Comanche Raid (A Cheyenne Western--Book Six)

by Judd Cole

  “And the strength of his coups to Wolf Who Hunts Smiling’s request to be admitted,” Touch the Sky added. “They are both cousins, both of the Panther Clan. Lone Bear will surely accept him now.”

  Little Horse said something else, but Touch the Sky missed it—he had just spotted Honey Eater, returning from the river with a clay jar full of fresh water.

  For a moment he stared at the crude mess Black Elk had left of her hair, so jaggedly cut over her neck it looked as if fire had gnawed away at it. Proudly, defiantly, she had taken no pains to disguise her husband’s public mark of shame. Instead of casting her eyes down, as Cheyenne women often did when marked for censure, she boldly met all comers in the eye. Touch the Sky knew she was rebelling against Black Elk’s tyranny. He was proud of her spirit, but afraid it would only lead to more trouble for her.

  “Black Elk should receive the bull whip, not become one,” Little Horse said with anger in his voice as he watched Honey Eater cross to her tipi. “Everyone in camp knows he has cut off Honey Eaters braid. Many are angry at this, although some of the warriors say it is Black Elk’s business, that it may spoil the hunt to stir up trouble now.”

  Touch the Sky dropped his glance before Honey Eater could meet it. Not only did he wish to spare her feelings, but he felt that Black Elk was lurking somewhere nearby, watching as usual. Lately, because Black Elk’s jealousy had become crazy-dangerous, Touch the Sky went out of his way to avoid chance meetings with or even glances at Honey Eater.

  But this only served to charge their occasional accidental meetings with even more meaning. By now it was common knowledge in the clan circles that the two loved each other. The story was told clearly in the way they carefully avoided each other. On occasions when they were forced to be in the same vicinity, they both acted nervous, ill at ease.

  One old squaw in the Sky Walker Clan, known as a visionary and a singer, had sung their love in a tragic song. The song did not say their names but was clearly about them. Now all the younger girls were singing it in their sewing lodge. Secretly, they hoped this love would somehow become a marriage.

  “Look, buck!” Little Horse nodded across the central camp clearing, toward the hide-covered council lodge.

  As if to grimly confirm what they had been talking about, Black Elk, his younger cousin Wolf Who Hunts Smiling, and Lone Bear, head of the Bull Whip soldier society, were conferring together. Now and then one of them glanced across the clearing toward Touch the Sky.

  “They are plotting against you,” Little Horse said with conviction. “I suspect they have some plan for the Animal Dance this night.”

  Touch the Sky said nothing, though he feared his friend was right. The Animal Dance was also known as the Crazy Dance or the Buffalo Dance, because it was always given on the night before the tribe left en masse for the hunt. Unlike most of the solemn Cheyenne ceremonies, it was known for its foolish mimicry of animals and sly ridicule of tribe members, which often left many of the observers rolling on the ground in gales of laughter.

  Arrow Keeper stepped out from his tipi, which occupied a lone hummock beside Touch the Sky’s. He crossed to speak to his apprentice.

  “Are you prepared to assist at the dance?” he said.

  Touch the Sky nodded. His nervousness was less now that he had successfully assisted the old medicine man at the Spring Dance during the chief-renewal one winter ago. Again Arrow Keeper had carefully rehearsed his part with him.

  Now the old shaman too glanced across the clearing toward the trio of braves in front of the council lodge. Like Little Horse, he quickly guessed this signaled new trouble for Touch the Sky.

  He pulled his red Hudson’s Bay blanket tighter around his shoulders. The lines in his face were deep, like the cracks of a dried-up riverbed. But though the furrow between his eyes was deep in wrinkled folds, the eyes themselves were clear and bright and observed everything.

  “Be ready, little brother, for some things we did not practice. I fear your enemies plan to use the dance against you.”

  Touch the Sky looked at him, waiting for more. But as if he had already said too much, Arrow Keeper changed the subject.

  “I have had a medicine dream, and it told me the hunt will go well. Our travois will be heaped with tender hump steaks.”

  “Then we are fortunate,” Little Horse said. “Each year, thanks to the white hunters and their long-killing rifles, we have fewer and fewer herds. Now look how far south we must ride. As young as I am, I recall a time when the buffalo came to us. Now we chase them into enemy lands.”

