by Judd Cole
He stopped. “You would kill me?”
“I would if you force me to leave the others.”
“You would stay here with those who would bull you to death? Or perhaps they have already bulled you, and you enjoyed it?”
His words were incredible, and she refused to rise to such bait. But as he continued to back her toward the wall, she did indeed prepare to scream.
However, a woman outside the hut beat her to it. She had just discovered the dead Comanche sentry and now called for help.
Black Elk leaped to the entrance, glanced out, and saw what was afoot. The alarm was spreading—a moment’s delay, and he was a dead man.
“Then stay here!” he snarled at Honey Eater. “I will be back for you, and you will come with me! If not, I will kill you with my own hand.”
A moment later, he had disappeared into the tumultuous night.
Chapter Thirteen
The discovery of the dead sentry not only forced Black Elk to flee for his life. It raised the alarm throughout camp, and drew the warriors back from the attack against Touch the Sky’s band.
But the Cheyennes knew this was only a temporary respite. Now that their enemies knew their location, it was impossible to stay in this area. And with Kiowa and Comanche riders now honeycombing this section of the canyon, the only way out was up over the canyon wall—straight into the teeth of the fire.
“It is a dangerous move,” Touch the Sky told the others in a hasty counsel beneath the redrock pinnacle.
They could still hear the grass fire crackling, the noise rising to an airy roar each time the wind gusted.
“We will be out in the open and without horses. But we must use the cover of night to move further down the rim, then enter the canyon again where the riders are not so thick.”
Victorio Grayeyes spoke in English to Touch the Sky. “I know a place further to the north, a well-protected spot under the rimrock where there are some small caves. Perhaps we can operate from there and steal some horses to replace yours.”
Touch the Sky translated this for the others.
“Brother,” Little Horse said, “what if we cannot move around the fire?”
“We will have to move through it. We must get out of this place. They will be back to collect their dead, and they will have blood in their eyes. Also, clearly Black Elk has made some kind of move, or why else was the attack called off? We need to find out if he was successful in rescuing any of our people.”
“It is a strange kind of rescue,” Tangle Hair said bitterly, “that uses us as a lure to save them. That fire did not set itself.”
“No,” Touch the Sky agreed. “Many odd ‘accidents’ seem to happen when Black Elk and his cousin are nearby.”
Even as the little band prepared to move up over the rim and brave the fire, Touch the Sky could not help again thinking: Honey Eater must be dead. He had seen no sign of her since that awful night when their enemy had tortured a Cheyenne woman. But if she had been sent over, he would move heaven and earth in his efforts to avenge her death. And if Black Elk or Wolf Who Hunts Smiling’s rashness had contributed to her death, they would be included in that revenge—even if it meant sullying the sacred Cheyenne Medicine Arrows by drawing tribal blood.
More important: For her sake, the others must be saved. And had Two Twists not saved his life just now? The youth had only sixteen winters behind him, but he was risking his life to save his sister Singing Bird. Even if Honey Eater was dead, Touch the Sky knew the fight must continue.
Moving in single file, carefully watching their back trail, the four Cheyennes and the lone Apache brave moved closer to the rim of Blanco Canyon. The wind rose in a howling shriek, making speech impossible. As they finally neared the brim, light from the flames above traced their grim features in its eerie, blood-red glow.
Touch the Sky felt the heat in his face, animal warm at first, now uncomfortably hot as they drew closer. But there could be no hesitating now—already the riders below were massing for another strike.
He met the eyes of the others one by one: Little Horse, Tangle Hair, Two Twists, Victorio Grayeyes.
“Hi-ya!” he rallied them. “Hi-ya hiii-ya!”
The shrill war cry still on his lips, Touch the Sky led the charge into the raging inferno.
~*~
Tom Riley had stalled his horse for the night and finished filing his daily report at the company headquarters. After a meal of beef, beans, and sourdough biscuits in the officers’ mess, he returned to his quarters. He was seated at a crude deal table, sipping coffee and cleaning his pistol in the light of a coal-oil lamp, when three deafening knocks sounded on the door.
