by Judd Cole
Further down the shelf, perhaps a double stone’s throw away, lay Black Elk, Wolf Who Hunts Smiling, Swift Canoe, and the Bull Whip named Battle Sash. Below them, the trail emerged from a thick copse into an open, exposed flat.
“I see how the wind sets,” Touch the Sky whispered. “They must have seen word-bringers coming this way and learned the path to Over the River. This is Black Elk’s last desperate plan: to ambush them as they emerge from the copse.”
“He is a fool,” Little Horse said. “They could kill a few, certainly. But chances are good their bullets, at this range, will also kill our people.”
Touch the Sky nodded. This thing could not stand. “We need their weapons,” he decided, “and their horses. A snake without venom loses its courage.”
Moving quietly in the moonlit darkness, relying on double moccasins to quiet their feet, they slipped up to the horses and undid the hobbles. Then, while Two Twists and Victorio led the horses back to their own string, Touch the Sky and Little Horse and Victorio crawled closer along the hard shelf. Intent on watching for the enemy below, no one in Black Elk’s band heard them until Touch the Sky called out:
“Black Elk! You and your men, lay your weapons down beside you or you cross over tonight!”
Lying flat on their stomachs, the Cheyennes were in no position to quickly whirl and fire. They glanced up, saw the rifle and shotgun bores staring at them, and wisely downed their weapons.
Tangle Hair moved forward and collected them.
“You squaw-stealing dog,” Black Elk fumed. “I am your war leader! I taught you the arts of combat. You will stand before the Council of Forty for this.”
“Perhaps. But when I do, I will explain to them how my first concern was to save my people, not to play the big Indian no matter how much I recklessly endanger my tribe.”
“Save your people!” Black Elk spat back bitterly. “You speak in a wolf bark! Your blood is hot to rut on Honey Eater, this is all.”
Touch the Sky bit back his reply. He had just heard the faint noise of hooves ringing on rock below. Their enemy approached. Now it was time to ride ahead to Over the River.
“Bluster all you want to,” he said, “roar and howl like the north wind. There was a time when I respected you. That time is passed. If we survive this place, we will surely meet again. I warn you now, your life is nothing to me. There was a time when I spared you because you were Honey Eater’s husband. But now I see that I only spared you to make her life more miserable. I will not make that mistake again. Place my words in your sash.”
He signaled, and his men started dropping back, clutching all the weapons.
“Woman Face!” Black Elk roared. “I will tear out your guts for this!”
But as he retreated into the night, Touch the Sky couldn’t help reminding himself: Their plan for tonight was far from foolproof. Chances were good the Kiowas and Comanches would not leave Black Elk an opportunity for revenge.
Chapter Sixteen
Seven riders leading a string of packhorses entered Over the River as they usually did, through the series of cutbanks which led down from the Comanchero camp in the nearby hills.
Pale moonlight the color of bleached bones reflected off the boulders and alkali sand and made them glow like foxfire. The shod hooves of their horses echoed in muffled drumbeats as they rode through the crude graveyard of those who had died in Over the River: row after row of shallow, unmarked graves with stones piled on them to ward off predators.
Juan Aragon rode at the head of his Comanchero band. The last man led the packhorses by a lariat snubbed around his saddlehorn. Aragon’s young cousins, Delshay and Josefa, shared the first packhorse.
“Are you sure, jefe?” said the Comanchero half-breed named Benito, “that this is a wise idea, this plan with one big meeting? That is too many enemies eyeball to eyeball. Enemies from tribes that have blackened their faces against each other.”
Aragon’s vigilant eyes never stopped scanning the landscape while he replied.
“It is best to take the bull by the horns, Benito, else he will gore you every time. I am not worried about the Kiowas and Comanches turning on us. True, neither tribe can be trusted any more than you might trust Valdez with a young virgin. But they are a crafty lot with a keen head for business matters. They will not raise arms against us. Soon they will have more prisoners to sell, and they will need us again. We are more useful to them alive.