  “You speak straight-arrow, Cheyenne,” Arrow Keeper said. “More and more white men, even some in the Great Council, are defending the slaughter of the buffalo as the best way to eliminate the red man. And in this thing they are right, for if they take our food and our clothing and our shelters, what is left to live with?”

  “Truly,” Little Horse said. “I hate the horse-eating Apaches. But in killing the white man’s cattle and throat-slashing his ponies, they do right. Only then do the hairy faces know how we feel!”

  Touch the Sky remained quiet at this, guilt lancing him inside as he recalled his own life among the white men in the river-bend settlement of Bighorn Falls. A buffalo hide was worth about three dollars on the Eastern market. He and his friend Corey Robinson had once laid eager plans to someday make their fortune slaughtering the great shaggy beasts—and never once, in their dream of riches, had they worried about the red man’s fate.

  Arrow Keeper saw clearly that his young helper was troubled. The old shaman knew full well what had happened to Honey Eater, knew that an innocent girl had been wronged. He also knew how Touch the Sky felt about that girl. The youth had had enough on his mind since Wolf Who Hunts Smiling had spoken against him at council, after the two had returned from the expedition on Wes Munro’s keelboat. Cleverly, without actually inventing complete lies, Wolf Who Hunts Smiling had managed to cast suspicion about Touch the Sky’s loyalty to the tribe and the Cheyenne Way. Now many still felt he was a white man’s dog, not straight-arrow Cheyenne.

  For these reasons, Arrow Keeper decided not to mention the rest of his medicine dream.

  Yes, the hunt would go well. They would kill and distribute much meat. But in his vision, Arrow Keeper had also seen the four sacred Medicine Arrows which symbolized the fate of his people, and they were drenched in blood.

  ~*~

  That night a huge ceremonial fire was lit in the vast square at the center of camp. Everyone attended the Animal Dance except the sentries and the herd guard sent out to protect the ponies grazing farthest from camp.

  From the beginning Touch the Sky faced tense moments. Arrow Keeper had surprised his young apprentice by selecting him, before the entire tribe, to be Crooked Pipe Man for the ceremony. This prized role always went to a brave warrior. Many had expected Black Elk to be selected. But in selecting Touch the Sky, Arrow Keeper had reminded the tribe that the youth counted first coup in the critical Tongue River Battle— the great Cheyenne victory against land-grabber Wes Munro and his murderous militiamen.

  Black Elk stood close enough, when this announcement came, for Touch the Sky to watch jealous anger spark in his fierce eyes, which were like black agates. In the shifting orange spears of firelight, Touch the Sky stared with grim fascination at the leathery flap where part of Black Elk’s ear had been severed by a Bluecoat saber. The warrior had calmly picked up his detached ear, killed the soldier, then later sewn his own ear back on with buckskin thread.

  But now Black Elk’s anger did not last long. Touch the Sky watched him exchange conspiring glances with Lone Bear, his cousin Wolf Who Hunts Smiling, and Swift Canoe, who like Wolf Who Hunts Smiling had sworn to someday kill Touch the Sky. Black Elk’s satisfied grin again reminded Touch the Sky to be prepared.

  Though Honey Eater hid it well, Touch the Sky saw pride rise into her face for a moment when Arrow Keeper selected him as Crooked Pipe Man. Her approval heartened Touch the Sky. But truly, he thought with anothe
r pang of angry hate toward Black Elk, it is hard for her to face the tribe like this—her hair a ragged clump like a prairie chicken’s tail. Yet it could do nothing to mar the flawless amber skin, the beautifully sculpted cheekbones, the slender, shapely body clinging to her buckskin dress.

  The Animal Dance was a relaxed entertainment, not a formal ceremony. Touch the Sky wore no ceremonial finery except his mountain-lion skin, a gift from Arrow Keeper blessed with his big medicine. The warriors had left their war bonnets and scalp-laden coup sticks behind. Black Elk wore a fine new leather shirt adorned with beadwork so beautiful that even warriors—who seldom deigned to remark on women’s work— openly complimented it.

  Touch the Sky knew it was the handiwork of Honey Eater. Her skill was unmatched among Cheyenne women, whose beadwork was easily the finest of all the Plains tribes. Again, despite his vows not to torment himself, Touch the Sky heard the words of his crucial vision at Medicine Lake—the dead Chief Yellow Bear s words, spoken from the Land of Ghosts:

  I have seen you bounce your son on your knee, just as I have seen you shed blood for that son and his mother.