“C’mon in, Rain Dancer,” he said, recognizing the knock.
The Papago Indian scout stepped inside the cramped quarters but went no farther than the doorway.
“What’s on the spit?” Riley said.
“I have been watching the Blanco as you told me.”
“Good man. Seen anything?”
Rain Dancer nodded. “Come outside, Lieutenant. There is a thing I would show you.”
Curious, Riley slipped his long, smoothly polished boots back on. He followed his scout outside. They walked to the main gate, which still stood open and would until taps sounded at ten p.m.
“Look out there,” Rain Dancer said, pointing to the south and the direction of the Blanco.
At first Riley noticed nothing in the vast dark tableau of the night. Then, gradually, he became aware that a slight orange haze discolored the night sky.
“Fire?”
Rain Dancer nodded. “Big fire.”
“Was it set?”
Again Rain Dancer nodded. “No lightning for many days now.”
“Are the Comanches and Kiowas trying to flush the Cheyennes out? But why set a fire on the plains if they’re hiding in the canyon?”
“The Cheyennes set it,” Rain Dancer replied.
“The Cheyennes? Why?”
Rain Dancer shook his head.
“It could be,” Riley speculated out loud, “that they set it as a distraction. Meaning they made some kind of move.”
He fell silent, thinking again of his friend Matthew Hanchon. The Cheyenne had shown great courage riding into that Blanco hellhole. But it would take more than courage to get their people back and successfully transport them across the Llano—it would take a major miracle. And miracles happened in the Bible, not on the Staked Plain.
Riley made up his mind. It was time to see what he could see.
“Ride over to the enlisted barracks and find Sergeant McKenna. Tell him to form a squad up for a night mission. Tell him to ask for volunteers and that I will authorize the men who go for a day off tomorrow. We’re going to ride out to the Blanco.”
~*~
“More of our men are down,” Hairy Wolf said angrily. “You said a few Cheyennes in this canyon would be less than gnats. But so far those gnats have proven to be great pests.”
Iron Eyes only nodded, too angry to speak. Both men stood over the dead sentry in front of Honey Eater’s jacal.
Both braves stared through the entrance at Honey Eater. She sat on a buffalo robe in the corner, indifferent to their presence. Now she was accompanied by Singing Bird and several other young Cheyenne women. Worried about security, their captors had hurriedly decided to herd the prisoners into larger groups and increase the guard.
Honey Eater was alarmed by Singing Bird’s appearance. The frail young beauty wore a permanent shocked glaze over her eyes, and had been unable to eat the meager rations of crushed-ant soup and hardtack. She trembled constantly and started at the least noise. Honey Eater knew she was not long for this world unless she soon got away from here.
Ever since Black Elk too had claimed Touch the Sky was dead, Honey Eater had forced herself to accept the report as true. She glanced up when Big Tree joined his leaders outside the jacal, and for a moment her eyes went livid with hate as she stared at the man who had killed Touch the Sky. For herself, w
ith Touch the Sky gone, she desired only suicide to end this intolerable misery. But she was still responsible for the others in her tribe and must watch for an opportunity to help them escape.
She would also, she vowed to herself, look for an opportunity to kill Big Tree. He had taken the breath of life from the man she loved; now he would pay with his own before she left this world for the Land of Ghosts. But that meant she would have to do more than sit wringing her hands.
So when Iron Eyes stepped aside for a moment to give an order to one of his braves, Honey Eyes met Hairy Wolf’s eyes and smiled briefly. Surprised, the big Kiowa smiled back.
A moment later, when Hairy Wolf wasn’t looking at her, she gave the same smile to Iron Eyes. It was a smile that said to each man: You are the one I choose. And thinking of her vow to kill Big Tree, she also managed to meet his eyes with the same promise.
“Tomorrow we move out to meet Aragon,” Iron Eyes said. “Then we will be rid of all this troublesome baggage.”
“Most of it,” Hairy Wolf corrected him, looking at Honey Eater.
“Most of it,” Iron Eyes agreed. “After that is done, we will have to come to an arrangement.”
