by Judd Cole
But his mind was made up. He would slip into camp after dark by himself and rescue just Honey Eater.
~*~
“Look!” Wolf Who Hunts Smiling said to Swift Canoe. “Over there, toward that redrock pinnacle to the east. I saw Little Horse!”
Swift Canoe narrowed his eyes to slits, but could see nothing. His vision was not as keen as that of Wolf Who Hunts Smiling, whose swift-as-minnow eyes missed nothing.
“Brother, I see nothing but rock and brush, and plenty of that.”
“He showed himself only for a moment,” Wolf Who Hunts Smiling insisted. “But it was Little Horse.”
“That means Touch the Sky cannot be far away. They are like a rock and its shadow.”
Wolf Who Hunts Smiling nodded. “Now we know where they are. That may become useful to know.”
For his own reasons, Wolf Who Hunts Smiling’s eagerness to see Touch the Sky dead matched that of the insanely jealous Black Elk. The young Cheyenne was even more ambitious than his cousin. He dreamed of soon leading his own soldier society within the tribe, of someday leading the entire Shaiyena nation. But this Touch the Sky, he was trouble. Clearly Arrow Keeper and some others—foolishly swayed by this supposed “vision” of Touch the Sky’s greatness—were grooming the white man’s dog for leadership in the tribe.
Wolf Who Hunts Smiling knew he and Touch the Sky would eventually have to fight—and fight to the death. The two of them represented entirely different courses for the tribe’s future. This Touch the Sky, he carried the white man’s stink on him. Thus he preached that some whites might be trusted, that the Indians must try to cooperate to survive. Wolf Who Hunts Smiling would have none of this womanly talk—he had watched, numb with horror, when bluecoat canister shot had turned his father into stew meat. The red nation must wage a war of extermination against the white nation! And he himself dreamed of raising the lance of leadership for that great battle of all battles.
A twig snapped, just to their left in the gathering twilight, and instantly both Cheyennes had their knives clutched in their hands.
But it was only Black Elk.
“Stand easy, brothers. Any word?”
“Good news, cousin,” Wolf Who Hunts Smiling said. He pointed toward the redrock pinnacle, now a silhouette. “I saw Little Horse, just moments ago. Touch the Sky’s band must be hiding near that pinnacle.”
Black Elk said nothing, but a mirthless smile touched his lips. His crudely sewn-on flap of dead ear made him look fierce in the dying light.
“Perhaps they plan to move closer after dark,” he said, thinking out loud. “I must make my move first.”
Quickly he explained his reckless plan to the other two. Wolf Who Hunts Smiling remained quiet after his cousin had spoken, thinking. Then he smiled the furtive grin that had earned him his name. He said:
“Cousin! Now have ears for my plan. Swift Canoe and I will not only provide a distraction to cover your movement. We will also finally send Touch the Sky under for good!”
~*~
Night descended over the canyon, dark as black agate. While Black Elk prepared to move into the heart of the enemy stronghold, Wolf Who Hunts Smiling and Swift Canoe were making their way toward the redrock pinnacle at the rim of the canyon.
They moved on foot. Their skin had been darkened with river mud, their eyes conditioned to darkness by keeping their heads wrapped in their buffalo robes. They wore double moccasins against the sharp-edged rocks.
They knew they faced two enemies, the Kiowa-Comanche marauders and their own fellow Cheyennes. So they moved carefully by predetermined bounds, pausing often to listen and look and smell. Each time the wind shrieked, covering them, they moved in quick spurts.
They had no intention of confronting Touch the Sky or his companions. Their goal was to reach the dry, wind-whipped bunchgrass and creosote above them.
Wolf Who Hunts Smiling was in the lead. He disappeared inside a thicket. Moments later, Swift Canoe heard a soft owl hoot signal from him and hurried forward to see what he wanted.
“Maiyun has smiled on us, brother,” Wolf Who Hunts Smiling whispered in the darkness, pointing to the small group of Cheyenne ponies tethered behind the thicket. “Cut the tethers!”