  But Yellow Bear had not spoken the mother s name. And Honey Eater was married to Black Elk. Why, Touch the Sky rebuked himself as he waited for the signal to take his place, could he not let this thing alone? Why could he not begin to look at other women in the tribe? Certainly, many of them looked at him.

  All of this just made him miserable. He gave thanks to Maiyun, the Good Supernatural, when Arrow Keeper told the braves who were playing the part of the Four Directions to take their places.

  Touch the Sky went to Crooked Pipe Man s place of honor in the dance square, the northeast corner. This was symbolic of the northern lights— a holy place called Where the Food Comes From, the spiritual home of the Big Holy Ones who first taught the Cheyennes their sacred myths and the secret of the Medicine Arrows.

  Little Horse had been selected to be Spirit Who Rules the Summer; a brave named Eagle on His Journey was Spirit Who Gives Good Health; and Wolf Who Hunts Smiling was Spirit Who Rules the Ages. As the braves took their places on all four points of the square, Wolf Who Hunts Smiling passed close to Touch the Sky.

  The young brave had only eighteen winters behind him, but was already respected as a fierce warrior. He had a wily, cunning face befitting his name and sharp eyes that seemed to dart everywhere at once. Now those eyes mocked his enemy, Touch the Sky, whom he would never forgive for growing up among the hair-face whites who killed Wolf Who Hunts Smiling’s father.

  The four braves selected to represent the directions danced in tight circles at their stations, knees kicking high as the tribe chanted “Hi-ya, hi-ya!”

  “Now let the animals talk to us!” shouted Arrow Keeper, the signal for the comic mimicry to begin.

  Touch the Sky had wondered why Swift Canoe had disappeared behind the council lodge. Now, as the costumed brave leaped suddenly into the firelight, he realized why.

  The tribe burst into a collective roar of laughter as Touch the Sky felt heat creep into his face.

  Swift Canoe’s hair was greased with kidney fat and stacked on top of his head in the style of the whites. He wore a white man’s shirt and trousers and heavy cowhide boots, captured in the Tongue River battle. The boots, especially, drew many stares and shouts of laughter. Clearly he was mocking Touch the Sky’s appearance in the early days of his arrival, when he was called White Man’s Shoes.

  But the most humiliating part of his costume, to Touch the Sky, was the lace shawl he had wrapped about his shoulders. There was no greater insult to a warrior’s manhood than to dress him in woman’s clothing. To emphasize the point, Swift Canoe made exaggerated shows of emotion with his face—recalling another name, Woman Face, from the days when Touch the Sky had not yet overcome his white man’s habit of showing his feelings in his face.

  A young brave from the Shield Clan dashed out with a whiskey bottle. It had been filled with dark yarrow tea to resemble the white man’s devil water. This brave too wore white man’s clothing—a floppy plainsman’s hat and a captured Bluecoat blouse, complete with shiny medals. He and Swift Canoe made an exaggerated show of shaking hands, a white man’s custom which Indians found hilarious. Again the rest of the tribe burst into wild laughter and shouts of encouragement.

  The two then took turns drinking from the bottle. This drew less laughter from the crowd, and more heat into Touch the Sky’s face, as the tribe recognized a thinly veiled charge that Touch the Sky was a white man’s dog, possibly even a Blue-coat spy.

  But the mirth began anew as several young boys burst out from the surrounding trees, hunched under buffalo hides. They played the part of buffalo and charged all around Swift Canoe. He pretended great fear and clumsiness, tripping over the unlaced boots in his drunkenness and ignorance. Swift Canoe was mocking Touch the Sky’s mistake, during his warrior training, of getting downwind of the buffalo and ruining hours of work for the hunters by scattering the herd.

  The buffalos finally chased Swift Canoe off into the forest, his face twisted in exaggerated fear.

  Chapter Four

  Swift Canoe said, “Congratulations, brother! I see from your pony’s tail that you are a Bull Whip now.”

  Wolf Who Hunts Smiling held his face proudly impassive. The men in his Panther Clan, which included Black Elk, took great pride in showing little concern for the praise of others. But the young brave was fully aware of the new streamers of red and black flannel tied to his pony’s tail— the badge of the Bull Whip Society.

