By the time darkness fell, the small group had gathered all the supplies they could. The group included seven children, two young mothers, three older women, Liza, and two adolescent boys. Most had escaped by carving out holes along the river’s edge; one of the younger women, Yellow Grass, had suffered frostbite on her fingers and toes, while the other, Rides-a Horse, was limping after the falling lodge poles of her tipi pinned her. She walked aided by a cane Cut Finger fashioned from a stick.
It was Mad Horse, however, who took charge of the wizened band. After confiscating the collected rations of food, he ordered the women to search for more. Liza did manage to find some; but this, she tucked inside her dress. She also retrieved two pairs of moccasins, two more blankets, and a large buffalo robe.
Other tattered groups, most from Heavy Runner’s band, had already melted into the landscape, some moving north, others east or south. Knowing it would be dangerous to remain in the area unarmed and without warriors for protection, no one thought to stay.
Liza followed Mad Horse reluctantly. It was clear the old man resented her. Had it not been for Cut Finger, she would not have followed him at all. Holding Bull Child’s tiny hand, she kept her eyes on the trail ahead. Where they were headed, Liza had no idea. She only hoped her father and Red Eagle would read their tracks and come soon.
Silently, the ragged party moved upriver. The familiar landscape began to change, making Liza more uncertain of her destination. Biting back her fear, she decided she had to do something and was as well off with Cut Finger as with anyone. Or so she hoped.
Liza bowed her head against the stiff breeze that suddenly swept down the cut bank. There would be time to consider her plight later.
****
Crying Wind called a halt. The party had traveled late into the evening and everyone needed rest. The horses were exhausted from plowing through the deep snow and the men were hungry. Two braves immediately set out to trap a rabbit and gather more willow brush for the fire. The other men settled in around the fire, each one wrapped in heavy robes.
Red Eagle dropped to the ground beside Crying Wind. “A strange feeling has followed me since we left the fort,” he said, so softly no one else could hear. Between the haunting memory of his dream and the foreboding words of the old woman in the village, he sensed that something was wrong. Could he trust the feeling?
“Go on,” encouraged Crying Wind. “A warrior must always listen to the voices that direct his footsteps.”
Red Eagle nodded. “A heavy darkness passes over me whenever I think of the people,” he said. “I do not understand it, but it follows me like my shadow.”
Crying Wind sat without speaking for several minutes. His eyes were half closed, as if contemplating something deeper than could be seen. Finally, he opened them and nodded to his nephew. “I, too, have had a terrible feeling,” he said. “I had hoped it was only an old man’s fear.” He cast a glance at Many Words, who was wrapped in his own robe a few feet away. The holy man had grown weaker with each mile, and Crying Wind and Red Eagle both knew there was not much strength left in the frail body. Perhaps it had been a mistake to bring him. But who could have known how the journey would end?
Crying Wind turned back to Red Eagle. “Your dream. It still haunts you? And the old woman. Has she revealed what is coming?”
“No,” sighed Red Eagle. “In my dream her wailing was like the cries of a hundred women. But at the fort, an old woman came and spoke to me, in riddles.”
Crying Wind nodded again and a deep sigh escaped his pursed lips. “It is enough.” The old man dropped his chin and Red Eagle wondered if he was praying or was just worn out. He waited patiently. He knew his uncle was wiser than a hundred men, trusting him more than he trusted himself.
Many Words, suddenly raising his face, caught sight of the old Indian’s hunched position. “What is it, my friend?” he asked breathlessly.
Crying Wind was slow to answer. His eyes were still closed. Taking a slow, careful breath, he said, “Perhaps nothing. Perhaps only an old man’s fear.” He glanced at Red Eagle sharply.
Many Words reached out, fingertips brushing Crying Wind’s blanketed arm, his dark eyes bright in the hollow of his pale face. “Elizabeth?” he whispered. “The village? Has something happened? Is my daughter in danger?”
