Arrow Keeper

by Judd Cole

  Since he had started spying on the tribe, Fleet Foot had carefully learned the number and positioning of the night guards who watched the far-flung pony herds. He knew all the locations where the sentries moved the horses in search of good forage. The next day, he would climb high up into the surrounding rim rock. From there, using the sun and a little shard of mirror, he would signal to the main body of warriors, who were at that very moment taking advantage of darkness to gather below the Crazy Woman Fork of the Powder for the attack.

  Fleet Foot smiled grimly at the thought that not even the Great Spirit could save Yellow Bear’s tribe from total destruction.

  Chapter Eight

  Matthew was wakened early the next morning by a light touch on his shoulder. “Soon we must ride, Touch the Sky,” Arrow Keeper greeted him in Cheyenne.

  Hearing his new name startled him awake like a splash of cold water. The Cheyenne youth sat up, knuckling the sleep from his eyes. Arrow Keeper still had not told him why, but that day they were setting out toward the Black Hills to the southeast, home of Medicine Lake.

  For breakfast, they ate elk steaks dripping kidney fat, which had been cooked on a tripod outside the tipi entrance. It was just before sunup and most of the gamblers and racers and mourners had finally settled down to sleep. Returning from his bath, Matthew saw Honey Eater and several other young women. They were heading toward the cedar brake and the women’s bathing pool downriver. Most of them watched him with open interest, a few even smiling. Honey Eater, however, coldly averted her gaze. Matthew recalled their accidental meeting at the pool and felt heat rising to his face. From her actions, he could tell that she believed he had deliberately spied on her as she bathed.

  Although Matthew was upset by Honey Eater’s reaction, Arrow Keeper left him no time to brood about the maiden for they had much to do before departing. First they filled legging sashes with chunks of venison, jerked buffalo, and dried fruit. Then they walked to the pony corral. Arrow Keeper singled out his usual piebald and a handsome dun with a white blaze on its forehead. He handed the dun’s hair bridle to Matthew.

  “This one know tricks,” he said in English.

  “What kind of tricks?”

  But the old medicine man ignored him as he folded a blanket over his piebald. Matthew followed suit, hoping he would be quick to get the knack of riding bareback. For War Bonnet had given away his saddle along with everything else Matthew had brought with him, and he wouldn’t have a chance to get another.

  By the time they were ready, cooking smoke curled out of the tops of most tipis. Arrow Keeper returned to his own tipi and carefully removed a coyote-fur bag hidden under his sleeping robes. Seeing Matthew eye the bag curiously, he opened it. Four stone-tipped arrows dyed bright blue and yellow and fletched with scarlet feathers lay inside.

  “The sacred Medicine Arrows,” the old man told him proudly. “If this village is attacked, I protect the arrows with my life. Because of this great honor, I am Arrow Keeper and I lead the Medicine Arrows ceremony.”

  The fate of the four arrows, he added, represented the fate of the tribe. If the medicine arrows were lost or bloodied, the same fate would befall the tribe.

  After leaving the arrows with Medicine Bottle for safekeeping, they pointed their mounts toward the Black Hills in the southeast. For the first few hours, Arrow Keeper spoke only occasionally. The land at first was mostly open plains and short-grass prairie. Once Arrow Keeper stopped alongside a creek to point out a floater stick that marked an Indian beaver trap below. In the higher country, he taught Matthew to recognize and name marigold, columbine, mountain laurel, the leathery leaves of myrtle—all of which had their uses as food or medicine.

  The longer they rode, the more the boy’s legs ached from gripping the pony’s flanks with his knees, and his backside grew sore from constant jarring. But he was getting better at sensing the spirited dun’s rhythm and riding with the motion instead of against it.

  Matthew noticed that Arrow Keeper constantly kept his eyes on the sparrow hawks overhead, occasionally frowning. Toward midday they rode across a dried-up riverbed, its parched mud webbed with cracks. Suddenly, Arrow Keeper turned his piebald around in the direction of Yellow Bear’s camp. Many minutes passed while he sat still and quiet, as if listening for something.

  “What is it?” the youth said nervously.

  The old man’s hawk like profile remained impassive. Finally he looked at the boy and said, “Nothing. It was only odjib.”

