So Little Time

by Al Lacy

  Pierson had a quick spark of anger flaring up in his eyes. “Why not?”

  “What do you mean, why not? The man is still alive! He’s wounded and unarmed! To kill a wounded, defenseless man is murder!”

  Pierson fixed him with hot eyes. “You’re talking to an officer, Sergeant!”

  “Officer or no officer, if you pull that trigger, you’ll face murder charges! I’ll see to it!”

  The wounded Cheyenne was staring up at McClain, unable to believe what he was seeing and hearing. His somber eyes went to Pierson.

  Unaware that the two captains and other soldiers were headed toward him, Pierson pointed the muzzle of his gun at the Indian’s forehead, fire flashing in his eyes. A thick vein on his temple throbbed as he snapped, “This dirty savage helped massacre this poor farm family! He deserves to die!”

  McClain Reardon moved lightning fast and seized the revolver, trying to wrest it from Pierson’s hand. They both stumbled a few steps as Pierson sought to resist him, and the gun fired, sending the slug harmlessly into the air. McClain then twisted it from Pierson’s grasp.

  Anger boiled up in Pierson’s eyes. “I’ll see you court martialed for this, Reardon! Give me that gun!”

  The young warrior lay on the ground, wide-eyed, as Captain Lance Moore moved in and placed himself between the lieutenant and the sergeant. “There’s not going to be any court martial, Pierson,” said Moore. “Sergeant Reardon is right. To shoot this wounded, unarmed Indian would be murder.”

  “I don’t see it that way, Captain!” rasped Pierson. “This savage and his companions murdered the white people who lived on this farm! If I killed him, it would be an execution, not murder. Every one of those beasts should be hunted down and executed. We oughtta wipe out every tribe. They deserve it!”

  “Hold on, Pierson!” snapped McClain, moving aside a step so he could look the lieutenant in the eye. “The Indians are only trying to defend what belongs to them. Their ancestors have freely roamed these plains, hills, and mountains for centuries. And now the white man comes, killing their game, and trying to take their land away from them. They are a primitive people, and killing the invaders is the only way they know to fight back.”

  While the lieutenant was struggling to come up with a reasonable reply, Captain Jess Adams was studying the face of the wounded warrior. “Hey!” he said. “This is Chief Black Hawk’s son, Sky Eagle!”

  Moore frowned, looked down at the young warrior, then back at Adams.

  “You sure?”

  “Yes. I’ve seen him with his father on several occasions. See the arm bands?”

  “Yeah.”

  “They have the markings worn only by a chief’s son.”

  “Hmm. I wasn’t aware of that.”

  “It’s an old Cheyenne custom,” said Adams.

  Pierson chuckled. “Well, isn’t this something? Black Hawk’s son, eh? Give me my gun back, Reardon! It’ll teach Black Hawk a valuable lesson for his son to die after what he and his warriors did to these farmers!”

  “No way, Lieutenant!” said McClain. “Black Hawk no doubt already thinks Sky Eagle is dead, or he wouldn’t have gone off and left him.”

  “I say we finish him off!” hissed Pierson.

  “Enough of that, Lieutenant,” growled Moore, rubbing his chin and looking at Adams. “The other four Indians are dead. But what are we going to do with this one? We can’t take him to the fort.”

  “Why not, sir?” asked McClain.

  “Because there are other men at the fort who have the same attitude toward the Cheyenne that Lieutenant Pierson does. Doc Wallis wouldn’t be too keen on trying to save the life of Sky Eagle, especially since he’s Black Hawk’s son. Remember, it was some of Black Hawk’s warriors who attacked the wagon train that Mrs. Wallis was on. And we had to bury her. We can’t take him to the fort.”

  McClain bent over the young warrior, noted the blood running through his fingers, and more blood in the sod beneath his right shoulder. Then turning to his commander, he said, “Captain Adams, Black Hawk’s village isn’t more than a dozen miles from here. I’ll bandage Sky Eagle up as well as I can, then I’ll take him home where the Cheyenne medicine men can work on him.”

  “Reardon, you fool!” said Pierson. “You go into that village, and they’ll kill you!”