Red Eagle’s expression grew dark. “I do not know.” He wished he could put the holy man’s mind at ease but they were all past pretending that life was as it had always been. Hadn’t their reception at the fort shown them all that the future of the Pikuni was bleak, that their days of freedom were in jeopardy?
“Nor I,” added Crying Wind solemnly. “Old men think strange things when the cold comes into their bones.”
Many Words was already alarmed. Raising up on his haunches he cried out, “Dear God. Do not let it be my Elizabeth. She has no part in the craziness that is descending upon this land.”
Crying Wind grunted. “And who has chosen to take part?”
Many Words apologized.
“Your words are those of a father,” returned Crying Wind. “But Red Eagle will go on. He will travel to the village and bring word, if he can.” He turned back to his nephew. “Tell the others, then begin at once. You can make your way quickly without the rest of us.”
Red Eagle jumped to his feet.
Crying Wind held up his hand. It looked thin and yellow in the gray light. “Take Running Antelope with you. You are both young and swift. We will follow as quickly as we can.”
Red Eagle nodded and turned to go but Many Words cried out to him. “Wait!”
Squatting once more, Red Eagle put his head close to Many Words. The face of the holy man was a dead man’s face, pale and nearly empty. “My daughter, Red Eagle. She is all I have. Do not let any harm come to her.”
“None will come to her.”
“But promise me,” moaned Many Words, his outstretched hand now shaking uncontrollably. “Never, never, let anything hurt her again. I have failed her. I was wrong, Red Eagle, to bring her—”
Red Eagle shook his head. “Liza Five Shots is strong.”
“Yes, perhaps,” mumbled Many Words, his voice fading.
Red Eagle squeezed the older man’s shoulder. “I would give up my own life before I let anything happen to her,” he said. “I love Liza Five Shots. I intend to make her my wife.”
Many Words nodded, a smile touching the corners of his sallow lips. “She is a sharp-tongued, strong-willed young woman,” he said after a moment. “She may make your life difficult. But she’s honest and good, and has a heart made for loving.”
Crying Wind slid closer to his old friend. “Old man,” he teased, “Red Eagle will never be able to take her as his wife if you do not turn loose his arm. The night grows darker and you must gather your strength if you hope to witness Five Shots’s wedding.”
“I do not worry about my future,” he said softly. “I know where I am going. But take this. Tell her it is hers. It was once her mother’s. It is all I have to give her in the way of a blessing,” he muttered, fumbling inside his robe. His hand shook as he extended it once more to Red Eagle. Looking into the young man’s eyes, he added, “Make her a good husband, Mekotsepetan. A loving and kind husband. A husband who serves God and protects his wife. Tell her that, in case I do not live to tell her myself.”
Red Eagle picked up the dainty cross that hung from a long silver chain. “I will do so, Many Words. I promise.”
“Now, go,” interrupted Crying Wind, his hand stretched out in farewell. Turning to Many Words he added, “We will not let you die yet, old man, so do not sigh your last breath.”
As Red Eagle got up, Many Words said, “Who knows the will of God? If I am to die, it is well. Go with God, my son.”
Turning on his heels, Red Eagle immediately went to Running Antelope. Packing only a few things onto the backs of their horses, the two men set off just as the heavy cloak of night enveloped them. Under the canopy of blackness,
however, the white landscape lit the trail enough for them to follow.
The two men did not speak as they journeyed. Each was lost in his own thoughts and Red Eagle knew that the jealousy that had kept them distant for so long stood between them now. Only their shared commitment brought them together.
For Red Eagle, a new heaviness had been added to his burden. He would probably never see Many Words again and he would have to tell Liza if her father did not return. He patted the pouch that held the cross, knowing it would mean a great deal to her in any case. But would the loss of Many Words be too much for her? Would she choose to leave rather than stay if her father died?
It took all night for the two riders to reach the upper portion of the river. The horses, panting heavily as they slid down a coulee, needed a rest, and finally Running Antelope pulled his horse around.
“We must stop,” he said. He ran his hand down his horse’s mane. The animal shuddered under the weight of his rider.
