Wind River

by Charles G. West

  “That’d be the dumbest thing you could do, Moody.”

  Moody’s hand froze when he felt Mrs. Mott’s double-barreled shotgun nudge the small of his back. As slowly as he had reached for the gun, he withdrew his hand. “All right, all right,” he replied, his voice trembling. “Just be careful with that dang thing, lady.” He reached down to give his partner a hand up. “Come on, Kroll, let’s get out of here.”

  “You ain’t paid for that bottle yet,” Squint reminded him.

  “No, and I ain’t gonna,” was Kroll’s terse reply.

  Moody took one look into Squint’s eyes and was quick to blurt out, “Here, here’s the money. I’ll pay for the whiskey!” He grabbed Kroll’s sleeve and pulled him toward the door.

  The three of them, Mott, Squint and Mrs. Mott, all held their guns on Kroll and Moody as they walked them outside and onto their horses. Kroll remained silent until he was in the saddle but his eyes blazed with his rage. “This ain’t the end of this, stranger.” He directed this at Squint. “Next time it’ll be different.”

  “I’ll deal with that when the time comes,” was Squint’s only reply as he watched the two gallop off into the approaching night. When they had at last vanished from sight, he turned to Mott and said, “I should have shot him while I had the chance.”

  “I reckon,” Mott replied.

  Satisfied that they would see no more of Kroll and Moody that night, they returned to the saloon to find Waddie still standing at the end of the bar. He smiled at them and greeted Mott with, “Ahhh, Mr. Mott, I was wondering if I was going to die of thirst before you came back to save me.”

  Squint could only shake his head, amazed. “Waddie, I hope this little ruckus didn’t disturb your drinking.”

  “Not a’tall, not a’tall,” Waddie assured him. He turned to Mott, his empty glass outstretched. “Now, Mr. Mott, if you please.”

  Squint permitted his little friend to imbibe a few more rounds before he grabbed him by the back of the collar and pulled him out of the saloon. The wagons were pulling out in the morning at sunup and he wanted Waddie to be able to drive his mules without falling off the seat. They said good-bye to the Motts and as they walked out the door, Mott put his hand on Squint’s arm and spoke.

  “Squint, we’re obliged to you for pitching in back there. You best watch your back, my friend. That Kroll’s a mean one and he ain’t the kind to take a besting like you give him and not look for a way to get even. You watch your back.” He stood in the doorway as they walked toward the wagons. “And hang on to your scalps.”

  CHAPTER 17

  Little Wolf lay with his eyes closed, listening to the barking of a squirrel high above his head. The constant murmuring of the busy stream as it rushed around the rocks and fallen timbers served to induce him to slumber. His bed was a sun-drenched boulder that jutted out into the stream. The sun felt good, like a balm that penetrated his shoulders and back. He felt its warmth gently probing the scar tissue on his left shoulder where the soldier’s bullet had torn into the muscle. The wound was old now but it still ached occasionally when the wind was especially cold. He had to smile to himself when he thought about the huge scar it had left, due to Squint’s clumsy probing to remove the bullet.

  He had not thought about Squint for some time and probably no more than two or three times in all since they had parted company four years ago this spring. He allowed his thoughts to drift where they wished, choosing not to direct them. Soon he found himself thinking of that time, two years before, when he and Morning Sky escaped the massacre at Black Kettle’s camp on the Washita. The man responsible for that attack was the Longhair, Custer, and Little Wolf had dreamed many times of avenging the death of his friend Black Feather and the wanton killing of the women and children. He dreamed how it would be. He would hunt down this arrogant devil and kill him. Then he would take his long scalp and tie it to his lance. The time would come when he would be given this opportunity to avenge his people. It had to. Man Above could not permit such an outrage to go unpunished. At the time, he thought that his opportunity would come right away. He and Morning Sky had been rescued by a band of Kiowas camped downstream from Black Kettle’s camp. The men of that tribe were angry at Longhair’s attack on the peaceful village. Soon there were warriors from other tribes gathered along the banks of the Washita. They were ready to fight but the soldiers had doubled back during the night and fled before the superior number of Indians. Much of the fight had been taken out of the Southern Cheyenne after Custer’s cowardly attack. So Little Wolf brought Morning Sky back to the Wind River country, back to his small band of Cheyenne warriors. There they lived with the Dakotas as man and wife.