  All around the two braves, Gray Thunder’s people were preparing to move out in a long column behind the hunters. Most of the adults and children old enough to ride were mounted, some using stuffed buffalo-hide saddles, most just blankets. The infants and elderly would ride on travois. Young boys led packhorses tied to lead lines. Black Elk had already sent out flankers to protect the main column on the move. The women, well practiced, were taking down the tipis in minutes. But they would take much longer to erect again.

  “What about the initiation?” Swift Canoe said. “When Blue Robe joined the Whips, they tied him up for one entire sleep with a huge rock on his chest.”

  Wolf Who Hunts Smiling shook his head in scorn. “Lone Bear knew that such children’s games were useless in my case. He saw me fight at the Tongue River Battle, saw me kill the first enemy. He said the initiation would not be necessary for a warrior such as I.”

  Swift Canoe wisely said nothing. But he was thinking that it also didn’t hurt that Black Elk was his cousin. Everyone in camp knew by now that Black Elk too had recently tied the Bull Whip streamers to his pony.

  “So now you will ride as one of the Hunt Law enforcers,” Swift Canoe said, admiration clear in his voice. “Perhaps you can speak for me in one more winter, when I send Lone Bear the gift of arrows?”

  “Perhaps,” Wolf Who Hunts Smiling said vaguely. Swift Canoe was his fawning imitator and often got on his nerves. He was a capable enough warrior and certainly no coward, though like most in his Wolverine Clan, he was a corn-plainer and often shirked his duties. But he was also a loyal follower, and Wolf Who Hunts Smiling harbored secret plans of ambition, for which he would need loyal followers. For this reason he tolerated Swift Canoe—this, and the fact that Swift Canoe hated Touch the Sky nearly as much as he did, blaming him for the death of his twin brother, True Son.

  The two young braves were rigging their ponies for the hunt. Now Swift Canoe said, “Black Elk has blood in his eye over the incident last night. He was sullen with me, as if I had anything to do with Touch the Sky’s clever victory during the Animal Dance. I played my part well.”

  “Woman Face will pay dearly for his short moment of glory,” Wolf Who Hunts Smiling said. “Black Elk and I are both Hunt Soldiers, and we will be watching him closely. He will taste our whips before the meat is piled on our racks.”

  Despite Touch the Sky’s improved standing among many in the tribe, Wolf Who Hunts Smiling was content. The young
brave was as wily as his name. He knew full well that, despite all of Black Elk’s courage and skill, he was a child in his feelings. Black Elk used to try to be fair toward the tall newcomer. But his increasing jealousy over Honey Eater had caused him to abandon his usual code of honor.

  Once already he had sent Swift Canoe and Wolf Who Hunts Smiling to kill the young buck. They had failed, even after successfully luring a grizzly to his cave at Medicine Lake. But Wolf Who Hunts Smiling felt no shame in this failure—Touch the Sky was a true and mighty warrior. It simply was not possible for Wolf Who Hunts Smiling to achieve his plans if both of them lived.

  And judging from the look on Black Elk’s sullen face, he thought, Touch the Sky would confront more than the threat of bull whips on this hunt.

  ~*~

  Once Gray Thunder raised his lance high, signaling the beginning of the hunt, the long column moved out quickly.

  It was necessary to move fast because the buffalo moved fast. The great, shaggy beasts always moved at a stampede, stopping only to graze before stampeding on again. The sick, lame, and lazy were forced to the front. Any who stumbled would end up in the bellies of the wolves who worried the fringes of the herds.

  Constantly Black Elk kept warriors riding on the flanks. They were in frequent communication with the main body thanks to the efforts of young runners who had been selected because of their swift ponies. Black Elk himself rode point, with the best scouts well out ahead of him. The pace was grueling.

  They made good time, but not without mishaps. They were forced to use a bad ford when crossing the Shoshone River. Some tipi covers and poles were lost to the runoff-swollen current. A child nearly drowned when it fell off a pony, but was snatched out of the water by an alert old grandmother.

  One sleep into their journey, they passed the awesome Black Hills. The Bowstring and Bull Whip soldiers rode up and down the column, enforcing silence while the sacred center of the Cheyenne world remained in sight.