  “Odjib, Father?”

  “A thing of smoke, a memory smell. Nothing real.”

  But Arrow Keeper’s brow was still furrowed with worry as they rode on. Not until they stopped in the shade of a huge cottonwood to eat did Arrow Keeper finally begin to speak more than a few terse words. He talked less and less in English, switching to it only when Matthew did not understand him.

  He told Matthew about their brothers the Southern Cheyenne, who would soon come north for the summer medicine ceremonies. They lived below the Arkansas River with the Southern Arapahoe, the Kiowa, and the bloodthirsty Comanche. The Northern Cheyenne’s nearby cousins were the Teton Sioux, who were such close battle allies that some had been permitted to join Yellow Bear’s tribe by marriage or rite. The Cheyenne’s sworn Indian enemies included the Crow, the turncoat Ute, and the treacherous Pawnee.

  “Understand this well,” Arrow Keeper said. “The Pawnee is cunning like the fox. He will raise one hand in friendship while the other draws a weapon to kill you.”

  The two rode on again after the ponies had grazed and drunk their fill from a streamlet. By the time their shadows were long in the sun, they had reached the grassy tableland of the Little Missouri River, which marked the halfway point between Yellow Bear’s camp and the western edge of the Black Hills.

  Arrow Keeper halted and removed eight small, tough pieces of hide from his sash. He handed four to Matthew. “Tie these around your pony’s hooves.”

  “Why, Father?”

  “Because ponies need moccasins too if they wish to move silently.”

  The youth understood the need for silence when they reached the top of the next wooded crest. Below, in the lush green valley of the Little Missouri, a new fort was partially built. The outer walls were made of thick cottonwood, the loop-holed buildings inside of pine log. Several companies of infantry and horse soldiers were camped in outlying ranks of tents. Huge wagon-mounted guns were aimed at the very crest where they rode, ready to cut down attackers with screaming bits of shrapnel.

  “The Bluecoats are more dangerous than even the Pawnee,” Arrow Keeper told his companion in a hushed voice. “The Bluecoats are strong and they wish to destroy all red men. Ride quietly now and stay behind trees. Pony soldiers may be anywhere.”

  The two Cheyenne kept below the ridge for a while. When they were well past the fort, a red fox abruptly streaked across the trail in front of the dun pony’s forelegs, startling her. She nickered, shied, and bolted sideways toward the crest of the ridge. Matthew barely managed to purchase a good grip in time to avoid being thrown. But by the time he had the pony under control, they had broken through the tree line into full view of a Bluecoat squad.

  Some of the soldiers were gathered around a mule-drawn flatbed wagon. They had been hauling logs back to the fort when the work detail got caught in a sudden downpour. As a result, the wagon was mired up to its axles in mud.

  There was a shout of alarm when the horse-mounted guards spotted Matthew. Lead balls whizzed past his ears as he urged the dun around to join Arrow Keeper back behind the tree line. But he could hear the sudden thudding of shod hooves behind him, and he knew the soldiers were giving pursuit. Fear dropped like a cold ball of ice into his stomach.

  Matthew leaned low over the dun’s neck, urging her on. She leaped a fallen log and then he could glimpse Arrow Keeper’s pony ahead through the trees, already warned into flight by the carbine shots. More lead balls flew past his ears so closely they sounded like angry bumblebees. The soldiers
were near enough behind him that Matthew could hear them cursing.

  A booming report exploded as a soldier fired a double load of buckshot from a scattergun. Most of the pellets fell short, but Matthew felt a dozen fiery ant bites on his bare back. The dun caught a few pellets too and surged forward.

  Arrow Keeper had no magic for being invisible that would work for the uninitiated youth. Once or twice, he glanced behind to make sure the boy was staying close. He led them along a narrow, overgrown trail, branches swiping at their faces as they flew past. But their ponies were tired and their pursuers dogged.

  Quickly the Cheyenne ponies were lathered, sides heaving. If Arrow Keeper didn’t act quickly, their lives would be forfeit. Just after the trail made a sharp dogleg turn to avoid a bluff, Arrow Keeper abruptly halted his mount and swung down. He signaled the youth to do the same.

