Cheyenne Song

by Georgina Gentry

  Two Arrows shook his head, looked away, shame on his chiseled features. “For almost ten years, I have not been worthy to wear this, even to call myself a dog soldier. If attacked, a holder of the hotamtsit is expected to drive that stake into the ground, fight and die on that spot rather than retreat.”

  He paused, looking down at her as if loath to leave her, then smiled. “I forgot something.”

  He strode back to her, pulling a piece of rawhide from his belt. Now he knelt, ran his fingers across her cheek ever so gently, his face so close, she could feel the warmth of his breath. She pulled away, alarmed that his closeness and the touch of his fingers stirred something deep inside; something she wasn’t sure she understood. This was not any emotion she had ever felt in her thirty-four years.

  Abruptly, before she realized his intent, he raised the scrap of rawhide, forced it into her mouth while she fought to keep him from gagging her.

  “Sorry, Proud One,” he whispered. “I can’t risk your alerting the soldiers to your hiding place.” He smiled. “You’re still too much woman for the lieutenant to tame!”

  Damn him! Glory struggled against her bonds and glared with murderous eyes. She tried to scream that she hoped he was killed, but her words were muffled by the gag, although there was no mistaking her tone.

  Two Arrows put his hand on the back of her neck, tangled in her mane of hair, and twisted her face up to his, looked into her eyes for a long moment. “Good-bye, Proud One. In a couple of hours, either I will return for you or the soldiers will.”

  Glory fought to pull out of his strong hand, but he held her, his other hand coming up to stroke her cheek. Then he sighed, stood up, and strode toward his horse, checked his rifle hanging from the saddle ring. She tried to shout at him again that she hoped the soldiers killed him, but of course, with the gag in her mouth, all she could do was mutter and twist against her bonds.

  Two Arrows swung up on the paint horse, the September sunlight glinting on the big knife in his belt and the beadwork on the magnificent leather band of honor. He looked like a dog soldier, she thought, arrogant, proud and brave. He gazed toward her again, nodded, and loped his horse over the crest of the hill.

  Glory looked around her. Hiding in the brush of the canyon were women and children and the very old, their eyes wide with fear, their faces gaunt from hunger. Moccasin Woman and little Grasshopper gave her an encouraging nod, but she could see the resigned fear in their eyes. Glory looked away and tried not to think of the Cheyenne as people. These savages had kidnapped her and they might get her killed. Yet, in their place, would she have done anything differently? When they all returned to the fort, she would talk to Major Mizner herself and explain why they had fled the reservation, ask for mercy for these helpless ones. As for that damned, arrogant scout who had caused her all this trouble, she hoped to live to see him hanged. She was especially furious over those unidentified and unaccustomed feelings he had begun to arouse in her.

  Two Arrows’s heart was heavy as he rode over the rise to join the other warriors, knowing the handful of warriors were not only outnumbered, but had only a few ancient weapons between them and almost no ammunition. He was probably riding to his death, but such was the fate of most dog soldiers. He should be thinking of battle, but instead, he was remembering the woman’s soft curves against his back, the feel of her slim arms around his waist. He smiled as he recalled how she had looked when he had lifted her from the river, her sheer wet dress clinging to her nipples. He had desired her then as he had never desired a woman before. No, not even with Pretty Flower had he felt such a hunger.

  Despite himself, he was having more and more trouble hating the Proud One even if she was the haughty lieutenant’s woman. Her valiant effort in saving the child at risk to her own life went against everything he had always believed about weak, whining white women.

  He thought of the wolf and began to sing a warrior’s song as he rode, a Cheyenne song of freedom and brave deeds. He had no respect for the lieutenant and would never willingly salute him, but he hungered for respect himself from these very people he had led Mackenzie’s soldiers to back in the winter of ’76. Two Arrows knew that the warriors were outnumbered and would probably die today; but he was not afraid. For the first time in ten years, he felt like a man again, and he would die defending his woman.

  Two Arrows joined the small group of warriors on the hilltop, just out of rifle range, and looked around, still softly singing his song of valor to hearten the others.

