“Maybe this is only what he hopes,” The Cheyenne Robber offered.
“Maybe,” Skywalker conceded. “Then again, maybe it’s something he was told would happen after a certain amount of time had passed. The other images in his mind made no sense to me, so I can’t be sure.”
“What were the other images?” I asked.
Skywalker twisted his mouth to the side as he thought. “One was the very white face of a young woman. She has large front teeth that stick out when she smiles. Then there was a gray ghost like a man. A man still alive to him. They talk.”
“How?” Hears The Wolf blurted.
Skywalker pursed his lips. “On flat smooth material treaty makers make marks on.”
“Pay-paa [paper]?” I yelped.
Skywalker came out of his near daze, his eyes blinking rapidly. “Yes. That’s it. Pay-paa. The dead one is alive on markings on the pay-paa. That young chief over there is afraid.”
“I think I’d better find out about that,” I said.
“Yes,” he agreed. “And there is something else. Something about Little Jonas.”
The Cheyenne Robber didn’t care to hear that. If there was anything bad about Little Jonas, The Cheyenne Robber didn’t want to know. He didn’t mind about any of the others, especially Sergeant Cullen. For a mean-natured man, Cullen had given up too easily. Rule of thumb: Never trust an enemy warrior who gives up too easily. All this means is that he’s tricky. That he has a plan on how to get even. We were all watchful of Cullen and we despised him because of the way he’d kicked his horse for no reason. With every fiber of my being I longed for Skywalker to discern in Sergeant Cullen the guilt for anything. Irritatingly, he kept coming back to Little Jonas.
“Not understanding their language, I don’t know what his secret is. I only know he has one, and it’s big. Almost as big as him.”
Skywalker began giving instructions to Hears The Wolf and The Cheyenne Robber. “I want you two to go out and look for any signs the storm failed to wash away. Make sure you come back before dark. This is our last night in this place.”
“Good,” The Cheyenne Robber grunted. “I need a bath and the clothes I’m wearing smell so bad I can’t get away from myself.”
Hears The Wolf cracked a laugh. “I can’t get away from you, either.”
Puckering his lips, flinging himself bodily at his father-in-law, The Cheyenne Robber hollered, “Kiss me!”
Laughing harder, Hears The Wolf fought off the mock attack. Glancing back over my shoulder I saw the effect the high-spirited play was having on the soldiers. Tugging the sleeve of Skywalker’s shirt, he looked back and noticed too.
SEVEN
The recent rainstorm had been so powerful that none of us truly believed that Hears The Wolf or The Cheyenne Robber would find any lingering signs, but Skywalker felt it was necessary that they try. Before the storm hit, the hoofprints leading out of the murder site indicated continued travel toward the northwest. As I told you before, Fort Larned lay in that direction and beyond that, the Pawnee.
Before our little council disbanded, The Cheyenne Robber let it be known that he was more than satisfied with blaming the Pawnee.
“It only makes sense,” he’d said.
He turned his handsome face to each of us, a brisk wind throwing back his long hair, sending it sailing away from broad shoulders. When none of us offered a response, his tone became loud and insistent.
“The Pawnee don’t like so many enemy nations this close to their villages. And they take great pride in their friendship with the A-me-cans [Americans]. Pawnees don’t want the A-me-cans becoming friendly with us, their enemies.”
He looked around again. Not one of us offered a response. I suppose it was because none of us wanted to believe that a man as physically impressive as The Cheyenne Robber could be so dense. But he was, and that has always struck me as a terrible crime against nature, for him to be so beautiful, so wondrously perfect—until he opened his mouth.
“Don’t you see?” he cried, becoming exasperated. “Enemy nations making treaties with the Blue Jackets threatened the Pawnee. So they sent spies to Medicine Lodge and those spies mingled among us, looking for a way to make trouble. They caused this trouble by culling out a soldier, then they killed him and left the body to be found.”
Reluctant as I was to point out the one or two glaring flaws in this little theory, nevertheless I forced myself to speak up.
