Savage Horizons

by Rosanne Bittner

  But there was no time to think about it. Two Stars grabbed him and pulled him by the arm deeper into the forest, while behind him people continued to scream and more huts went up in flames. Two Stars spotted an old, rotted log in the moonlight, and she pushed Blue Hawk down and ordered him to crawl inside.

  The boy wiggled in, barely fitting, and Two Stars bent down to put the baby inside after him. Just then a horse came crashing out of the darkness, and the next moment Blue Hawk heard a terrible scream and a thud. The baby began to cry, and then there was another thud. The horse galloped away, and in the distance the fighting continued.

  Blue Hawk kept his eyes closed, smelling the damp rot of the log and feeling small insects crawl over his body. Instinct told him to stay where he was until there was no more noise. How he wished he were a man so he could crawl out and help his father fight the hated Chippewa. But he knew it was important to save the women and children in battle, to preserve the seed of the tribe. It was his duty to remain safe, to fight another day when he was man enough to do so.

  The boy stayed cramped in the bowels of the log for what seemed hours, sometimes crying, sometimes sleeping, sometimes praying for his father’s safety. Only when a ray of sunlight filtered through a crack in the log did he dare venture outside. All sound had ceased. Even the birds were still. Death hung in the silent air.

  Blue Hawk squeezed through the end of the log, and the stench of smoldering debris filled his nostrils. He brushed off rotted wood, dirt and biting insects before turning to go to the village. It was then he saw Two Stars, lying dead in the thick weeds. His new baby stepbrother lay beside her. Both their heads were split open.

  Blue Hawk’s eyes widened, and an odd groan escaped his lips. The realization that he might be totally alone began to engulf him, and he ran toward the village, praying fervently that by some miracle Black Antelope would still be alive. When he came upon the village and saw dead bodies strewn everywhere, he knew with awful certainty that Black Antelope could not have survived.

  He walked carefully among the dead bodies, afraid to touch them. His nostrils filled with the stench of death as he surveyed the grotesque poses of those who had died fighting. Without knowing it, he began to weep, his chest heaving with sobs of agony. Around him lay old ones, small babies, women, children; all struck down without mercy, their heads smashed, middles split open, limbs severed. Blue Hawk could not stop the choking sobs as he walked among loved ones and friends. He finally found Small Hands, sprawled on her back, naked and obviously raped, her eyes open and filled with terror even in death. A lance was still embedded in her chest, pinning her body to the ground. Blue Hawk gave one great cry and grasped the lance, jerking hard. He groaned in horror when it would not come out and instead moved Small Hands’ body when he pulled at it. Steeling himself, he gave one final, desperate tug and the lance came free.

  The boy threw the weapon aside and looked around the rest of the village, his eyes so teared that he could no longer see clearly. He stumbled through the village, searching for the one he dreaded finding most—Black Antelope. He found the man lying over the gray ashes of a campfire, a tomahawk still embedded in his chest. Blue Hawk stared at the man he had called father, teacher, friend. He fell to his knees beside the body, bursting into loud sobbing, digging his nails into his cheeks to draw blood. It was a ritual act of sorrow and a vow of vengeance.

  For several minutes the boy sat rocking and crying, but finally he wiped stubbornly at his tears and stood. He ran to where his hut had been, and amid its smoking embers he found the tomahawk Black Antelope had given him as a gift, its handle charred but still solid. He gripped it tightly as he walked to the river where the ground was soft. He began to struggle to dig a grave big enough for Black Antelope, Small Hands, Two Stars and the baby. He dug as fast and hard as he could, caring not that it took hours of chopping and scooping the dirt. He knew he could not lift their bodies onto scaffolds for a proper burial, but he would not let them lie out in the open for the wolves.

  Darkness was settling in when he finished digging. He threw down the tomahawk and searched through the ruins hurriedly to find some rope. This he tied around Black Antelope’s ankles and around his own waist, sobbing as he pulled and tugged the man’s body to the gravesite. As hard as he tried, he was unable to stop his tears and the aching sorrow.

  “Father.” He groaned as he pushed and shoved the body into the grave. But he could not stop to mourn. He hurried back into the woods, taking a deep breath for courage, for he was afraid to touch dead bodies. He picked up the baby and carefully put him inside Two Stars’ tunic, then tied the rope around the young woman’s ankles and again began tugging, dragging her bloating body through the weeds into the village. At the river he stopped several times to rest, but he was desperate to get all the bodies into the graves before the wolves came.

  By the time darkness had fallen, the boy got the bodies to the gravesite. He fought a sick feeling in his stomach as he rolled them into the grave, where they landed beside Black Antelope. Blue Hawk was grateful that at least Black Antelope and Two Stars would lie close together, the baby between them.

