A little before the sun was straight overhead, he stopped near the top of a low ridge. In the valley below him, some two or three miles ahead, lay the village of Two Moon.
Well now, he thought as he dismounted to observe the village for a few minutes. So much for the easy part. Now all I have to do is figure how to ride down there and give them the arrows and ride out again with all my parts. With the heated situation on the frontier, he knew there was a better than even chance he would be shot on sight if he rode into the village, even if he waved a white flag. He never liked taking the short odds when it was a matter of saving his hair, so he decided what he needed was an escort. He stepped up on Black again and rode down the ridge toward the river bluffs.
He didn’t have to wait long. His horses back out of sight in a narrow gully, he crouched beside a scrubby bush near the bottom of the coulee. He had picked this spot because it was an obvious trail to and from the village on the other side of the river. He waited.
He could hear their voices long before they rode into view following the winding trail through the coulee. There were six of them in the party. They were joking with each other, laughing. It must have been a good hunt, he figured. The laughing stopped abruptly when they rounded the bend in the trail and found themselves confronted by the tall white scout. Stunned by the sudden appearance of the buckskin-clad white man, they were speechless at first. Jason spoke before they could recover from their surprise.
“I have come in peace. I have a message for your chief, Two Moon.”
Still stunned, the hunters looked at each other with blank, confused faces. Then, as if hearing a signal, they looked frantically from side to side, expecting to discover soldiers. Three of them carried rifles slung on rawhide straps behind their backs and they reached for them.
Jason held his Winchester up and cocked it. “I come in peace,” he repeated. “I have come to talk with Two Moon.”
The formidable image that confronted them quickly persuaded the hunters, two of whom were little more than boys, that it might be best to hear what the white man had to say. Still there was a vein of defiance that prompted the necessity to voice their distrust. One, a short, solidly built man, obviously older than his companions, spoke for them.
“What are you doing here in our land, white man?” His tone was menacing like the hissing of a snake; the words sounded blunt and threatening in the Cheyenne tongue.
“As I told you, I have come to talk to Two Moon.” Jason’s face was passive, his eyes unblinking and fixed on the warriors.
“Where are the soldiers?” the warrior demanded. “You have come to attack us in our own land, kill our women and children!”
Jason remained stoic. “I told you I’ve come to talk with Two Moon. Now take me to him.”
“Why should we? You are one man, alone. Why shouldn’t we kill you, white man?” He looked from side to side at his companions. They all seemed to nod their heads in agreement.
Jason studied the warrior’s face intently for a moment. “Because I come in peace, for one reason. Another reason is because I’d cut three of you down before you could get those rifles off your backs.” He brought the barrel of his Winchester slowly around to bear on the warrior doing the talking.
There was a long moment of silence while the Cheyenne thought this over. Jason concluded that the man might be hot blooded but he evidently was not stupid because he accurately sized up the situation.
“I will take you to Two Moon because you have come in peace.”
Jason fetched his horses and climbed in the saddle, his rifle cradled across his thighs. With the hunting party flanking him, he crossed the river and rode into the Cheyenne camp.
All activity in the busy village stopped when the small hunting party escorting the white scout splashed across the shallow ford. A group of women who had been scraping hides paused in their tasks to stare at the riders. Some of the men came out to watch, partly out of curiosity and partly to admire the two Appaloosas. As the party rode into the circle of tipis, the crowd of curious Cheyennes grew and closed in behind the riders as they made for the lodge of Two Moon. Jason rested his Winchester on his thigh, holding it straight up with a piece of white cloth tied to the barrel. He wanted to make sure the village knew he was coming in on his own under a white flag and not as a prisoner of the hunting party.
The hunters halted in front of a tipi in the center of the village. For a few moments they stood silent, all eyes on the white scout. Jason looked around him at the sea of faces looking up. In most faces he saw only wonder and curiosity, but in others there was open hostility. An angry word was spoken here and there among the crowd of onlookers and an under-current of angry mumbling began to build. Jason didn’t like the look of it but he knew the best thing for him at that moment was to remain stoic and maintain a calm, fearless facade. Already a couple of young braves were examining his horses. He could well imagine the thoughts running through their heads. White didn’t care much for the close inspection and kicked at one young warrior who passed a little too close to her hind legs. He leaped in time to avoid getting kicked, causing a ripple of laughter among the crowd.