“No, Benito. It is Victorio Grayeyes we must watch, and these Northern Cheyennes. That is why I arranged for one big meeting. There are only seven of us. I am told there are five Cheyennes. With Grayeyes, that makes six. But an Apache bent on revenge is good for five warriors. And what if more Cheyennes are in hiding, waiting to mount a revenge strike? The runners claim there is a second small band near the Blanco.”
Benito nodded, understanding. “The presence of the Kiowas and Comanches will prevent a Cheyenne strike.”
This time Aragon nodded. “Once those white men are in our hands, why should we cry if Hairy Wolf and Iron Eyes decide to massacre the Cheyennes? Then Valdez will be a happy old whoremonger because he will get his woman after all and we will profit twice.”
“But what about your cousin?” Benito said. “Surely you cannot let him live? Getting his sister and brother back will not quench Victoria’s thirst for revenge.”
Aragon felt the reassuring weight of the machete in its shoulder scabbard. “No, it won’t, will it. I think you are right, ’mano. Certainly no Cheyennes are going to grieve at his death. And as surely as there are flames in hell, I cannot let Victorio live.”
~*~
Iron Eyes now hated the beautiful young Cheyenne girl. And he hated Hairy Wolf for playing the fox against him all this time.
The Comanche leader had seethed with jealous rage ever since the girl chose to ride with Hairy Wolf instead of him. For that choice was also symbolic. She was also announcing her preference between the two war leaders.
Was it not as plain as fresh tracks in mud? he asked himself. Without doubt Hairy Wolf had been sneaking into her jacal, whispering the honeyed words which bent her in his direction.
The short, homely, bandy-legged Iron Eyes was fully aware of the sorry figure he must cut next to the handsome Kiowa. Now, as the double column of combined warriors picked its way through the Blanco, his eyes cut furtively to Hairy Wolf. The smug warrior held the slim girl before him with one brawny arm encircling her waist.
Now that the girl was lost to him, Iron Eyes was bitter with resentment at the loss of profit. Aragon had said she would be worth as much as the rest combined! Now he realized how foolish it would be not to sell her with the others.
Certainly Hairy Wolf would object. Clearly he looked forward to many comforting nights with this copper-skinned Cheyenne beauty warming his sleeping robes. Iron Eyes hoped to avoid killing his longtime battle ally. Though he hated him for this treachery, he did not wish to gain the enmity of their best allies, the Kiowas.
But if it came to that ... Iron Eyes glanced back at Big Tree, riding just behind him in the column. The warriors two quivers were stuffed full of new, fire-hardened arrows. The roadrunner-skin good-luck charm swung rhythmically from his pony’s tail.
If it came to that, Big Tree was a Comanche, after all. He would side with his own.
~*~
Big Tree saw his leader glance back toward him, and the swift-riding menace of the plains barely suppressed a knowing grin.
He had eyes to see and ears to hear. Hairy Wolf and Iron Eyes had been circling each other like jealous stags over this little Cheyenne tidbit. And she had cleverly played the two-face with them, getting each man’s blood hot. But Big Tree had also seen the secret looks she cast at him, and he knew whom she really preferred.
She had seen his riding prowess. She had seen him unleash arrows so quickly that barely an eye blink separated each shot. Too, he spoke her language. Why should she not choose him over the others?
Now he nudged his pony u
p a little closer to where the girl rode with Hairy Wolf.
“Little bob-tailed one,” he said in Cheyenne, “I see the game you are playing. Even now Hairy Wolf holds you close and feels his blood singing for you. Iron Eyes looks on, murderous blood filming his eyes. You are pitting one against the other, hoping they will send each other over. You are a clever little vixen!”
Hairy Wolf frowned, not understanding the words nor liking the taunting look on Big Tree’s face. But he said nothing. Even a member of the elite Kaitsenko warriors did not provoke Big Tree. It was said he was born during a thunderstorm, and now he was crazy deep in his eyes.
Honey Eater understood the words, however, and boldly met Big Tree’s eyes. Her look did nothing to discourage his arrogant belief. After all, she told herself, this was the murderer who killed Touch the Sky. If she could get close enough, with a weapon in her hand, his blood would surely stain this earth before she left it.
~*~
Aragon had sent word to meet him in a small canyon just south of Over the River. Now, as Touch the Sky’s band and their disguised prisoners approached the canyon opening in the moonlight, Tom Riley ran through the instructions again with his men.