  He left to quickly gather some smoldering embers together, stirring them and adding some fresh wood to get a fire going. It was too dark to search for Small Hands, for already he heard wolves howling not far away. He could only stay close to the grave and keep a fire going, and pray that Small Hands’ body would be left untouched until morning when he could put her in the grave and cover the bodies.

  He curled up beside the fire, his whole body sore and aching from all the digging and dragging; his chest and throat burning from so much crying. He soon fell into an exhausted sleep, blessedly oblivious to the sounds of wolves when they came later in the night to rip and tear at the remains of his tribe.

  Blue Hawk awoke to a cold nuzzle from an old horse that had been left behind by the Chippewa. The boy jumped up, confused at first. He patted the horse, then hugged it around the neck as the memory of what had happened the day before came back to him. But today the tears would not come. It was as though they had all been wrung out of him.

  He wearily picked up the rope and walked back to Small Hands’ badly bloating body, glad to see that at least the wolves had not touched her. He grimaced as he tied the rope around her ankles and dragged her to the gravesite, pushing her and struggling not to vomit at the odor of rotting flesh. Then began the difficult task of filling in the grave. For hours he scooped and pushed until the bodies were entirely covered. More hours went by as he carried rocks from the riverbank to cover the fresh dirt, so animals could not dig through it.

  When he was finally done, the boy just stood staring at the grave. He knew he had to leave, but did not want to bid farewell to his beloved stepfather and precious Small Hands. He knew he must be a man now, and he must make decisions. Black Antelope would expect it of him. Blue Hawk looked around at the surrounding woods. There were more Sioux villages to the north, but he did not know the people there nearly as well as his Cheyenne relatives to the south. He promptly decided that was where he should go, to live with his mother’s people. He knew the Cheyenne would welcome him.

  He looked through the rubble again, finding a usable parfleche. He filled it with berries from the nearby woods and some dried meat the Chippewa had not stolen. He fashioned a bridle with the rope he had found and put it around the head of the old horse. Throwing the parfleche over the animal’s neck, Blue Hawk climbed up.

  The boy gazed at the grave for one more long moment, then turned the old horse and headed south. He carried the treasured tomahawk, a bow and some arrows, all he had been able to salvage. He was alone. He must be a man now. For the rest of his life he must make Black Antelope proud.

  Chapter

  Three

  BLUE Hawk made his way through the deep forests, gradually taking pride in his bravery during the dark nights and his ability as a hunter. He managed to kill a rabbit with an arrow, after waiting patiently for a long time near som
e underbrush where he had seen the tracks. When the small creature finally ventured out again, Blue Hawk took careful aim and killed it. He thought of how proud Black Antelope would be if he had seen the shot. At nine, Blue Hawk was already good with the bow. But the thought of the many lessons Black Antelope had given him, of the man’s strong arms holding his small wrists and helping him pull the bow and aim the arrow brought the terrible ache back to Blue Hawk’s chest. He wondered if it would ever go away.

  “Thank you, rabbit spirit,” he said before skinning and cleaning the animal. It was proper to always thank the spirits of those animals killed to provide nourishment and warmth to man. The animal’s sacrifice did not go unappreciated.

  The boy made the rabbit meat last three days, cooking all of it at once and then keeping the meat in his parfleche. He filled himself with berries to quell his almost constant hunger. He remembered how his father and aunt had teased him about having a stomach that could never be filled, and their laughter echoed as sweet but painful memories.

  The adventure of being alone in the forest and finding his own way to his Cheyenne relatives helped distract him from his loss. He came across roaring waterfalls, lush vegetation and fragile flowers, all of which renewed some of the joy in his child’s heart. Though he headed south, he was not sure how to find his relatives and knew he would have to search. In the meantime, he remained cautious, sticking to the deep woods to avoid the Chippewa, who would surely kill him, or worse, take him captive.

  “Perhaps being alone in my ninth summer is good,” he told the old horse he rode, patting its neck. “Now I will be a man before any other Indian boy my age can call himself one.” He sat straighter, puffing out his chest and looking around at moss covered tree trunks and blooming wildflowers. “Yes. I would not want to lose my father as I did, but now I am forced to provide for myself, to hunt, to live from the forest, and to be brave and watch for the enemy. These are things I would do many summers from now if I had not been left alone. What do you think, old horse? Do you think I am a man now?”

  The animal snorted and shook its head, and Blue Hawk scowled. “What do you know,” the boy grumbled. “You are only an old horse.”

  After another week of travel the land began to look more familiar, and Blue Hawk knew he was nearing his Cheyenne relatives. His heart quickened with the thought of seeing loved ones and knowing he would again have a home. Yet he also grew sad, for he was most certainly more man than child now, and he would make sure his relatives treated him as such. His grandfather would be proud of the fact that he had found his own way to the village, where he had only visited a few times. He had even slept one night among dead bodies, but the night spirits had not harmed him, nor had the wolves.