Red Eagle nodded. It was a foolish man who allowed an animal to exhaust itself. They rode to the bottom of the ravine, to where the river made a wide bend. They dismounted and led their animals to water, then shared their rations of pemmican. Little else was said until it was time to leave.
Running Antelope, his hawk-like eyes clear and narrowed, placed his gloved hand on his cousin’s arm. Speaking softly, he said, “I do not any longer carry anger. It is time to put it aside.”
Red Eagle, grateful, smiled his thanks. “That is good,” he returned, “for I fear that whatever has come may require more from us than we have ever given. We are the same, you and I. We are as brothers. We are Pikuni. We must take care of our people.”
Squeezing his arm, Running Antelope nodded. “Never again will I shame my little cousin,” he said, his mouth turned up in a rare smile. “He does his people honor.”
Hesitating for another moment, the two men resumed their trek in silence. If they were lucky, they would reach the villages sometime in the late afternoon.
It was as the pale winter sun peeked through the layers of gray cloud that the two recognized the outskirts of the Pikuni settlement. A dismal fog had settled over the area, so it was impossible to discern more than a darkened place in the landscape. They pushed their horses on.
After tramping through another stretch of wind-blown ridges of snow, Running Antelope yelled over his shoulder. “I do not like this. I smell death.”
Red Eagle said nothing, but his eyes flitted anxiously along the horizon; an almost eerie haze had settled over the ice-tinged river and snowy banks. He kicked his horse, forcing it into a trot, and the animal lunged through the drifts, panting hoarsely.
Red Eagle pounded the flanks of his horse again. “Ha,” he cried.
The smell foretold all. Even the horses whinnied, eyes round with fear, ears flat against their heads. Red Eagle’s black mare pulled back but he urged her on.
“Is this the work of the Sioux or Crow?” said Red Eagle, his voice hardly a whisper.
“No!” boomed Running Antelope, his black eyes blazing with hatred. “This is the work of dog-faced, yellow-haired soldiers!”
They had reached Standing Wolf’s and Heavy Runner’s campsites and the smoking odor of death hung about them. Horrified by what loomed ahead, the men fell silent.
Running Antelope was the first to dismount. Sliding off his horse, he dropped his buffalo cape and rushed through the burned debris, a look of fury across his face.
Red Eagle stifled a cry of grief as he spotted a body half buried by charcoaled timbers. It was the body of a young girl. The toes of her moccasins stuck out of the inky remains, bright, cornflower blue beads stitched across their width, a stark reminder of a loving mother’s attention.
Running Antelope turned, his eyes filled with tears. Through tight lips he said, “There will never be an end to the conflict. There is no such thing as peace with these animals.”
Mounted again, the two men rode directly to Crying Wind’s encampment, their faces hard. Red Eagle’s stomach rolled over. Would he find Liza half buried, half burned? What about Crow Woman and Come Running, Black Quail, and all the others?
In minutes, they reached what should have been the tiny village. Destruction lay before them. In stunned silence, they jumped down and stumbled through the litter. Red Eagle quickly found Liza’s lodge, but it had been razed. And there was no Liza. He ran immediately to the remains of Crying Wind’s lodge, where he found the entangled bodies of his uncle’s two wives. Dropping to his haunches, tears of rage welled up. How could this have happened?
He heard Running Antelope’s anguished cries and turned to see the warrior thrashing through the charred remains of his own tipi. He picked up a half-empty paunch of water still hanging from one of the lodge timbers and stared back at Red Eagle. His eyes burned brightly, two black embers in his long, stern face.
There was nothing left. Not a single lodge had been left standing. Corpses and treasured possessions were scattered across the snow like scraps left by a pack of renegade dogs.
But where was Liza?
Searching everywhere, Red Eagle found not a trace of her. Had she been captured? Had she been spared by the soldiers and taken back because she was one of them? Would Liza have let herself be taken away?
No, Liza would not leave the people. He knew the deep love she had for Crow Woman, and she would not have willingly left her or Come Running behind.
