Sky planned to ride close to his parents’ house, then hobble the dun and sneak the rest of the way on foot. Even though the Hanchon wranglers had been told about him and the Bluecoats knew he was in the area, there was no sense alerting that Bluecoat sentry.

  The Cheyennes agreed to meet again later that day back at their new camp on the hogback overlooking Steele’s ranch. They split up at the rim of the Tongue River valley, Little Horse swinging up higher toward the rimrock, Touch the Sky descending into the fertile green quiltwork of the valley. Both riders stayed well into the trees and avoided skylining themselves or riding in the open.

  Touch the Sky dismounted in the last belt of trees circling his parents’ spread. From there he could see the mountains in the distance, aspen-gold in the lower elevations, still tipped white at their very summits with the snow that never melted. Between these majestic mountains and the verdant pastures, the foothills stretched out in ever-larger mounds that grew darker and seemed to shimmer in the distance. Dividing it all like a shiny strip of silver ribbon was the winding and looping river.

  He hobbled the dun with rawhide and easily made his way to the house without being noticed by the yard sentry. It was still early enough to catch John Hanchon at the breakfast table.

  “Well, maybe you didn’t find out exactly when my horses are going in that corral,” said Hanchon when Touch the Sky had finished telling his story. “But you gave Steele’s gun-throwers one more proof that they aren’t working for easy wages. Maybe they’ll think twice before they steal them mustangs.”

  The optimism of his words was not reflected in his troubled eyes. Touch the Sky also noticed signs of increasing strain on his adopted mother’s face. There were half circles of fatigue under her eyes, a new habit of glancing warily out of the kitchen window to see if any riders approached. He remembered a time when worry was a stranger to her face.

  “Today,” said Touch the Sky, “I’ll move around Steele’s place, keep an eye on his hands. If they’re planning to move out tonight, there’ll be signs of it. I don’t think the strike, if one is planned, will be that soon, though. The corral isn’t quite finished.”<
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  Later, as he rose from the table to leave, Sarah gripped both of his hands in hers.

  “Son, listen to me. I want you and your friend to leave, leave soon. Oh, child, I’m so happy to see you again my heart could just fairly burst! But it’s too dangerous for you here now. Soldiers are all around the area.”

  Touch the Sky glanced toward his father, expecting to see his mother’s plea repeated in John Hanchon’s face. Instead, Touch the Sky sensed the same feeling in his white father that he sensed in Little Horse: If a fight was unavoidable, they were keen for it. He had told his father what these men did to the Cheyenne people. These men shed the blood of your own, his father’s eyes seemed to tell him now. And if kin don’t matter, what does? Law is slow and scarce out here, but justice must be swift and plenty.

  “We’ll be all right,” he assured his mother. He added proudly, “Don’t worry about soldiers. I’m more likely to fall off my horse than get shot by one of them!”

  Despite his proud boast, Touch the Sky was worried. At the moment Hiram Steele and his white dogs had surprise on their side—only they knew the what and where and when of that new corral. He had to try again to learn something. He spied his opportunity on the way back from his parents’ spread.

  He was approaching the campsite from behind a line of cedar and scrub pine due west of Steele’s main corral. Two wranglers were lashing the last corner posts for the new pole corral. All that remained to be finished after that was the gate, and new logs had been stacked nearby for that purpose.

  These were two of Steele’s regular hands, not from the bunch that rode with Abe Winslow. Touch the Sky recognized them from the days when he used to make deliveries out here. He gauged the terrain between the tree line, where he was hidden, and the worksite. Mostly tall horseweeds, with here and there an open patch of knee-high grass.

  It would be risky, he knew as he stared at the rifles propped up against the corral fence near the two men. One of them also wore a sidearm. Touch the Sky decided his Sharps would be too awkward in the weeds, so he left it lashed to his pony.