  “No!” said Sky Eagle, grimacing from the pain caused by his outburst. Looking up, he set his dull eyes on Pierson. “My people will not kill the white man—” He swallowed with difficulty and took a sharp breath. “My people will not kill the white man who brings their chief’s wounded son home. They will thank him.”

  McClain looked into Adams’s eyes. “Captain, may I have permission to take Sky Eagle to his village after I bandage him up?”

  Adams shook his head in wonderment. “Permission granted, Sergeant. I believe I’m beginning to understand more about your Christianity. I’m seeing real Christianity right before my eyes. However, I think I should send four or five men with you.”

  “It is best that you do not, Captain,” said Sky Eagle. “If my people see a band of soldiers coming toward the village, they will not understand. They will think they are coming to fight them. Please. I promise. Your Sergeant—” He looked up at McClain. “What is your name, Sergeant?”

  “McClain Reardon, Sky Eagle.”

  The son of Black Hawk looked again at Captain Jess Adams. “Your Sergeant McClain Reardon will not be harmed.”

  “I’m sure he’s telling the truth, Captain,” said McClain. “Let me take him alone.”

  Adams sighed. “All right, since you insist. Use what bandage material you need and get going. I’ll send some men to hide close to the village, so they can escort you back safely. We’ll wait right here for you.”

  “Really, sir,” said McClain, “you should get our wounded men to Doc Wallis. I’ll be fine.”

  When Sky Eagle saw that the captain was about to refuse, he said, “Captain, when my father learns what Sergeant McClain Reardon has done for his son, he will send warriors to escort him all the way to Fort Steele. He will be safe.”

  “That’s good enough for me, Captain,” said McClain.

  Adams sighed again. “All right. Get him bandaged quickly.”

  Carl Pierson extended an open hand to McClain. “I want my gun.”

  McClain smiled thinly, laid it in his palm, then turned toward Sky Eagle.

  Smoke drifted in lazy streamers from between the lodgepoles atop the tepees in the Cheyenne village as the war party drew near. More than two hundred tepees were gathered in a great circle beneath tall pine and birch trees on the bank of a wide creek. Like the hub of a giant wheel, the chief’s tepee was in the center.

  Old men, young warriors, women, and children looked at the band of incoming riders with the five riderless pintos trailing behind, pointing and talking rapidly.

  As the war party reached the edge of the village, a droop-shouldered Black Hawk slid off his pinto while the inquisitive people gathered close. The other warriors also dismounted, their faces grim.

  Some of the Indians were running from tepee to tepee, announcing the return of the war party, which resulted in many more hurrying toward their chief and his band of warriors.

  Many voices were calling for the chief to tell them what had happened. He raised a hand for silence. “Black Hawk will wait until everyone here.” Even as he spoke, he saw his squaw, Meadowlark, coming from the central tepee, flanked by two women.

  When the rest of the people had gathered, and Meadowlark was standing with her companions on the inside of the circle, Black Hawk ran his dismal eyes over the faces of the crowd. “We attack farm of new white invaders. Army come with big gun that shoot many bullets quickly. Gray Cloud, Falling Stone, Spotted Bull, and Young Crow all dead.”

  Women began to weep and wail.

  Meadowlark’s eyes were flitting from warrior to warrior in the war party that had followed their chief that day. Black Hawk saw it, choked up for a moment, then lowered his eyes
groundward. “There is one other warrior who was killed. Son of Black Hawk and Meadowlark—Sky Eagle.”

  Meadowlark released a shrill cry, and Black Hawk hurried to her, folding her in his arms. While she sobbed and wailed, the chief looked at his medicine man. His voice shook as he said, “Tall Tree, will you conduct a mourning ceremony for those braves who have been killed today? We will return to the farm tomorrow morning and pick up the bodies.”

  Tall Tree nodded sadly. “We will begin the ceremony immediately, my honorable chief.”

  Tall Tree led everyone back to the center of the village, where a large fire was built. With everyone gathered in a circle around the fire, Tall Tree led in a mournful chorus of chanting voices while drums beat out rhythms that filled the late afternoon air.

  When the mourning ceremony was over, the chief and his squaw went to the privacy of their tepee, where they clung to each other and wept over the death of their only son.