One young brave pushed his way through the gathering until he was almost touching Jason’s stirrup. He stared up at Jason in open defiance and undisguised hatred. When Jason glanced down at him, the warrior sneered. Jason would remember him well. He had the look of a young mountain lion and there was a distinctive scar that ran from his chin across his cheekbone. He looked as if he was about to pull Jason from his horse. Jason continued to stare impassively at the young brave but in his mind he was thinking, If I get pulled off this horse, I’m going right down your throat.
He was saved from having to take that action, however, for at that moment Two Moon emerged from the tipi. The mob of people quieted down at once as the chief stepped forward. He stood before Jason for a few moments before speaking. The hunter who led Jason into the camp spoke first.
“He says he has a message for Two Moon.” He looked back at Jason for a moment then back to his chief. “He is either a very brave man or a very foolish one.”
Two Moon nodded but still did not speak. He returned his gaze to Jason, who nodded to affirm what the hunter had said.
“I come in peace.” Looking around him at the sea of hostile faces, Jason figured he’d better play all his cards. “I bring a message from my blood brother, Talking Owl.” This caused a renewed murmur in the gathering. “He asked me to return a sacred bundle to the Cheyenne people.”
“Where is Talking Owl?” These were the first words Two Moon spoke.
Jason looked around him at the people still closing in on him. “He is dead.” There was a gasp from the crowd and a woman’s voice could be heard to moan. “I am sorry to have to bring the news of his death. I did the best I could for him, but he was too badly wounded to live. As I promised Talking Owl, I have brought the medicine arrows back to the people.”
The crowd, especially the women, backed away a few steps at the mention of the sacred totem. Two Moon did not change expression but has eyes widened briefly before returning to their steady gaze. “You have the sacred arrows?”
Jason nodded. “In my pack.”
Two Moon appreciated the fact that the white man had enough sense not to display the arrows before the crowd. His stoic expression relaxed and he invited the scout to dismount and talk with him. He had feared that Talking Owl was dead. Some others of that village had escaped and told of seeing the Keeper of the Arrows shot down by the soldiers as he tried to flee. He assumed that the white scout was part of the attack on the village, riding with the soldiers, and he was curious as to why he had brought the arrows back. Also, he would have to examine the arrows himself to determine if they were in fact the medicine arrows. The white man obviously knew the importance of the arrows but there may be some trick involved to gain the Cheyennes’ confidence. Two Moon would have to see.
Jason stepped down and went to his pack. Exhibiting a great deal of care, he pulled
the bundle from the pack, taking the precaution to wrap another skin around it to make sure none of the arrows could be seen. He could tell from the chief’s expression that Two Moon was impressed. The chief turned and led him into his lodge. The scar-faced warrior reluctantly moved back to let Jason pass.
The air was still and warm inside the tipi. It would have been a great deal more comfortable to sit outside in the shade of the lodge, but Jason understood the need for privacy while the chief examined the arrows. Two Moon motioned for Jason to sit while he settled himself on a buffalo robe. He waited while a woman brought a pot of boiled meat and placed it before them and left the tipi. Two Moon motioned toward the pot and Jason took some of the shredded meat, even though he was not hungry. He chewed slowly while he watched the chief unwrap the bundle, looking carefully at each of the four arrows. It took but a moment for him to realize they were, indeed, the sacred arrows of his tribe. Satisfied that they were genuine, he was curious about the man who risked his life to deliver them.
“How are you called?”
“Jason Coles.”
“Ah.” There was a glint of recognition in his eyes. He had heard the name before. He carefully wrapped the arrows in the coyote-hide strip. “Why did you bring the arrows to me? Why didn’t you keep them after you captured them?”
“I didn’t capture them. Talking Owl gave them to me when he knew he could not return with them himself.”