The two men exchanged a long glance, then each looked away. It was becoming clearer and clearer to each of them that no satisfactory “arrangement” would be reached. Sharing this beauty was out of the question. If she were indifferent to both of them, then perhaps they could simply share her or gamble to see who would own her. But each man was secretly convinced by now that she wanted only him.
“You know,” Hairy Wolf said, “that we cannot leave her here while we transport the rest?”
“Of course not, Kaitsenko. My wives would kill her.”
“My thought too. She will ride with us while we deliver the women to Over the River, then take the children to the Comanchero camp.”
The Comanche war leader turned to Big Tree. “For now, the camp is safe. Ride back up and flush those Cheyennes out.”
~*~
Heat seared his face even before Touch the Sky stepped over the lip of the canyon.
But now it was impossible to turn back. Below, the enemy were again rushing their old position, preparing to flush them. Now the fire which had exposed them promised their only escape. One way or another they must put those flames between themselves and their pursuers.
At first, as he hurled himself toward the searing wall of flame, he could hear the others echoing his war cry. But in only moments the roar of the wind and flames isolated each of them in a swirling, smoking confusion.
There was no point in trying to skirt the flames on either flank—it had spread too wide. The only choice was straight into the heart of the fire. Touch the Sky could only hope the belt of flames was not as wide as it looked, or they would never make it through without roasting their own flesh.
He took one last, hungry mouthful of air as he plunged into the firestorm. Sudden, searing heat singed his hair and eyebrows. His eyes had been tearing from the smoke, but now the heat was so intense it dried not only the tears but the film of moisture on his eyeballs.
The sudden heat made it feel as if every nerve ending in his body had been stripped raw. Hot coals singed through his moccasins, flaming grass whipped against his legs, thick smoke crawled down his throat and tried to suffocate him.
For a moment he glimpsed Little Horse and saw that the feathers fletching the arrows in his fox skin quiver were aflame. Then he saw nothing again except the vast, orange brightness. The heat increased, blistering Touch the Sky’s skin. His feet hardly touched the ground now as he flew across the burning strip.
He needed air now, bad, and it felt like knife points were ripping his lungs open from inside. Another step, another, the heat now forcing a roar of pain from his lips. But that roar cost him more precious air, and now he understood that he was about to die.
Dizziness washed over him, he staggered, the pain was so great he almost buckled. Then, even as he uttered the first words of the death song, he felt a blessed tickle of cool air against his face.
The orange wall gave way to the dark pall of night as he suddenly broke out of the flames. At the same moment, on either side of him, the others also broke through.
Touch the Sky was about to raise a cry of triumph. But then his eyes cleared enough to see what was waiting for them.
A line of blue-bloused pony soldiers sat their mounts just before them, carbines at the ready.
Chapter Fourteen
Riley had already ordered his men to hold their fire if they encountered Cheyenne Indians. Still, at the moment when Touch the Sky’s little band burst out of the flames, several soldiers instinctively inserted their rifles into the hollow of their shoulders, preparing to fire.
At first Touch the Sky was caught flush with surprise and had no time to distinguish individual faces. He knew only that yet another enemy was upon them, ready to strike.
Like the others with him, he raised his rifle and prepared to kill the first bluecoat who fell under his sights.
“Touch the Sky!” one of the soldiers shouted in English. “You soft-brained fool, hold your fire!”
The young warrior had already inserted his finger inside the trigger guard and taken up the slack. Now, as he glimpsed the speaker’s boyish face in the firelight, the tow hair visible beneath the raised brim of his cavalry hat, Touch the Sky shouted to his band:
“Hold!”
Victorio Grayeyes spoke English and had already lowered his weapon when he heard the officer shout. Now the rest, staring at Touch the Sky in amazement, nonetheless followed their leader’s example and lowered their weapons.
Tom Riley dismounted and approached his friend. He knew Indians too well by now to offend them by offering his hand to shake. But a wide smile of greeting told the Cheyenne he was glad to see him again.
“Seems like every time I meet up with you, you’re bucking trouble,” Riley said.