  The shrill cry of a hawk somewhere in the distant treetops brought his mind back to his surroundings and he listened again, his eyes still closed. There was no danger here, deep in the mountains, yet still he listened intently to the noises of the forest, to the sounds of the living earth, and once again he felt as one with the mountains.

  “Little Wolf.” It was the voice of his old friend, Sleeps Standing.

  “I am here, Sleeps Standing.” He opened his eyes and rolled over to watch his friend make his way along the rocky stream bank, stepping gracefully from boulder to boulder.

  “I knew you would be at this place.” Sleeps Standing smiled as he pulled himself up on the flat boulder that had served as Little Wolf’s bed. “I think maybe you are going to sleep the rest of your life away,” he teased.

  Little Wolf smiled. “I think that is not a bad thought. Maybe I will.” It had been a hard winter in the mountains. They had been forced to hunt a greater distance from their camp due to the heavy snows that closed the mountain passes and drove the game down out of the hills. There had been very little fighting—a few raids, most of them by their Dakota brothers, on stagecoach stations or trading posts. The people had been too occupied with surviving the winter. Now that spring had finally come, there would be fighting again. Only this week a runner had come with word from Sitting Bull that wagon trains were already breaking the treaty and entering the sacred hunting grounds to find the useless yellow rocks the white man coveted. He asked that all Cheyenne and Dakota join together to chase the white man out.

  Sleeps Standing drew his knife from the hide case at his side and began to work on the edge. “Bloody Claw has called a council tonight to decide if we go to join Sitting Bull.”

  Little Wolf grunted. “I know.” Bloody Claw was ambitious. He had been very busy campaigning for a following while Little Wolf and Black Feather were away at Black Kettle’s camp. Two winters had passed since then but Bloody Claw was still actively seeking leadership of their small band of Cheyennes, a fact that didn’t bother Little Wolf. Little Wolf did as he pleased. If the warriors chose to follow him, then so be it. It was every brave’s choice and decision to make. Bloody Claw was constantly frustrated, for the other warriors trusted Little Wolf’s cunning as well as his courage. He had led them on the raids against the soldiers and workers at the forts along the trail the white man called the Bozeman. And they had suffered very few losses of their own while killing and counting coup on many soldiers. Little Wolf had brought honor to all of them.

  “Come, we will walk back to camp. The sun will soon be going to sleep.” Little Wolf rose to his feet and stretched.

  * * *

  Morning Sky rose to greet Little Wolf when he entered their tipi. “And where has my husband been all day?” she teased. “Out looking for a younger wife?”

  “One wife has taught me a lesson,” he responded. “If I can rid myself of this one, I will never have another.” Pretending to give the matter serious thought, he screwed his face into a frown and said, “I was going to sell you to Bloody Claw for two fat puppies but he said one puppy was too high a price.”

  Morning Sky could never play the game for very long. Giggling like a child, she suddenly jumped on her husband’s back, causing him to lose his balance, and the two of them landed on the tipi floor. Laughing, they
rolled over and over until he stopped them, permitting her to land on top.

  “Aha!” she cried triumphantly. “So you would sell me to Bloody Claw, would you?” She pretended to pin his wrists to the floor as she straddled his stomach. “Little Wolf,” she mocked, “the mighty warrior. What would your braves think if they could see you now, mighty warrior?”

  “Maybe they would make you their war chief,” he said.

  “Go ahead,” she taunted, gritting her teeth and squeezing his wrists as hard as she could. “Try to free yourself.”

  “I cannot,” he laughed, “you are too powerful.” He pretended to strain against her. After a few minutes, he said, “I tire of this game. It is time to feed your husband.” With that, he easily lifted his arms straight up, picking her up in the process and holding her over him for a moment before gently lowering her to the floor. Laughing delightedly, she quickly scrambled back to lock her arms around his neck and hug him tightly. She was proud of her husband, of his stature and his strength. Among the Cheyenne and the Sioux, he stood tall and slender, almost a head taller than the tallest Sioux.