“Remember, nobody draws steel until I give the command. Keep your heads down, your hands behind your back. We don’t know how many we’re going up against, so let’s wade in slow.”
“No firing,” Touch the Sky said, “until the women and children have been handed over and bunched behind us, out of the line of fire.”
He spoke the same words in Cheyenne. Then he looked at Grayeyes.
“I know there is a fever in your heart to kill Aragon. He sent your parents under. I understand this thing you must do. But remember what I told you. Until our people have been handed over, make no play against him. After the shooting starts, he is yours.”
Victorio nodded. But as they rode closer to the canyon, he squinted his eyes to carefully study the shape-changing shadows surrounding them.
“It will not be as simple as the words you use to describe it,” he said with grim conviction. “Juan Aragon does not ride carelessly into deathtraps. If you Cheyennes believe in a god, pray to him now.”
~*~
Because Aragon did not warn either group of the other’s presence, the exchange of goods and prisoners was even more dangerous than he expected.
He had not anticipated that the Kiowas and Comanches would bring the little beauty—the one they refused to sell. Now the Cheyennes had spotted her. What would happen when they found out she was not part of the deal?
For their part, the Kiowa and Comanche warriors watched intently, their eyes greedy in the moonlight, as Aragon’s men unpacked the goods for inspection.
They opened cases of brand-new Colt revolving-cylinder rifles, still packed in oil. They opened kegs of black powder and ball, crates of primer caps. From the panniers and packsaddles they pulled twists of rich brown Virginia tobacco, packets of coffee and sugar. There were also several cases of good whiskey.
Finally, Hairy Wolf and Iron Eyes nodded.
“It is all here, as you promised,” Iron Eyes said.
Aragon nodded. “I always do as I say. You know that. It’s good for business.”
Despite his calm tone, Aragon was worried. The Cheyennes and Victorio Grayeyes sat their horses in a line to his right, just inside the entrance to the narrow canyon. The much-larger formation of Kiowas and Comanches was grouped on his left. The Cheyenne prisoners, and Delshay and Josefa, were bunched into a tight ring between the two groups—all except for the beauty, whom Hairy Wolf kept close to him. Aragon and his Comancheros circled them, rifles at the ready.
But the white prisoners—something about them felt wrong to Aragon. But he couldn’t find word shapes for his feeling. He had tried to get a close look at their faces. However, the tall, broad-shouldered Cheyenne wouldn’t let him ride very close.
What was it? Aragon wondered. What was wrong about the white hostages?
“If you are satisfied,” Aragon said to the war leaders, “take your goods and load them onto your horses.”
Braves scurried to pack the supplies. Aragon interrupted his worrying about the white hostages long enough to again stare at the Cheyenne beauty clutched in Hairy Wolf’s arm.
Aragon spoke in Spanish. “Include the girl, and I will match all these goods.”
“Accepted,” Iron Eyes said almost immediately.
Hairy Wolf gaped at him in astonishment. “Accepted? But we agreed. She is not for sale.”
“Speak with your brain, Kaitsenko, not your man gland! Have you not guessed by now that she is the woman of that tall buck, their leader? Have you looked at these Cheyennes? One is still a child, true, but even he is clearly ready to sell his life dearly. Now that they have seen her, do you think they will not die to get her? Aragon is willing to take her. Let his men pay the price in blood!”
“You milk liver!” said Hairy Wolf. “You were keen to hold her back, then she chose to ride with me! You are a jealous child. These few Cheyennes are not gods! Big Tree will let moonlight into all of them before they have drawn a drop of our blood!”
While this argument ensued in Spanish, a Comanchero was escorting the first prisoners—the Apache children—to a predesignated spot beside the Cheyennes. Aragon, under cover of this movement, managed to get a longer look at the white hostages.
Even in the moonlight, it was clear that all had well-tanned faces.
But now Aragon knew what bothered him even more. They were all young, all but one of them in their twenties. Aragon knew the type of man who came out here from the East to speculate—rarely were they this young. And rarely did they carry what these men seemed to carry: a sense of powerful and sudden danger about to be unleashed like a tightly coiled spring.