  Matthew could taste fear in his throat. He heard the soldiers closing in behind them, about to make the sharp turn and spot them. But Arrow Keeper made it clear then why he had selected those particular ponies. He led both animals about ten yards away from the trail. Then he snorted once loudly as a horse does when clearing its nostrils after drinking.

  Matthew’s jaw dropped open in astonishment when both ponies obediently lay flat on their sides, heads down. With their mounts almost out of sight in the low but dense undergrowth, the two Cheyenne flattened themselves down behind their ponies.

  Three or four riders passed in a loud, fast thudding of hooves, then the noise grew dimmer until it disappeared.

  Since the day was late and their mounts exhausted, Arrow Keeper chose not to risk going on and meeting the returning patrol. Instead, they moved back even farther from the trail and made camp for the night. Later, under cover of the darkness, they led their horses back out to open grass, where they could be left on long tethers to graze. On their way back to camp they discovered a small cave, and they decided they could risk a fire within it.

  His features sharply etched in the flickering firelight, Arrow Keeper picked a few pellets from the boy’s back with a bone-handle knife.

  “There is much white man’s foolishness which you must forget,” he said while he worked. “Such as this fire.”

  “But, Father! I built it Indian fashion just as you showed me.”

  “True. But see how much green oak you used? See how it throws off sparks? Many foolish whites have burned in their blankets from flying sparks.”

  They spoke thus long into the night, and Arrow Keeper explained how to measure time in sleeps, moons, and winters instead of days, months, and years.

  “What about hours and minutes and seconds?” Arrow Keeper frowned at the unfamiliar English words. “What are these things?”

  He listened carefully as Matthew tried to explain. Then he replied simply: “These things do not exist for Indians. They were buried in that hole along with your white name.”

  Late on the second day, they reached the dark, forested humps of the Black Hills. It was well past sundown by the time they tethered their ponies on the isolated shores of the high-altitude lake the Cheyenne called Medicine Lake.

  Matthew noticed a change in the old man’s manner. His tone was more hushed there, more reverential. That night they stared into the fire and listened to the eerie cry of loons out on the moonlit lake. Arrow Keeper told his companion many important lessons could be learned there at the center of the Indian world.

  “This is the place of gods and holy mountains, not just for the Shaiyena, but for all red men of the plains. But now gold-hungry white men are invading. They are driving the red man farther and farther west from this sacred place, farther from our buffalo herds.

  “The white man says, ‘You must be like us and raise cows and corn. If not, we kill you off like the buffalo.’ But the Indian and the buffalo are one, and they will die together!”

  Solemnly, the old man explained that no Cheyenne could cross over to the Land of Ghosts unless he had sung the Death Song in the moments before dying. His voice hushed and cracking with age, he chanted the simple words that Matthew must never himself sing until death was inevitable:

  Nothing lives long

  Only the earth and the mountains.

  The words had a sad, yet dignified and peaceful ring as they echoed in the darkness out over the water. Then, the spiritual lesson complete, Arrow Keeper removed a soft kid pouch from his sash and handed it to the youth.

  Arrow Keeper was almost convinced now that the youth was the son of the great Northern Cheyenne chief Running Antelope. Running Antelope’s medicine sign had been the ferocious badger, and the pouch Arrow Keeper gave Matthew contained a set of sharp badger claws. But the old man would not yet tell the boy who he really was. The time had not yet come.

  “Your medicine bag,” Arrow Keeper explained simply. “Wear it always. Protect it with your life. An enemy who steals your medicine bag steals your soul. Better he should scalp you.”

  Matthew tied the bag to his breechclout with a buckskin thong, and Arrow Keeper fell into a deep, reflective silence. When the boy started to ask what they would be doing the next day, Arrow Keeper silenced him.

  “No more talk now. You will need strength for tomorrow.” The old man pointed to his ears, his eyes, and his nose. “True it is, old men talk too much. Sometimes talking puts a brave in trouble. More can be learned from the talk without words. Listen to your mother the earth.”

  Matthew slept deeply that night. He woke at sunrise to the glorious singing of meadowlarks and hermit thrushes, grosbeaks and warbling orioles. In the morning light, he saw how beautiful the small mountain lake was, its placid blue surface wrinkling in the wind.