  Soldiers sat their horses in the distance. The landscape looked like a sea of blue cloth and shiny brass buttons. Had Washington sent the whole U.S. Army against this little group? Did they not know it was mostly women and children who had fled?

  Two Arrows could see the plump, mustachioed Captain Rendlebrock out in front of the troops, the late-afternoon sun reflecting on the brass and blue of his uniform. Even at this distance, he recognized Lieutenant Krueger reined in next to the captain. No one could mistake that spirited, thoroughbred chestnut stallion the lieutenant rode.

  The warriors were whispering among themselves, staring at the honored Dog Rope Two Arrows wore. He knew many of the younger men had never seen one. He squared his shoulders, fierce and proud as in the old days. Once he had been a warrior of many coups, respected and brave. Why had he given up in defeat, thrown in with the whites, drowned his sorrows in their whiskey? It felt good to be a man again; even if he must die today. He had a sudden wish that the Proud One could see him now as she had never seen him—not as a white man’s drunken scout, but a dog soldier of many coups, a man respected and feared by his enemies.

  From the halted troops, a courier party, including one of the Arapaho scouts, the old soldier called Muldoon and Lieutenant Krueger, galloped forth carrying a white flag and paused in the vast expanse of dry buffalo grass between the two sides. Krueger’s light hair gleamed in the sunlight under the blue hat, and the spirited chestnut stallion danced as he reined it in. What a fine animal! The lieutenant was a very lucky man, Two Arrows thought. He owned both the finest horse and the most beautiful, desirable woman. Only right now she was in Two Arrows’s possession.

  The lieutenant was also a brave man, Two Arrows thought with new respect. The little group with their white flag was within rifle shot, and Krueger must know that. Or maybe he cared so much for the woman that he laid his fears aside. For the love of such a woman, any man would dare much. The Blue Cloud, as the Arapaho scouts were called, was certainly aware of the danger; sweat gleamed on his brown face, and his gaze darted from one side of the hill to the other.

  Dull Knife, Tangle Hair, and Little Wolf conferred, then rode up to Two Arrows.

  Tangle Hair, leader of the dog soldiers, nodded with approval. “You give heart to our warriors; I had forgotten that you had ever been a carrier of the hotamtsit.”

  Two Arrows felt his face burn with shame. “I have disgraced it and my people, but perhaps the great god, Heammawihio, will give me another chance to prove my worth.”

  Dull Knife looked at the couriers waiting between the two sides. “Two Arrows, you speak the white man’s tongue. See what it is they want.”

  “You know what they want, Great Leader,” Two Arrows said. “They want us to give them the girl and return to the reservation.”

  “The girl they can have, if they will let us ride on in peace.”

  Two Arrows opened his mouth to protest, startled to realize that he did not want to give her back, no matter the soldiers’ bargain. She was nothing, he reminded himself, just a hostage, a female meant to warm a man’s blankets and give him sons. To the chiefs, he said respectfully, “And what if they will not let us go in peace?”

  “This is not the place to stand and fight if we can avoid it,” Little Wolf said. “What matters most is moving on north. We will fight only if they give us no other choice.”

  Two Arrows reached up to touch the leather band hanging from his broad shoulder. “If need be, I will carry out the pledge of the h
otamtsit holder, to fight and die pinned to one spot, to cover the retreat and delay the soldiers.”

  The two old men looked at him, new respect on their lined brown faces. “You are your father’s son after all.” Little Wolf nodded.

  Dull Knife turned to raise his hand to the handful of warriors on horseback or crouched behind boulders. “Hear me, men of the Cheyenne! We have a carrier of the honored Dog Rope with us today! We will show the white men how to die bravely and what freedom is worth!”

  A murmur ran up and down the line as his words spread. Hope came alive on dark faces and shoulders squared as men waved their weapons with renewed vitality. “Yes, we are Cheyenne warriors, and we know how to die! We will do these soldiers as we did Yellow Hair and bring honor to our people!”

  A chant arose in their throats, a wild, defiant shout of freedom that echoed across the plains and reechoed in the narrow canyons. The sound carried to the Arapaho scouts, who looked at each other uncertainly, and to the soldiers, who shifted uneasily in their saddles, their pale faces mirroring fear. They had thought they were coming to round up beaten, starving redskins. But these were men—proud, defiant men!