As if led by a scent, Red Eagle headed to the only hiding spot where Liza might have retreated, her secret place, where she had gone to be alone and read her book of poems. He crashed through the soft snow as he retraced the familiar path.
Once there, he dropped to his hands and knees and, in spite of the heavy brush, felt the depression someone could have made if they’d been half-buried in the snow. It was smooth to the touch, worn away as if someone had huddled there.
His heart leaped. Liza had to be alive. Perhaps she escaped into the mountains with others who survived. How would he find her now?
Truly frightened, Red Eagle clenched his fists. Turning his eyes south, he cursed the soldiers and their generals, the evil hearts that led men to destroy others and the greedy stomachs of those who could never possess enough.
Then, he wept.
CHAPTER 26
Red Eagle and Running Antelope sat together in front of a small fire. Neither spoke of the other’s grief. There was no need for words.
They had spent more than an hour wandering through the village, hoping to find clues as to the whereabouts of Liza and Black Quail.
“The people were run down like vermin,” cried Running Antelope.
“We must bury them.”
“Not until we have taken revenge on those who did this. The spirits of the Pikuni will not rest so long as their butchers live.”
Red Eagle said nothing. His hatred was tinged with the knowledge that revenge only would bring more death. Yet, how could they not retaliate?
“I will never sleep again until I have taken the scalp of every Napikwan I find. Until we have rid our land of these animals.”
Red Eagle nodded. He knew Running Antelope was right. There would be no peace. But there would be no peace for the people, either, if they made war on the army. There were too many soldiers and more who would come after. Red Eagle had been to many forts with his father. He had seen the soldiers with their guns and cannons. Whenever soldiers left, others took their place. Even his father, who hated having more and more settlers move into the territory, had admitted that the whites were here to stay, that nothing would stop them from taking the land. He had often wondered if it was best for the Pikuni to share. But he had also said the whites were too greedy.
Red Eagle thought of Crying Wind and Many Words and the others who would soon arrive. Their impending pain rekindled his own, and suddenly, he hoped that Many Words would not live to see what the white men had done. Indeed, if Liza was dead, the holy man would die with a broken heart.
; And what about Crying Wind? With Crow Woman and Come Running, who had been carrying his child, dead along with most of his band, his uncle was alone.
“My tears will never be finished,” moaned Running Antelope, hurling his knife into the snow. “I will never be at peace with the Napikwans.”
He grabbed the knife and slammed it into his scabbard. Then, jumping onto his horse and wheeling around, he rode across the open meadow. Raising his arms wildly above his head, his voice raised in a battle cry, he galloped back toward the ruined village. Round and round he raced until Red Eagle went out and stopped him.
It would be no good to run his horse to death.
As the shadow of the winter sun spread its blue-gray fingers across the horizon, Red Eagle heard the muffled sounds of approaching horses. Signaling Running Antelope, the two men rubbed out their fire and led their horses stealthily down to the trees near the river. Neither carried a rifle, their only weapons long knives. Red Eagle positioned himself behind some heavy brush, a few yards from his cousin.
A score of men appeared, their voices harsh and loud. They dismounted and wandered through the scattered remains, kicking at the timbers as if seeking something. One of the men, yelling to the others, picked up an ornamented breastplate. Twirling it over his head, he let it sail through the air. Immediately, another soldier took aim with his rifle, shattering the hair pipe breastplate into pieces. The rest cheered.
“Look at this!” cried a second soldier, lifting up what was left of a small boy. Only a head and body and parts of two legs dangled from his fingers. Both arms had been burned away. “Damn, this place is beginnin’ to really stink!” he hollered, tossing the corpse aside.
“What Injun don’t stink?” returned a third soldier.
Red Eagle’s bowels churned and he thought he would be sick. His hand shook as he placed it on the butt of his knife. He had killed one man. He would not regret killing these. But could he and Running Antelope take them all? Without guns, it was impossible.
Across the Sweet Grass Hills Page 20