  But even before he could bathe or eat, Arrow Keeper led him around to a small hill at the opposite end of the lake.

  “You tell me, ‘Arrow Keeper, I will be a Cheyenne.’ But have you taken this desire close to your heart and thought what it means? This day, we will see if you can ever be a true Cheyenne in mind and spirit. As proof of your desire to join Yellow Bear’s people, you must stand on this hill with your eyes shut until sunset. You must not move a muscle except to keep your face always turned directly into the sun.”

  His words spoken, the old man left Matthew there alone. At first, Matthew was only mildly annoyed with the order. Still, it shouldn’t be too hard to stand on the hill all day with his eyes squeezed shut.

  But before an hour had passed, he was miserable. His legs ached, and his belly constantly growled for nourishment. Even with his eyes closed, the bright sunlight made them tremble and water. As the morning progressed, the sun blazed warmer and warmer. Soon rivulets of sweat flowed freely down his scalp.

  By midday, he was sure he would fail. Even his dark skin, which had never burned, was starting to sting from the unrelenting exposure. As his thirst increased, he grew lightheaded, occasionally swaying as if he would drop. In his confusion, he forgot where he was. He heard his ma and pa and Corey and Old Knobby and Kristen, all begging him to come home, begging him to—

  He swayed, catching himself just before he fell.

  From the heat of the sun, he guessed it had sunk low over the western edge of the lake perhaps only an hour from setting. But Matthew could endure no more.

  Suddenly, Arrow Keeper was at Matthew’s side, his voice startling the youth after the long silence. “As the twig is bent, so the tree shall grow. If you cannot endure this small thing here today, how will you stand and fight when the war cry sounds? When the blood of your people stains the earth?”

  The words rallied Matthew and touched something deep inside. His mouth formed a grim, determined slit, muscles bunched around his clenched jaws. He was still there, legs trembling but upright, when the sun finally dipped below the horizon and Arrow Keeper touched his shoulder.

  “Now,” the old man told him, pride clear in his tone, “you have begun to be a Cheyenne.”

  So stiff he limped, the exhausted youth bathed quickly. He fell into a deep, dreamless sleep while he was still chewing
a hunk of venison. Hours later, he was startled awake by a strangled cry from Arrow Keeper.

  The old man had experienced a powerful medicine dream. His face ghastly in the glow of the dying embers, old and lined beyond his years, Arrow Keeper rose quickly from his buffalo robe and spoke urgently to his companion.

  “Prepare to ride. Yellow Bear’s camp is burning!”

  Chapter Nine

  The moon was halfway through her journey across the night sky, but still Honey Eater could not sleep. She lay quietly in her robes and listened to the nighttime noises outside in the camp. Closer at hand, on the other side of the center pole of her father’s tipi, Yellow Bear and her mother Singing Woman were sound asleep, oblivious to their daughter’s restlessness.

  From down near the river came an owl hoot. Honey Eater heard it and idly wondered at it. Usually owls did not hunt so close to the camp. But her mind soon lost that thought and turned once again to the new arrival. Where had Arrow Keeper and he gone to when they rode away two sleeps earlier?

  Thinking about him so much bothered Honey Eater. She was, after all, the daughter of a chief. He was only a pathetic outcast who looked Indian but acted white. She knew it angered her father to see her gazing at the stranger so often. But something about the tall, broad-shouldered youth was different—something besides his stature and pleasing looks. He was somehow marked for something great.

  The young maiden had seen it when he was lashed to the wagon wheel and tortured over embers. Despite his shocking ignorance and white man’s contamination, he was strong and brave and good in a way that showed in his eyes, in the determined set of his mouth.

  Her face flushing with warmth, she recalled their embarrassing encounter at the bathing pool. At first, she had believed he spied on her; now she realized he had simply blundered upon her in his ignorance. But still, they were not married and had seen each other naked! She could hardly be expected to be friendly toward him after such a breach of custom and still call herself a modest Cheyenne maiden. And why was a modest Cheyenne maiden, she scolded herself, thinking so often about how magnificent he had looked naked?