The soldiers still held their carbines at the ready. They watched, suspicious and curious, as the white and red leader parlayed. The Indians stared back, never taking their eyes off the dreaded pony soldiers. More than one soldier had shot an Indian while handing him a cup of coffee.
“I don’t think I can buck it this time,” Touch the Sky replied, his voice dejected.
While they spoke, the sergeant named McKenna had ridden forward to look down into the Blanco. The flames had consumed all the grass and creosote and were now finally blowing themselves out, having reached the lip of the canyon.
“There’s Innuns riding this way!” he shouted back. “And damn my Irish eyes if they ain’t loosin’ war whoops!”
“Form the men in a skirmish line right at the edge of the canyon,” Riley ordered. “Fix bayonets and hold your weapons high so they can see them. Let them know they’ll never make the high ground if they insist on charging. Numbers won’t help them, we can pick them off like prairie chickens when they come up the narrow trail.”
“You heard the captain!” McKenna shouted in his rough bray. “Let’s go, laddiebucks, form up! There’s no glory in peace! Put at ’em, and show those red Arabs that Soldier Blue is the boy they’d better give the slip to!”
While Riley’s squad formed a defensive line, Touch the Sky turned to his band and explained in Cheyenne who Tom Riley was—the officer who had befriended his boyhood friend Corey Robinson, known to the tribe as Firetop, the redheaded white boy who had saved the Cheyenne people from Pawnees. While stationed at Fort Bates near Bighorn Falls, Riley and Corey had helped Touch the Sky and Little Horse defeat the hard cases hired by Hiram Steele to drive Touch the Sky’s white parents from the territory.
“I know why you’re here,” Riley said. “My scouts have given me reports on the Cheyenne prisoners.”
Touch the Sky nodded, misery clear in his fire-smudged face. “I thought we were up against a hopeless fight in Bighorn Falls,” he said. “But this trouble here, I see no hope. It is not just the enemy, but my own tribe I must survive.”
He explained about Black Elk’s band, how the jealous, hotheaded young warrior’s band was working at cross purposes with Touch the Sky’s.
Riley nodded. “So that explains why we spotted two groups. I thought you had it planned that way.”
“I tried to combine the groups. Together we might have done something.” Frustration and anger were clear in Touch the Sky’s voice. “But we have done nothing beyond kill and wound a few of our enemy. All we can do is sneak around the edge of the canyon like hungry coyotes circling the fringe of a buffalo herd. And now they have scattered our ponies. We are not strong enough to attack the main herd.”
While they spoke, Riley had been curiously watching the Apache, Victorio Grayeyes, who clearly understood their English. Touch the Sky saw the curiosity in his face.
“This is Victorio Grayeyes,” he explained. “Juan Aragon is his cousin. Aragon has played the turncoat, leading soldiers to their cave. Not only did Aragon kill his parents, but he has stolen his brother and sister and plans to sell them.”
“The word from my scout is that they’re preparing to move the prisoners, the women anyway, to Over the River. Soon. Probably tomorrow or the next day,” Riley said.
Touch the Sky nodded. “We saw signs of this too. That is why we wanted to strike now. Once the prisoners are formed up between defensive columns of Kiowas and Comanches, we can never hope to free them.”
“They’ve spotted us, Cap’n!” McKenna said from the rim of the canyon. “They’re turnin’ back. Don’t look like we’ll be busting caps tonight.”
Riley was silent a long time, thinking about this situation.
“I’ve been wanting for a long time,” he finally said, “to do something about all this damn slave trading. It makes trouble for red men and white men alike. But the thing of it is, the War Department figures it’s an Indian matter. The commanders who try to stop it are labeled as Indian lovers, and there goes their careers in the Army.
“I can get away with bringing a squad out here. But it would take a platoon-size formation to attack the combined bands. And not only would some of your women and children be killed in the battle, but some of my men. That means everything would have to be on record, filed in a report. I’d never get authorization, not in time to stop them tomorrow. You’re right, attacking them on the trail would be a bad piece of business.”