  Morning Sky was perhaps, by her own reckoning, the luckiest wife in the entire Indian nation. Not only was she proud of her husband’s reputation as a mighty war leader, she was secure in the knowledge that Little Wolf loved her. The years had dulled the memory of the tragic loss of her uncle and brother at the Washita camp and Morning Sky’s was a happy life. The winter had been long and hard and game had been scarce but Little Wolf always found food for them. True, he was away for long periods of time, on the hunt or on a raiding party against the soldiers. But Morning Sky was a Cheyenne. This was a simple fact of life for her, just as death was. She knew that one day he might not return to her tipi, for the Cheyenne were a warlike people, like the Sioux. And he had told her that there would be more war. The white man continued to push further and further into the Indians’ lands. Soon there would be no place else to go except the reservation and Little Wolf would not go there. She accepted it and worked hard to make the two of them happy while they had this time to share together.

  “You will go to council tonight?”

  “Yes,” he answered. “Bloody Claw has called for it.” He thought for a moment then added, “He is right. It is time. We must decide if we should leave these mountains and join with the others. Even though we are few, if we stay here, we will hunt off all the game. If we leave the mountains to hunt, it is not safe for so few to face the soldiers in the prairies.”

  A frown fixed on her face as she heard his words. She had been happiest here in all her young life and she was reluctant to leave. The soldiers seemed so far away from these mountains but she knew her husband was right. Then she relaxed her frown into a smile and said, cheerfully, “I will be happy as long as I am by your side.”

  * * *

  Little Wolf sat and listened while Bloody Claw petitioned on behalf of Sitting Bull’s invitation to join him in the Big Horn Mountains. As Bloody Claw expounded on the aggressive advances of the white man, Little Wolf studied the faces of the young warriors gathered around the council fire. He knew every man in this small band would defer to him to make their final decision even though they might agree with Bloody Claw. He also knew that he would vote to break camp and go to join Sitting Bull’s Dakotas. The time had passed when he could hope to continue his war on the soldiers as a separate unit of raiders, having no women or children to slow them, moving constantly to strike and strike again before the soldiers could mount a counterattack. It was not a natural way of life for a Cheyenne warrior, who was accustomed to having a woman work for him and cook and provide a tipi for him to return to. The fact that there were no elders sitting at their council fire was unnatural. He knew his young braves were beginning to feel the absence of the old wise ones when there were important decisions to be made. They had been long enough on this path. He himself had taken a wife. How could he expect his warriors to forego the same comfort? Only two others in the camp had wives, Left Hand and Lame Otter. It was difficult for the rest to be alone.

  After Bloody Claw finished his impassioned plea and sat down, there were a few moments of silence. Then Sleeps Standing spoke, “What say you, Little Wolf?”

  Little Wolf rose slowly to his feet. “Bloody Claw speaks with wisdom. It is time to join our brothers in Sitting Bull’s camp. Many of our people, Cheyenne and Arapaho, are with him now even as we speak. I have heard that many of our Cheyenne brothers from the south have fled the reservations and have come north to fight beside the Dakotas. The soldiers will be as many as the grass on the prairie. Sitting Bull will need many more warriors if he is to drive the white man out. I stand with Bloody Claw.”

  And so it was decided. They would break camp in the morning and start east toward the Big Horn country. The verdict was met with great excitement among the young warriors. Singing and dancing would go on until late that night as the braves boasted of the scalps they would take and the bravery they would exhibit as they drove the white man from their valleys and rivers. Of course Bloody Claw was especially pleased that his council was accepted, so and he led the dancing. Little Wolf joined in the ceremony for a while then quietly withdrew to his tipi and Morning Sky.

  “So, we are leaving in the morning.” It was not a question. Morning Sky knew what the decision would be before the council meeting was held. Already she had packed some of their things in anticipation of the morning march.