And that Cheyenne leader, the one the Pawnees called Bear Caller and claimed was blessed with strong medicine—he radiated the same sense of danger.
Aragon met his eyes, and suddenly he knew.
“Es una trampa!” he shouted in Spanish to his men and the Kiowa-Comanche force. “It’s a trap! Shoot to kill!”
Aragon’s long-muzzled cavalry pistol seemed to leap into his fist. He had no time for aiming, and only meant to bring down Touch the Sky’s pony, killing the Cheyenne with his machete before he could even stand up. But at the moment he fired, Delshay stepped into the line of fire. The big-caliber bullet shattered the boy’s skull.
Victorio, still mounted, uttered a harsh cry compounded of rage and grief as his little brother fell dead to the ground. He slid the Spanish bayonet from his sash, leaped to the ground, ran hard toward Aragon. At the last second his corded thighs strained with his leap, the bayonet held out before him in both hands.
Aragon’s machete flashed in the moonlight, sliced into Victorio’s neck less than a heartbeat before the long bayonet punched straight into Aragon’s heart.
Victorio’s head flew from his shoulders, the cry still on his lips as Aragon’s body twitched and staggered before collapsing as if the bones had suddenly turned to water. Even in the heat of battle, Touch the Sky could not help marveling as the Apache died the glorious death—not falling on the ground, but on his enemy’s bones.
“Fire!” Riley screamed to his men.
Honey Eater had almost fainted with joy and relief when she spotted Touch the Sky with the others. Big Tree and Black Elk had lied after all about his death! But the first flush of joy passed quickly when she realized the hopelessness of their situation.
Now she knew the time had come—the moment she had been planning for. Even now she was less than an arm’s length away from Hairy Wolf’s knife.
At the first shots, he pushed her aside to raise his rifle. Now she lunged at him, pulled out the knife, and drove it deep into his belly, feeling steamy warmth emerge from the wound.
Iron Eyes gaped in astonishment as Hairy Wolf dropped to his knees, blood blossoming from his stomach.
“Kill the she-bitch, Quohada!” Hairy Wolf
gasped. “She has gutted me!”
Iron Eyes raised his carbine to shoot her even as Big Tree closed on her with his stone skull-cracker. Touch the Sky aimed his Sharps and dropped Iron Eyes with one shot. But now Big Tree was about to pulverize her skull. Touch the Sky kicked his horse into motion even as he drew his spiked tomahawk back for the throw.
“Hi-ya, hiii-ya!”
He had his chestnut back now, but she had been badly used by Black Elk’s band and Touch the Sky had opted to ride the Army horse Riley gave him. But he was not used to this mare, trained by white men, and the throw was off. The solid hickory handle of the tomahawk caught Big Tree at the base of the skull, toppling him to the ground and stunning him but not killing him.
The scene in the canyon was total pandemonium as Touch the Sky continued riding forward and scooped Honey Eater up with him. Despite their huge advantage in numbers, the Kiowa and Comanche braves had been eagerly inspecting their new bounty. Suddenly, the white hostages had pulled weapons from under their suit coats—weapons they were employing with the deadly accuracy of seasoned troopers used to staying calm and shooting plumb under fire.
The leaders of the Kiowa and Comanche were dead, and many others went down in the first volley of fire. Little Horse’s shotgun roared, roared again, again, each blast dropping a man or a horse. Loosing the war cry, Two Twists leaped into the confused knot of prisoners and grabbed his sister Singing Bird.
Riley’s men, as ordered, had first brought down the Comanchero slavers. Now they joined their Cheyenne allies, laying down withering fire on the confused Kiowas and Comanches.
Leaderless, concerned only with their new wealth, the enemy seized whatever they could carry and fled, leaving their dead.
Touch the Sky spirited Honey Eater to the safety of a packhorse. Now he saw Big Tree moving sluggishly, managing to get up from the ground. But the little Apache girl, Josefa, stood crying over her dead brother, exposed to danger. Touch the Sky was forced to watch Big Tree mount and flee while the Cheyenne grabbed up the crying girl and took her to Honey Eater’s side.