“You rode with the soldiers who attacked his village?”
Jason shook his head. “Nope,” he said. Then, in Cheyenne, he replied, “No, I found him wounded on the Cheyenne River.”
“Ah.” Two Moon’s face relaxed into a smile. “You did not shoot Talking Owl?”
“No. Talking Owl is my brother,” Jason replied and held his wrist up to remind Two Moon.
Two Moon looked deep into the scout’s eyes for what seemed like long minutes to Jason. “I see no deceit in your eyes, Jason Coles. What do you want in return for this honorable thing you have done for my people?”
Jason shrugged. “Nothing. I was just keeping a promise to Talking Owl.”
“You want nothing?”
Jason shrugged again. “Maybe to get myself out of here with my hair still on my head.”
Two Moon laughed. “I will gladly give you that.”
Outside the lodge, the crowd of people still waited, quiet and patient, until the two men appeared. A small gathering of half a dozen or more stood off to one side, waiting to hear their chief’s words. Conspicuous among these, the scar-faced warrior stood defiantly, his arms folded across his chest, his feet planted firmly.
Jason cast a wary eye in the direction of Scarface and his friends. He knew if trouble started it would come from that group of warriors. Then Two Moon turned to a young man in the gathering and motioned for him to come forward.
“This man is Red Hawk,” Two Moon said. “He is Talking Owl’s son.”
Red Hawk came up to Jason and stood close to him, looking directly into Jason’s eyes. Jason returned the steady gaze, unblinking. They faced each other for a long moment before the young man spoke. “I was told that my father was shot down when the soldiers attacked the village. Some of the people saw him go down.”
“That’s true,” Jason replied. “He was shot but he wasn’t dead. When I found him, he was trying to return the sacred arrows to his people but his wounds were too bad. I tried to do for him the best I could but his time was up. I promised him I would bury him and bring the arrows back for him.”
Red Hawk considered what Jason had told him. Then he reached down and took Jason’s hand and turned it over to examine the still-tender wound across his wrist. “My father traded blood with you?” Jason nodded. Red Hawk turned to his chief, his eyes seeking Two Moon’s guidance.
Two Moon smiled. “In my mind, this man speaks the truth. He has returned the arrows to us and asks nothing in return. He has taken a great risk in coming here but he did so because it was the right thing to do. He came as a friend.”
Red Hawk seemed satisfied. He turned his gaze back to Jason then. “Then he is my friend. I say this before all gathered here.” He clutched Jason’s arm in friendship and said, “Thank you for your kindness to my father.” Jason breathed a little easier.
Two Moon nodded his approval to the young man and then raised his voice for the people to hear his words. “This man comes as a friend to the Cheyenne. He has returned the medicine arrows to the people. I have looked into his heart and it is true. His name is Jason Coles and no harm must come to him. He came in peace. He will go in peace.”
There was an instant howl of protest from the warriors standing with Scarface. Jason remained passive, showing no emotion but watching the obviously disappointed warriors closely. They had no doubt hoped Two Moon would take him prisoner for, in their minds, all white men were enemies.
Scarface could not contain his anger. He harbored an intense hatred for all whites, but when he heard the man was Jason Coles, that hatred was fanned to a white-hot fury. He had heard that name before. He pushed his way through the people, man and woman alike, standing in front of Two Moon. “This man you call friend, this Jason Coles, is the white dog who killed Stone Hand of Black Kettle’s village. He is an enemy to the Cheyenne! I, Hungry Wolf, say he should be killed for his crimes against the Cheyenne people!”
Two Moon already knew the man who killed the legendary Cheyenne warrior was named Jason Coles but he had also heard the white scout was held in high esteem by the Lakota and Osage for his honesty and courage. He looked at Hungry Wolf with the patience of a man who had many years of experience dealing with hotheaded young warriors. When he spoke, it was with the authority of chief of his people and his message was clear.
“This man is not to be harmed. He did not have to bring the sacred arrows back to us but he chose to do so. It would be wrong to do harm to a man who has done what he has done. He will go in peace.”