“To begin with,” I said, “we all know that the Pawnee wear their hair in a highly distinctive style, shaved to skin all over the skull except for a braided topknot. How is it possible for a man looking like that to mingle among hundreds of long-haired warriors?”
Baffled, The Cheyenne Robber quickly looked to his relatives. Skywalker’s lips twitched, humor lighting up his eyes. Fighting the need to laugh, Hears The Wolf’s expression became so pained that he turned his head away. Turning next to Billy didn’t do The Cheyenne Robber any good either, for the frontiersman was intently studying something on the ground. Fuming, The Cheyenne Robber turned on me.
“You know,” he said tightly, “sometimes I almost hate you.”
Still trying to validate his theory, he cried, “All right. The Pawnees hid themselves until they saw a chance to make trouble.” He looked at me and sneered. “Only a real warrior would know this, but that’s exactly what Pawnees do.” He folded his arms and jutted his strong chin skyward.
Heavily marred though his theory was, it was still a comfort that one of us actually had one. I know I certainly didn’t. All I knew of for certain was that Buug-lah had been killed by a single ax wound that cleaved his skull. He had not been scalped but that didn’t necessarily prove Indians weren’t responsible. Contrary to popular notion, even the army knew during this time that not all Indians took scalps. From what I knew about the life cycle of maggots, I believed that when we found the dead man, he had been dead for about six days. And finally, the valuable horse he’d ridden had been killed by a single shot to the temple. The bullet was lead and its mashed remains rested inside the carry pouch that was tied to my breech-belt.
Now, to me, that dead horse proved beyond any shadow of doubt that no Indian had anything to do with the murder, because no Indian would kill such a valuable animal. Yet, while I knew this to be true, this fact would not be enough to convince the generals, who were more than content to blame White Bear. His turning up in their camp with that stupid bugle was harder proof than anything I might offer on the emotional involvement Indians have with horses. Besides, let us not forget that on account of Major Elliot, the army would have eventually blamed White Bear anyway. I knew this was true because days before he’d ever showed up with that bugle, the generals were already labeling White Bear a troublemaker. They hadn’t been able to more than grumble because he was a powerful war chief and he’d committed no crime. But now that Buug-lah had been found so undeniably dead, those generals would happily rush to charge him with murder.
Under ordinary circumstances, neither White Bear nor Lone Wolf would particularly care what the army charged against them. What made this an extraordinary circumstance was the fact that White Bear would stand accused of a violent act when every chief of the Confederacy of Nations had given his solemn word that no violence would be tolerated, and if by some remote chance violence did occur, those same chiefs had guaranteed the army the right to punish any and all offenders.
Now, there was the rub. At the time this promise was made, the only violence anyone considered was perhaps the odd fight resulting from a minor disagreement. Not one chief had considered the remote possibility of a murder or that the army would employ their most favorite means of punishment by hanging. You have no idea how repugnant this form of death is for Indians. Lone Wolf would most certainly go to war before ever handing over one of his own to be hung. And then he would strip White Bear of everything—rank, prestige, Onde privilege—for the crime of pushing him into a war he hadn’t been ready to fight. For a man like White Bear,
being reduced to nothing and with no hope of future reprieve, would be far worse than being hanged. All of this meant that we needed something to take back to the generals. Something they would not be able to disregard when we claimed White Bear to be innocent. If we could not find that something …
In those moments, as we watched Hears The Wolf and The Cheyenne Robber ride out, I wondered if Billy truly sensed the gravity of the situation. His expression, partially hidden by the shade of his broad-brimmed black hat, was totally blank. He also wore a long gray coat, brown cloth trousers, knee-high black boots, and a rust-colored shirt. Billy looked like a white man, but as he fell into step between myself and Skywalker, he carried himself like an Indian.
He never knew the name of his Kiowa father. None of us did. Billy had been born in Texas. As Texas was a favorite raiding ground, his father could have been anyone. It never fails to break my heart when I ponder the others; children with Kiowa blood doomed from birth to walk the knifeblade-thin road drawn between two very different worlds. Billy had come halfway back to us but still he teetered on the verge of the final decision of exactly who he would be. I wanted to pray for him. Filled with anguish, believing our time of friendship was running out, I wanted to pray for Hawwy, even pray for myself.