  The journey to Sitting Bull’s camp took five days, one day longer than planned, because a warrior named Lame Otter discovered a herd of antelope on the lower slopes and the men decided to take advantage of the opportunity to add to their food supply. A full day was taken to hunt and take the hides to be worked later. Enough meat was procured to feed the band of warriors for several days. Morning Sky was proud that her husband’s arrows were found in three of the swift animals. As she quickly removed the hides, her deft hands skillfully cutting away the forelocks and neatly splitting the soft white fur of the underbelly, she was already envisioning the fine ceremonial shirt it would make for Little Wolf. In her baggage, packed on one of the horses, she already had collected the porcupine quills and red beads she would decorate the shirt with. Her husband would be the most striking warrior in the camp!

  When the journey was resumed, all the men were in a lighthearted mood. It was a good sign, finding the antelope. It indicated to them that they had made the right decision when they voted to join the main body of Sioux and it told them their medicine was strong. The only souls that were possibly disappointed were those of the pack animals whose loads had increased considerably. Two of these belonged to Little Wolf. Morning Sky rode a large bay that bore army brands. She led the two pack animals as well as three more that belonged to other braves in their band. Left Hand’s wife did the same, as did the wife of Lame Otter.

  Little Wolf rode ahead of Morning Sky on a roan horse with a white-spotted rump. The white man called this breed of horse Appaloosa. This was one of his favorite horses, traded from the Nez Perces for one army carbine. He and Sleeps Standing made the trip north the spring before and both returned with one of the strange looking horses bred by the Nez Perces. They were fast animals, larger than the Cheyenne ponies, though not as large as the big muscular horses the soldiers rode. Although he rode the Appaloosa, Little Wolf led the little Medicine Hat stallion he preferred to hunt and fight on. A Cheyenne’s war pony was never used as a pack animal. It had to be fresh and ready in the event of attack by an enemy or, as was the case this time, a herd of buffalo or deer were sighted. No horse was a match for the Medicine Hat when speed and agility were required. It could outrun the larger army mounts and continue to run long after they had faltered. And it could live off the land, surviving on sagebrush, if that’s all there was to be had. Any warrior would envy Little Wolf’s good fortune in owning the Medicine Hat. Some thought the little horse had big medicine and that his rider was invincible in battle because of the markings that made a bonnet over the h
orse’s head and ears, and a dark shield protecting its chest. The Medicine Hat and the Appaloosa did not graze with the other horses. They were always tied outside the tipi.

  * * *

  The sun was almost setting on the distant hills when they sighted the smoke of Sitting Bull’s campfires. His messenger had said the great chief would be camped on the Crazy Woman River. Little Wolf’s band had struck the river at midday and followed it north until they came upon the first tipis near a bend in the river. A Sioux lookout spotted them when they were still a good half mile away and rode back to the village to alert the tribe of the arrival of Little Wolf’s Cheyenne warriors.

  The Cheyenne prepared for the welcome. The young men donned their most decorative shirts and feathers and leaped astride their best war ponies for the entrance into the camp. It seemed that everyone in the camp came out to greet them. The air was filled with war whoops and animal calls and shouts of welcome.

  Little Wolf called to his followers, “Let us show our Dakota brothers how a Cheyenne warrior rides!” With that, he filled his lungs and released a bloodcurdling war whoop and kicked the Medicine Hat into a gallop, leading his braves down into the camp. The response was deafening as men, women and children answered the call. Dogs joined in the melee, adding their vocal approval. Little Wolf looked down into a sea of smiling faces. The Sioux were greatly pleased to have his band of Cheyenne warriors in camp and they crowded around Little Wolf. It seemed that all the people wanted to touch him as he walked the Medicine Hat toward the council lodge in the center of the village. He had not realized his reputation had grown to such proportions among the Sioux. When he reached the council lodge, he stopped, for there, walking forward to greet him, was none other than Sitting Bull, principal chief and spiritual leader of the Sioux.

  “Little Wolf,” the chief smiled, “you and your warriors are welcome in our village. It is a great honor to have a warrior of your courage and cunning join us in our mutual fight against the white soldiers.”