They removed their knives and sliced through the rawhide strips, freeing the ponies. Then they resumed their arduous climb up the canyon slope toward the plain above.
They encountered no further sign of the others. As smooth as cloud shadows, they slipped over the rim of the canyon and ran further back into the dry grass and creosote.
They stooped and began making little piles from the punk, tiny wood shavings, they carried in their possibles bags. They heaped bigger sticks and handfuls of grass over these. Then each youth removed the flint and steel from his bag and struck sparks into the piles of kindling, the wind quickly flaming them into life.
“Quickly!” Wolf Who Hunts Smiling said, his voice gloating with triumph. “Back into the canyon, and steer well clear of Woman Face and the others. They are too close under the rim of the canyon and will not see the flames as soon as the Kiowas and Comanches will.
“Quickly!” he urged again when Swift Canoe paused to watch a small spear tip of flame swell in the wind until it was like a flaming tumble-weed, igniting more grass as it bounced along. “In moments our enemy will send riders to investigate!”
Chapter Twelve
Touch the Sky, still ignorant of the fire above them, signaled for a council soon after dark. Little Horse, Tangle Hair, and Two Twists gaped in unbelieving astonishment when they showed up at their leader’s position and saw him squatting side by side with an Apache.
“This is Victorio Grayeyes,” he told the others. “The same man you just watched pinching our women has killed his parents and stolen his brother and sister. He knows this area and can be useful to us.”
“You are letting him join us?” Little Horse said doubtfully. “I am sorry for what happened to his people, truly. But his tribe, how many times have they come north to steal our ponies?”
“We would not have to come so far north,” Grayeyes replied when Touch the Sky had translated this, “if combined Sioux and Cheyenne might had not driven us so far south.”
“No sense licking old wounds,” Touch the Sky said impatiently. Now he was almost convinced that Honey Eater had been killed by their enemy. A flat, dead anger had been growing inside him, a powerful thirst to save the rest and get revenge on these murdering, drunken pigs.
“We have a common enemy now. If we move quickly, we might save our people and the Apache children. No matter what grudges exist between our two tribes, surely we all agree that the children are not to blame? Let us join for this battle and get them back.”
All agreed to these sensible words. But before they could begin discussion of a plan of action, bad news arrived. Touch the Sky had sent Two Twists below to check on their mounts. Now he returned, out of breath from running. He held up the cut strips of rawhide.
“Brothers! They have found our horses! I found these in the thicket, but no sign of our ponies. They are either stolen or scattered.”
The seriousness of this shocked the others into silence. Without horses, this far out on the Llano Estacado, they were food for the carrion birds.
But their troubles were just beginning. Even before Touch the Sky could speak, excited cries broke out from the camp below them. They could see, in the flickering penumbra of the camp fires below, braves pointing up toward their position near the redrock pinnacle.
“What is happening?” Little Horse said. “They cannot possibly see us!”
Touch the Sky, who had just detected the first acrid whiff of smoke, now turned to look up the steep slope behind them. The flames were still not visible from this angle. But the night sky held an unnatural glow.
“No, brother,” he said grimly, “they do not see us. But I suspect Wolf Who Hunts Smiling and Swift Canoe have been playing the fox again. Look up there behind us! The prairie is on fire!”
Already braves from the camp below were mounting and racing up to check on the fire. They would ride right through the Cheyennes’ hiding place.
“Without ponies, how will we flee?” Tangle Hair said.
“There will be no fleeing,” Touch the Sky replied grimly. “We could never outrun them, even if we can get around that grass fire up there. Nor is there any shelter outside the canyon. Yet we cannot give up this spot.”
The others nodded, knowing he was right. One of the first laws of warfare, ground into them from their earliest training, was take to the high ground and never surrender it.
Now the flames had reached the edge of the canyon and were licking over the rim, casting an eerie orange glow down onto their position. Touch the Sky made up his mind.