I didn’t know how.
* * *
The Blue Jackets had been talking among themselves. Whatever they had discussed left Lieutenant Danny looking not at all well. William sat close to him, keeping one dark eye on us as we approached while talking in soft tones to the lieutenant sitting huddled behind, knees drawn up to his chest, breathing with effort, almost panting through a partially opened mouth. I noticed that his lower lip looked tender, bleeding lightly in the places his teeth had worried chapped tissue. He tensed as we approached, his pale eyes beginning to glisten.
As we lowered ourselves to sit before the soldiers, I forced myself to look away from Lieutenant Danny, looking instead at William. He sat with his legs crossed, arms hugging his midsection as he slowly rocked himself. William looked angry, his mouth tight, expression fixed. Feeling my stare, he looked up at me. Anger faded as his full lips began to quiver with a hopeful smile. When I couldn’t bring myself to return the attempt, he hugged himself harder, lowered his head, and went back to rocking.
Little Jonas sat with his spine slightly curled, long legs splayed out. Muscular forearms resting on beefy thighs, his menacing eyes narrowed to slits. I quickly began to wonder what The Cheyenne Robber had done with that strong rope. With dismay I realized that when last seen, it had been hanging from The Cheyenne Robber’s saddle. Mentally I cursed him for having gone off, taking our only means of restraining Little Jonas. The big black man growled to Billy.
“Where is The Cheyenne Robber going?”
“He’s looking for anything that might help all of us.”
“And if he can’t find anything?”
Billy’s expression became tight.
Little Jonas considered at length, then said, “You tell The Cheyenne Robber that I had a good time. That I didn’t know Indians could be fun people. And make sure you tell him that I understand. That I don’t hold anything against him because we’re both soldiers and this is what soldiers have to do. Tell him I have a good mirror in my pack. He can have it. But the mirror is only for looking at his beautiful self, not for sending attack signals.”
Billy and Little Jonas emitted sad little chuckles.
Smoking a cigar, Sergeant Hicks looked off in the direction The Cheyenne Robber and Hears The Wolf had disappeared. Then his eyes slowly slid toward the hobbled and grazing horses. Ever so slightly, he turned his head, his eyes coming to rest on the bundle containing every one of their rifles and pistols. That’s when I knew that Hicks was the kind of man who bided his time. I could almost hear him thinking that there were only the two of us now—three, if one counted Billy—while there were six of them. He blew out a plume of smoke as his gaze became locked on the bundled guns beside Skywalker.
Perceptive as ever, Skywalker calmly drew out one of the pistols and just as calmly aimed it at Hicks’s heart, cocking back the hammer. Hicks’s answer to this was a slow smile, another puff on the cigar, and a nod.
Beside him, Cullen reached inside his jacket, removing a small cloth package. From this package he withdrew a clammy-appearing clump of black tobacco. Hatred for us glittered in his eyes as he bit off some of the tobacco. He chewed slowly as he retied the cloth, replaced it inside his jacket. Then he spit a brown stream to the side, wiped the corner of his mouth with the back of his hand.
I looked at Skywalker and said, “With all my heart I wish we could find something that proved that man guilty.”
“We all do,” Skywalker said.
Hawwy coughed to pull our attention toward him, then slowly, his hands half raised, he approached the fire, nudged the empty coffeepot with his booted foot. “Choi [coffee],” he said, his question meant to ask if we could make more. For a long time all Skywalker and I could do was stare up at him with open mouths. Didn’t he understand just how serious the situation was? Hears The Wolf had already decided that if he and The Cheyenne Robber didn’t find anything, not one trace of usable evidence, that we would then have to talk among ourselves about our choices. It would not be a long talk, for it seemed to us that we only had the one choice, and that was to run back to Lone Wolf with the news that while we were very sorry, we’d had no choice but to kill all the Blue Jackets, which now put us at war with the army.