  While the other families who had lost warriors that day were also mourning in their tepees, the rest of the people returned to their necessary work. The men were skinning deer and buffalo, brought in that day by the hunters. For the women, there were wild turnips to be gathered and buffalo hides to be staked out and scraped with crude fleshing tools. Dry hides were to be cut into shields and there was pemmican to be made.

  When the sun was dropping behind the jagged Rocky Mountains, the shadows of the low places on the prairie stretched from the west and between them streamed a red-gold light.

  Inside their tepee, Chief Black Hawk and Meadowlark sat side by side, clinging to each other and talking about precious memories that Sky Eagle had left them.

  “Yes, my husband,” said the squaw, “Sky Eagle was always a good, obedient son. He made me proud.”

  Black Hawk nodded. “And he was a mighty warrior. He would have made our people a fine chief one day.” Suddenly the shadowing in the wells of his deep-set eyes grew darker. His lips were thinned from the pressure of his thoughts. “If the greedy white men had not come to steal our land, this would never have happened. Our son is dead because the whites invade our land and we fight back. We must kill all white men! We must—”

  Hands clapped outside the tepee. “Chief Black Hawk!”

  Black Hawk rose quickly and pulled back the flap. “Yes, Red Fox?”

  Glee danced in Red Fox’s black eyes. “Come! Bring Meadowlark. There is something to see.”

  When the chief and his squaw stepped out of the tepee, Red Fox pointed to the south side of the village, where the people were gathering. “Look!”

  Black Hawk and Meadowlark were stunned to see a white soldier riding into the village in the fading light of the setting sun, holding a wounded but living Sky Eagle in the saddle.

  “Oh, Black Hawk!” exclaimed Meadowlark. “Our son is alive!”

  The feathers of Black Hawk’s headdress fluttered furiously as he ran to the spot where Sergeant McClain Reardon drew rein. Meadowlark was on her husband’s heels.

  Leaning against McClain, a dull-eyed Sky Eagle looked down at his parents. “Father and Mother, this white man must be treated kindly. I will tell you of his kindness to your son.”

  “Chief Black Hawk,” said McClain, “I have bandaged the wound. The bullet is not lodged in his shoulder. It went completely through and came out the back side. Your medicine men must treat the wounds immediately.”

  Black Hawk quickly commanded two braves to take Sky Eagle down and carry him to Tall Tree’s tepee. Tall Tree hurried the braves along as they carried the wounded young warrior amid the tepees. Three other medicine men followed.

  McClain dismounted and accompanied the happy parents as they threaded their way through the crowd. Sky Eagle was laid on a blanket in front of the designated tepee. Tall Tree ordered the other medicine men to remove the bandages, then dashed into his tepee. Returning quickly with a buffalo hide bag in hand, he knelt beside Sky Eagle and examined the wounds.

  After a few minutes, Tall Tree looked up at Black Hawk and Meadowlark, smiling. “White soldier did good work with bandage. Tall Tree will treat wounds. Sky Eagle will heal and be fine.”

  The crowd began rejoicing at the good news. Meadowlark wept for joy, and Black Hawk smiled broadly.

  While Tall Tree was using his own medication and cloths to bandage the wounds with the help of the other medicine men, Black Hawk turned to the white soldier. “Black Hawk is grateful for white soldier’s kindness to his son. I see you are a sergeant. Your name?”

  “McClain Reardon, Chief.”

  “We must know how our son was spared, Sergeant McClain Reardon,” spoke up Meadowlark.

  McClain smiled at her. “Sky Eagle wants to be the one to tell you, ma’am. He asked me to allow him to do it.”

  The parents looked down at their son, who had his eyes fixed on them. The medicine men were still working on him. “Father and Mother, Sky Eagle will tell you the story when these men are finished.”

  Moments later, bandages in place, Sky Eagle began his story while the entire village stood, circling the scene. He told his parents that the other braves who were shot in the farmyard had been killed instantly. He went on to tell them about the white soldier who was about to shoot him and how Sergeant McClain Reardon had intervened and saved his life.

  Black Hawk offered McClain his Cheyenne-style handshake and said with deep feeling, “Sergeant McClain Reardon, Black Hawk has not seen a white man with this kind of compassion for Indian before. Why is this?”

  “Chief, have you heard the name Jesus Christ?”