“Here they come! They know we are here now. If we merely hide in the rocks and bushes, they will flush us out like rabbits and kill us for sport. Better that we take a bolder step. We have a good position with light to aim by. Spread out and take up a secure position. Then, as soon as our enemy ride into effective range, bring them down! One bullet, one enemy. Do not waste a shot, or we had all best sing our death songs!”
Quickly they fanned out, forming a skirmish line. Touch the Sky had his percussion-action Sharps, Little Horse his four-barrel shotgun. Tangle Hair and Two Twists were both armed with small-caliber but sturdy British trade rifles, Victorio Grayeyes with a captured cavalry carbine.
Touch the Sky had seen the nervous but determined frown on Two Twists’ face when the young buck left to take up his position. He was still inexperienced in combat, and now Touch the Sky called out to him:
“Hold steady, Two Twists! Just as you did at the hunt camp when our enemy bore down on us. You are a fighting Cheyenne from the north country—show these dogs that you are for them!”
Now they could hear the hollow pounding of hooves as the first riders neared their position. The fire behind them was a roaring inferno now, lashed to a howling fury by an unrelenting wind.
“When you can see their faces,” Touch the Sky called out to his men, “let them taste lead!”
In their excitement, the Kiowas and Comanches were loosing their yipping war cries. A brave rounded a rock formation below, bearing straight for the redrock pinnacle. Touch the Sky, ensconced in a slight depression behind a low wall of stones he had hastily erected, drew a bead on the man’s chest and fired. The warrior flung both hands to the sky and flew off the back of his horse.
To Touch the Sky’s left, the Apache’s carbine spat fire into the night and a Comanche’s face exploded. There were sharper, thinner cracks as the British trade guns fired, bringing down more horses and men.
This sudden and unexpected resistance slowed down the charge. But as the rest of the braves below saw their companions riding into trouble, more of them mounted and joined the fray.
Their enemy was not well supplied with long arms. But their cavalry pistols were plentiful and deadly at short range. Now the Kiowas and Comanches began to take up positions as they learned where the Cheyennes were hidden. Soon there were at least ten enemy braves for every hidden defender.
Desperately, Touch the Sky slipped another percussion cap behind the loading gate of his rifle. But while he was reloading, two Comanches suddenly rushed his position.
He saw them in the flickering firelight from above, their faces twisted with savage war cries. In a moment his throwing ax was in his hand and whirling through the air. It caught one of the Comanches in the chest and split it open, blood spuming in a wide arc. But the second drew a bead on Touch the Sky while he was exposed to throw the ax.
Two Twists stepped out into the open, exposing himself to withering fire, and his trade rifle cracked. The second Comanche dropped dead from his horse. For a moment Touch the Sky met the youth’s eyes in the wavering firelight.
“One bullet, one enemy!” the boy said triumphantly, slipping back behind his rock to reload.
Touch the Sky leaped forward, grabbed the fallen brave’s loaded pistol, dove for cover again. He had just barely made it when a literal wall of arrows cracked into the rock and whumped into the ground all around him. He risked a quick glance and saw him: the ferocious warrior who wore two arrow quivers and a roadrunner skin tied to his pony’s tail.
Again, despite his hatred and fear, Touch the sky felt a grudging sense of admiration as he watched the fearless Comanche bounce atop his pony as if connected by invisible sinews, never once bothering to hang on. He was one with his horse. He strung and fired, strung and fired, so rapidly that Touch the Sky could not believe a man could move so quickly.
Even with Big Tree on hand, however, the attackers were not eager to rush high ground against deadly long arms. For the moment, at least, the attack had been stemmed. But the enemy was massing, clearly intent on a charge when its numbers were even greater. And now, Touch the Sky realized, he and his companions were caught between the sap and the bark: a raging fire closing in from the plains behind them, a hail of lead closing in from the canyon.
~*~
Black Elk felt his face tugging into a grin as the Kiowa and Comanche warriors first caught sight of the flames up above.