  The chant went up from the warriors, ringing clear like the call of the lobo wolf. “No, we will not go back! Better to fight and die! We have a holder of the hotamtsit among us!”

  Two Arrows’s eyes went moist, and he blinked the wetness away.

  Dull Knife smiled. “Two Arrows, you have heard the warriors; go tell that to the soldiers.”

  “Wait!” yelled Broken Blade, galloping his black horse over to join them. “How do we know we can trust Two Arrows not to sell us out and make a deal for himself? He has been the white man’s scout for many years.”

  The spell was broken; the chanting trailed off as the warriors looked at each other uncertainly, remembering him again as a drunken, soldiers’ scout.

  Two Arrows sighed. “I speak with a straight tongue,” he reassured the chiefs. “All I ask for is another chance to prove my worth. Send others with me to the parley so all will know I want the best for my people.”

  “I will go,” Broken Blade volunteered promptly. “Two Arrows and I are not friends, so you know I will be listening well if he tries to betray us: He might trade our people’s safety for a little whiskey.”

  The chiefs frowned. It was clear they did not like Broken Blade, but they were no longer sure of Two Arrows.

  “So be it.” Dull Knife gestured for the two to ride out to meet those who waited patiently with their white flag.

  Two Arrows kept his shoulders square, his head high and proud as he nudged his horse to ride out to meet the truce party. The lieutenant seemed to recognize him immediately because the muscles in his jaw jerked and his hand on his saddle clenched into a fist. He looked as if he were about to grab his pistol from its holster, no matter that he rode under a flag of truce and had come without a weapon. His spirited chestnut stallion snorted and stamped its hooves, and there was no other sound save the white guidon snapping in the breeze.

  Two Arrows felt the thick tension in the air as he and Broken Blade approached the waiting soldiers. The blond captain glared at Two Arrows with murder and pain in his square face. Two Arrows was surprised to realize that he would feel the same if he was the Proud One’s man and thought another had mated with her.

  The Arapaho raised his hand, began to speak Cheyenne, but Two Arrows made a gesture for silence. He wanted the lieutenant to understand what was being said. As a scout, he should salute the lieutenant as a sign of respect, but he did not. “Hou. Why does the army follow us? All we want is what we were promised, a chance to return to our own country since we do not like the Indian Territory.”

  Lieutenant Krueger’s blue eyes were bright with anger. He ignored the question and blurted out, “You have the woman?”

  Two Arrows smiled ever so slightly. “I have the woman.”

  He saw the muscles in the other’s jaw work convulsively, and almost, his hand clenched as if he would reach to jerk Two Arrows from his horse, but Muldoon raised a hand as if to restrain him.

  “Easy, laddie,” he said under his breath, and the officer paused, though his hand shook.

  Glory was right, Two Arrows thought. The officer loved her past all reason, more than any man had a right to value a woman. Good. That made her even more valuable as a hostage.

  Two Arrows gestured in warning. “Keep your hands where I can see them, Lieutenant.” There could be no mistaking the cold insult of his words as if the officer might be carrying a concealed weapon. David Krueger was too much of a polished gentleman to break the officer’s code . . . or was he?

  The other seemed to curse under his breath. “Is she? I mean, have you—?”

  Broken Blade threw back his head and laughed. “We will all enjoy her, sooner or later, Bluecoat Officer. Right now, only Two Arrows gets the pleasure!”

  The lieutenant’s face paled, and he swallowed hard. He glared into Two Arrows’s dark eyes. “I will kill you for touching her. Remember that promise.”

  Muldoon frowned, and the Arapaho took a deep breath, sweat dripping down his brown face. Evidently, he expected to be caught in a cross fire at any moment.

  Two Arrows did not deny Broken Blade’s lie. The white officer had whipped him like a dog before the other Cheyenne scouts. Now let Krueger suffer. Two Arrows threw back his head and laughed. “I know you won’t want her back after a savage has used her!”