  Black Hawk nodded. “Umm … is Son of white man’s God. We had man who was half white–half Cheyenne come to village many grasses ago. He is dead, now. He teach us English. He also tell us of white man’s God, though he had not left gods of Cheyenne.”

  “Chief, I wish all white men had faith in my God and His Son, but they do not. It was Jesus Christ who came from heaven to die for the sins of all mankind—including Indians.”

  Black Hawk shook his head. “Our own gods appeal with Great Spirit for Indian wrongdoing.”

  “I know this teaching is your heritage, Chief, but let me say that the compassion you see in me for Indians is because Jesus Christ is my Saviour. He has given me love and compassion for all men—even my enemies.”

  Listening intently to the conversation, Sky Eagle said, “My father, Sergeant McClain Reardon does understand how Indians feel about white men coming into our land. Sky Eagle heard him explain this to other soldiers.”

  Black Hawk nodded. “It is good that you understand, Sergeant McClain Reardon. Few white men do.”

  McClain smiled. “Well, I must head back for Fort Steele.”

  As he spoke, he knelt beside Sky Eagle and grasped his hand firmly. “You get well, my friend.”

  Tears misted the young warrior’s eyes. He squeezed McClain’s hand. “It is only because of you that I can get well. If that other soldier had done as he wanted to, I would be dead. Thank you for saving Sky Eagle’s life.”

  McClain smiled. “I’m glad I was able to do it. Farewell.”

  As McClain rose to his feet, Meadowlark stepped up to him with tears glistening on her cheeks. Laying a gentle hand on his arm, she said softly, “Meadowlark wishes she could fully tell you how she feels, but she cannot. You must understand it in the language of the heart. Thank you for giving us our son back.”

  McClain warmed her with a wide smile. “I understand the language of the heart, ma’am. I know what you are trying to say. I am glad I could bring your son back to you alive.”

  The sergeant felt a strong hand grip his shoulder. He turned to see Black Hawk looking at him tenderly. If ever McClain had seen gratitude in human eyes, he saw it then. “Sergeant McClain Reardon will always be welcome in this village. Black Hawk will not forget his act of mercy.”

  McClain smiled, turned, and moved in the direction of his horse.

  The Cheyenne people made an opening for him in the press and watched him with kind eyes as h
e made his way toward the edge of the village. He mounted his horse and quickly disappeared in the gloom. The sound of the horse’s dull footfalls gradually died away.

  Soon McClain was on the broad prairie, heading southward. The day had been a hot one, and long after sundown the radiation of heat from the surrounding rocks persisted. A prairie bird whistled a wild, melancholy note from a tall cottonwood nearby and a distant coyote wailed mournfully. The stars shone white until the big round moon rose from the eastern horizon to burn out all their brilliance.

  After some two hours, McClain topped a gentle rise and saw the fort spread out before him in the moonlight. Soon he drew near the guard tower at the gate, and could make out the two sentries in their lofty perch.

  “That you, Sergeant Reardon?” one of them called out.

  “Sure is!” McClain called back.

  One of them hastened down the stairs and pulled the gate open. “We’re glad you’re back, Sergeant,” he said as McClain guided his horse past him. “We were getting a bit worried.”

  “Thanks, Corporal,” said McClain. “I’m fine.”

  McClain took his horse to the stable, where he removed the saddle, blanket, and bridle and put him in the corral with the other horses. He made his way toward Captain Jess Adams’s house to give his report.

  Stepping up on the Adams porch, he knocked on the door. Light footsteps were heard immediately. When the door opened, Leona Adams smiled and said, “Hello, Sergeant. I’m glad to see you’re back. My husband is with Colonel Lamont at his office. He said to tell you to go over there.”

  McClain thanked her, quickly made his way to the commandant’s office, and found the door open. Captain Jess Adams, Captain Lance Moore, and Lieutenant Carl Pierson were seated before the colonel’s desk. Having heard his footsteps on the boardwalk, Colonel Ward Lamont looked his way. “Ah! You’re back, Sergeant. Come in. Tell us how it went.”

  Sitting down with the officers, McClain asked how the two wounded soldiers were doing. Lamont assured him they would be all right. Glad for the good news, McClain gave his report.