He had already swum across the river and hidden himself in a small cutbank from which he could watch the camp. At first, when they spotted the fire, the enemy leaders sent only a handful of braves up to investigate. But as the shots broke out above, more of the camp had cleared out—including the formidable warrior called Big Tree, who had been guarding the entrance to Honey Eater’s jacal. A youth with perhaps sixteen winters behind him was left to watch the hut.
Black Elk moved from cottonwood to hawthorn bush, from boulder to hummock, entering the nearly deserted camp. He skirted the light of the huge fires, coming up on Honey Eater’s mesquite-branch hut from behind.
His bone-handle knife was in his hand. He picked up a small stone and tossed it out in front of the hut. When the sentry’s attention was momentarily diverted by the sound, he grabbed him by the hair, jerked his head back, and opened a second mouth deep into his neck, slicing down deep through the jugular.
The dead Comanche fell like a sack of grain. Black Elk stepped over him, grabbed the buffalo hide, lifted it aside, and stepped inside.
A small fire blazed in the fire pit. Honey Eater gasped when he suddenly appeared before her. She had been standing in the middle of the hut, wringing her hands in desperate agitation, since the sounds of battle had broke out. She knew it must be her people trying to save them.
“Black Elk!”
Despite the trouble between them, she was relived right now to see her husband. Certainly other braves must be freeing the others! But even in the confusion, she could not help wondering: Had the Comanche named Big Tree spoken the straight word? Was Touch the Sky truly dead?
Black Elk said, “The light in your eyes tells me that, for once, you are glad to see me.”
“I will be glad enough to be out of here! But quickly, we must help get the children! How many are with you?”
Even as she spoke, Honey Eater was heading for the entrance of the hut. Now Black Elk caught her arm, halting her.
“There are no others. Not here in camp with me. They are hidden out in the canyon.”
Honey Eater looked confused. “You came alone?”
He nodded.
“But—but some of the others are too weak to walk. They will need ponies.”
“They will need nothing. They are not going. Only you are.”
For a long moment Honey Eater stared as if he had spoken an incomprehensible joke. Then, slowly, she shook her head.
“This thing cannot be. I will not leave unless the others go with me.”
“Woman, have you eaten strong mushrooms? Your husband just risked death to enter this camp. Now you tell him you are going to stay?”
Anger smoldered in Black Elk’s eyes. “The cow does not bellow to the bull. You will go with me.”
But defiantly she shook her head. “Black Elk, hear me! I am your wife, but I am also a Cheyenne. From birth on I have been taught that we live on through our tribe. My father was Yellow Bear”—here she made the cutoff sign, as one did when speaking of the dead—“of the Roaring Bear Clan, one of the greatest peace chiefs who ever led the Shaiyena people. There are children in this camp with me, scared girls who still wear their knotted ropes. I am one with them. I cannot escape to safety and leave them behind.”
Now the rage in Black Elk’s blood twisted his face into an ugly mask. The hot, black jealousy was back, twisting his thoughts into ugly words.
“No, you will not leave with me. But if your tall, randy buck Touch the Sky stood here in my place, you would be happy enough to run off with him.”
For a moment, hearing these words, Honey Eater’s heart raced with hope. Black Elk had spoken as if Touch the Sky were still alive. But his next words struck her like ice-cold water.
“You can stop dreaming of rutting with the white man’s dog. He is dead!” Black Elk lied.
The shock of hearing it stunned her. Then, before she could stop them, tears welled up in her eyes.
“Make water with your eyes, your tears will not bring him back. He died hard, his guts in his hands, without singing the death song. Now he wanders forever in the Forest of Tears, a soul in pain.”
“I have no ears for this,” she said weakly, the ground suddenly swaying under her as if she were trying to stand up in a canoe.
“I care not what you have ears for. I am your husband, and I have spoken. Now you are coming with me.”
She backed up as he approached her. “Do not force me,” she warned him. “I will scream and alert the enemy.”