  “God damn you!” Krueger snarled through clenched teeth. “I’d want her back, no matter what. Name your price!”

  So he did value her above everything. Two Arrows’s respect for the officer suddenly increased. “The Proud One is our hostage,” Two Arrows said. “Let the Cheyenne go to their own country in peace, and when we are safe, we will release her.”

  There was a long pause, broken by the song of a scissor-tailed flycatcher flying up out of the grass. Metal jingled on bridles as cavalry horses stamped their feet and swished their tails against flies.

  The lieutenant suddenly looked much older and very weary. His shoulders slumped. “I—I don’t have that authority. I will not give my word if I cannot guarantee it.” He nodded toward Captain Rendelbrock, waiting safely with the troops behind him. “I’m told to order the Cheyenne to return to the reservation or we’ll attack.”

  “If you attack us,” Two Arrows said, “you risk hitting the woman.”

  Krueger’s handsome face turned abruptly pale. “I—I have no authority to let you go.” He looked at Two Arrows in frustrated, mute appeal. “If I could, I’d give you anything, anything.”

  He loved her, Two Arrows thought, and was almost ashamed that he had stolen the woman. Then he reminded himself of the whipping he had endured, and his heart hardened. “Let us go in peace, or risk the consequences.”

  Broken Blade grinned. “Think, Bluecoat! If you crowd us too close or trick us, you will hear her screams floating on the night wind as we torture her.”

  The lieutenant had eyes only for Two Arrows. He glared at him with pure hatred, his eyes like hard blue glass. “I hold you personally responsible for Glory’s safety. Sooner or later, I will hunt you down and kill you without mercy.”

  Two Arrows studied the man, knowing he meant it. He had not realized such a civilized man was capable of such fury and passion. But then, Two Arrows was beginning to suspect the Proud One could arouse such intense feelings in a man.

  He must not think of desire or the woman’s soft body; he must think of his people. “You have heard Broken Blade,” Two Arrows said sternly. “If you value her, go back and tell the captain her life rests on our being allowed to go in peace to our own country. When we get there, we will free her. Chase us at her peril.”

  The officer trembled, seemed to be fighting for control. For a moment, Two Arrows braced himself, thinking the man would throw himself at Two Arrows, attempt to kill him with his bare hands.

  Two Arrows watched the old Irish soldier out of the corner of his eye
. The man was tense in his saddle, ready to put himself between the two, so devoted was he to his officer. However, the lieutenant’s shoulders slumped, and his tone was futile. “I will give my captain the message.”

  “Perhaps you can persuade him,” Two Arrows said. “In the meantime, she is mine. Think about that tonight as you try to sleep.” He could not resist this cruel jab, knowing the officer would lie in the darkness, staring sleeplessly in the night, thinking that the warriors were enjoying Glory’s ripe body. It was a fitting revenge for the whipping, yet he felt ashamed when he saw the other man’s tormented face, saw love for the woman in the blue eyes.

  He watched the trio wheel their horses, riding back to their own lines. He knew the stubborn Major Mizner thought only of his military record and what Washington would say if the Cheyenne escaped. The captain and his troops were no doubt under orders to sacrifice the captive in exchange for a military victory.

  He glanced down at the decorated band of honor across his mighty chest. Once, he had been a great warrior; perhaps he would have a chance to be so again. It was a good day to die, but Two Arrows had not had time to make proper medicine, paint himself with the war signs.

  He and Broken Blade nudged their ponies and galloped out of rifle range and back to the chiefs. Up ahead, he could see war shields and a pitiful handful of weapons as the small group of warriors made ready to die fighting rather than be returned to the reservation.

  Nine

  Two Arrows bent low over his paint’s neck, riding hard. Behind him, he sensed the soldiers would open up with a volley the moment the army couriers were safely back to their lines. He had ridden a long time with the soldiers; he could almost read their minds.

  “Hokahey!” he shouted to the warriors, waving them to spread out, take cover as he and Broken Blade galloped up to report to the chiefs. There was no need to speak, the soldiers were already shooting. He glanced back over his shoulder in time to see the Blue Cloud scout crumple from a Cheyenne bullet and fall from his horse.