We felt catastrophic failure hovering over the camp that was just a small, packed-down grass circle, a little dot of nothing in the middle of that great sea of prairie. Our failure was as dark as the clouds quickly filling up the sky, crowding out any hint of blue. The air was turning fresh, chilly gusts bowing the surround of grass, rattling seed pods and sending tiny seeds to fly on the wind. I looked at the sky, watching the churning clouds as I waited for Skywalker to say something, say anything. Because I couldn’t. I felt ill, my stomach twisting, my throat so tight I could barely breathe.
Skywalker nudged me and I turned brimming eyes in his direction. In a tone so soft it was almost a whisper he said, “It would be a good thing for you and Hawwy to have … time, together.” He looked quickly away. “And coffee would be nice.”
Wordlessly I rose, went to where Hawwy was, and picked up the empty pot.
The two of us didn’t talk much as we puttered around, looking for likely fuel to make a fire. I dearly wished Hawwy would chatter in that way of his, but he didn’t. I couldn’t say anything either, for my heart was busy breaking. Even though he was a Blue Jacket, Hawwy was my friend. I really didn’t think I would be able to stand around while he was killed. I knew Billy wouldn’t be able to do it either, which meant Billy would probably die too. At last I knew how to pray, and I prayed nonstop that The Cheyenne Robber and Hears The Wolf would find something.
I was still fervently praying as Hawwy and I built up the fire, then used the last of the water from the canteens to fill up the coffeepot. I prayed harder as I measured out coffee grounds and then put the pot on to boil. It was in the middle of this last prayer that Skywalker’s voice reached me.
“I am sorry for the things you’re feeling.”
I looked up at him, the anguish inside me so overwhelming that I was becoming physically ill. “I lied to you,” I rasped. “I lied when I said to you that he isn’t my friend.”
“I know.”
I looked away, tears I didn’t want him to see, burning my eyes.
“I have decided something very important,” he said. “I have decided that it no longer matters to me who you choose to be your friend, for you are my brother. Brothers are closer than friends.”
Somehow a laugh spilled out of me. “You would raise me up to be an Onde?”
“No. You’ve raised up yourself.”
I looked at him in disbelief.
“It’s true,” he whispered.
Before I could make any reply to this considerable honor,
Hears The Wolf and The Cheyenne Robber came flying in at a gallop.
EIGHT
“Look what we found!” The Cheyenne Robber cried. He threw something to the ground before leaping down from his horse.
Skywalker and I hurried to the spot, to find an army saddle lying at our feet. Skywalker knelt down, his hands exploring the leather saddle which, after being abandoned to the elements, was in a sorry state. There was a leather bag tied to the saddle. Hears The Wolf dismounted hurriedly and stood with his hands on his hips, staring down at the saddle while The Cheyenne Robber went right on talking in a loud, excited tone. Skywalker listened as he worked loose the knot keeping the bag’s flap closed.
The Cheyenne Robber said, “The only thing out there are the prints we made. The rain cleared away everything, even rabbit spoor. We were coming back here when I said—”
“No, you didn’t,” Hears The Wolf yelped. “I said it.”
The Cheyenne Robber turned an angry face toward his father-in-law. “Does it really matter who said it?”
“Yes, it does. Especially if you’re going to make yourself the hero of this story. And for another thing—”
“Will you two stop it!” I shouted. They both looked at me, their expressions shocked that I had dared to correct them. “It isn’t important who said what,” I said more evenly. “Just tell us what happened.”
They both glanced at Skywalker, expecting him to address my impertinence. Skywalker merely grinned and concentrated on the saddlebag’s knot.
Confused, his head turning on his neck as he looked from his brother to a wide-eyed Hears The Wolf, The Cheyenne Robber spoke. “We decided it would be a good idea to turn south, toward the army camp, making our way back here by that means. It was then that I”—he thudded his chest with his fingers, his eyes daring Hears The Wolf to correct him—“spotted bent brushwood. And it was I who thought this might be significant.” Folding his arms over his swelling chest, he said smugly, “It was. Whoever threw this saddle away tried to hide it, but the saddle’s weight made that patch of scrub bend wrong. That’s why I saw it.”
Murder at Medicine Lodge Page 9