Hungry Wolf was trembling with rage. He stood staring defiantly into his chief’s face for a long moment before turning to Jason. “You are no friend of mine, white dog!” When Jason did not reply but stood firm, meeting the warrior’s gaze, Hungry Wolf abruptly spun on his heel and stormed back to his group of angry companions. They followed him as he stalked out of the circle of lodges to fetch their ponies.
Jason thanked Two Moon and stepped up on Black. He picked up the lead line on White and the people of the village parted, making a clear way for him to ride out. He nudged Black and the Appaloosa started back toward the river in a slow walk. Jason looked neither left nor right as he passed out of the circle of lodges but, out of the corner of his eye, he kept a watch on the group of six warriors who had now reined their ponies up at the edge of the river. He had replaced his rifle in the saddle boot but he casually let his hand drop on the stock to make sure it was riding loose in case he needed it in a hurry.
He had just about reached the water’s edge when a young warrior standing next to Hungry Wolf could stand it no longer. He suddenly kicked his pony hard and charged down at the white scout at full gallop. Jason prepared to defend himself. Since none of the others moved, he did not pull his rifle, figuring the young man just wanted to show how brave he was by riding right up to his enemy. Black’s instincts told him to run when the Indian pony charged toward them but Jason held him back to a walk. It wouldn’t do to run—that might cause the whole bunch to chase after him.
The warrior was within thirty yards of him now and he cut loose with a war whoop that pierced the still summer air. Jason turned to face him, striving to keep a casual expression on his face, expecting him to pull his pony up short and probably shout a few choice insults before galloping back to his friends. But the young man didn’t stop. Instead, he rode right up beside Jason and tapped his leg with his coup stick. Jason reacted.
“Why you son of a bitch—counting coup on a peaceable man. I ain’t gonna stand for that shit!” He grabbed the coup stick and yanked the surprised young man off his pony, le
aving him flailing the air before landing with a thud in the dust. He then circled Black around the fallen brave and, with one swing, broke the coup stick across the young man’s back. “I can’t abide a show-off,” he mumbled as he turned Black back toward the river, knowing he now had two bitter enemies in the Cheyenne camp.
After fording the river, he continued to hold the horses back to a walk as he guided them back up the coulee he had approached the village from. Once he had crossed the ridge beyond the river bluffs and was out of sight of the village, he picked up the pace to a fast walk. This was a comfortable pace for Black and one he could keep up all day while still covering a lot of ground. He struck out straight for the Powder. He figured he could reach it by dark, the days being a great deal longer this time of year.
As he rode, he thought over the events that had just taken place. It may have been a damn fool thing to do risking his neck to return a worthless bundle of arrows. But he didn’t see how he could have done any differently. He had promised a dying man. And, though worthless to him, those arrows were sacred to Talking Owl and his people. He decided he wouldn’t advertise what he had done when he got to Fort Lincoln—the army boys just didn’t understand that sort of thing. They’d figure that, if losing the medicine arrows would have a demoralizing effect on the enemy, then you sure as hell wouldn’t give ’em back. Jason realized that in spite of the fact that all whites were pretty much regarded as enemies to the Cheyennes, Two Moon didn’t consider himself at war with the army at this time. Two Moon, like the Sioux chiefs, Sitting Bull and Crazy Horse, simply did not intend to go to the reservation as Red Cloud had done. Jason also knew that it was simply a matter of time before the Cheyenne chief would be at war. He would have no choice because the government was hell-bent on sending all free-roaming tribes to the reservation—or killing ’em in the process. It was a shame but that’s the way it was.
As he had figured, he reached the banks of the Powder shortly after twilight, leaving him barely enough light to select a campsite in a clump of cottonwoods hard by the water’s edge. He watered the horses and hobbled them where there was a little grass, then he built a small fire to boil some coffee and eat some of the antelope he had left. By the time full darkness set in, he was ready to turn in. As a precaution, he rolled up a blanket to look like a bed near the fire while he took another blanket and made his bed under a tree close to his horses.
Cheyenne Justice Page 3