  He wore one foot of the rabbit he had killed around his neck on a rawhide string. “I got you, didn’t I, rabbit? I am good with the bow.” Beneath the rabbit’s foot was the blue quill necklace, which he never removed. He touched it, his thoughts again turning to the mother he never knew, and how his own life had even begun in death.

  The afternoon grew warm and lazy, and Blue Hawk’s head began to nod as the horse plodded quietly over fallen pine needles. Suddenly, the sound of laughter broke the still air. It startled Blue Hawk to attention, and instinct told him immediately to be cautious. He reined the old horse to a halt and slid off, realizing he was very close to the Cheyenne village. He was sure it was just over the ridge before him, but until he was certain all was well, he would be careful.

  He tied the horse and stealthily crept up to the top of the ridge. His moccasined feet were noiseless against the ground carpeted with pine needles. The woods too were silent, and he heard nothing but the wind whispering through the pine branches, and the laughter. When he peeked at the village below, his eyes widened in horror. He wanted to scream out but was paralyzed with disbelief, for below him lay the village of his Cheyenne relatives, burned out and desecrated, just as his own village had been. Bodies lay strewn about, women, children, old people and young warriors. They had apparently been dead for some time; the stench was revolting and bodies were bloated.

  Blue Hawk knew the Chippewa had wiped out the village, perhaps even before attacking his own Sioux village. How he hated them! He gripped his tomahawk in rage, gritting his teeth against the tears that wanted to come. He heard the laughter again, and spotted two men moving among the bodies, stealing anything of value they could find. They stumbled as they walked, acting silly and pushing each other around. Blue Hawk knew that an Indian would never walk among dead bodies in that way unless they were either full of the white man’s firewater or crazy.

  “Chippewa!” He whispered the word in a sneer. He wondered if, in their drunken state, they would be easy to kill. The nine-year-old boy was suddenly a full-grown man indeed, for he felt a thirst for vengeance that made him brave and determined. He smiled, and in spite of his small body and boyish face, the smile was that of a violent, vengeful man. “It is a good day to die,” he muttered, “and I shall see that two Chippewa die with me.”

  There was no time to think or hesitate. It must be done. He reached behind his back and took out an arrow, placing it in his bow. Raising the bow and remembering all that his Sioux father had taught him, he took aim at one of the Chippewa. The boy let the rawhide bowstring snap and the arrow sang through the air, landing squarely between the shoulders of one of the Chippewa braves. Blue Hawk’s heart leaped with the joy of revenge. He was a true warrior! If only Black Antelope could have seen his accomplishment.

  The wounded man fell forward with a grunt, jerked and went rigid in death. His companion watched in stunned surprise before jumping up and looking around with cautious, frightened eyes. Blue Hawk used the man’s surprise as a weapon, quickly leaping over the ridge and running toward his enemy with his tomahawk raised. Screaming war whoops, he gave an amazingly frightening appearance to the startled Chippewa, who at first just stared at the boy.

  Blue Hawk reached the man, preparing to land his tomahawk into the hated Chippewa. Instead, the man gave a crushing blow to the side of Blue Hawk’s head, and the ground came up and slammed into the boy. His mind reeled, and he felt himself turned onto his back. The Chippewa grabbed his hair and he saw the flash of a blade, but at the same time he realized the tomahawk was still in his hand. With all the strength he could muster, he swung hard with the weapon at the blurry figure that hovered over him. He felt the fine edge of the tomahawk blade sink deeply into his enemy, and he heard a horrified scream.

  The Chippewa let go of Blue Hawk’s hair and slumped to the ground beside Blue Hawk, the tomahawk buried so deeply in his back that the fall tore the handle from the boy’s hand. Blue Hawk’s ears began to ring loudly, and he couldn’t see clearly. He put a hand to the side of his face and could feel blood and a great swelling. He groped through half blindness to find the tomahawk again, determined not to lose the precious weapon given him by his father. With what little strength he had left, he rolled to his knees and yanked the weapon out of the Chippewa’s back.

  Blue Hawk tried to get to his feet, but the light of day turned gray, then black, and he fell forward. He sprawled over the Chippewa’s body, the tomahawk still in his hand. In his last thoughts he wondered if any Indian boy of only nine had ever killed two enemy warriors as he had just done. He would have been honored and celebrated if his people could have known. How proud Black Antelope would have been!

  But Black Antelope would never know, and the wrenching pain of all he had lost was soothed only by the blessed unconsciousness that-finally enveloped him.

  When first he came to his senses, Blue Hawk felt himself bound tightly but comfortably, his body bouncing gently as he lay on something that was moving. He opened his eyes to see a bright blue sky, and raising his head slightly, saw that he was on a travois, being hauled in the traditional Indian way.

  A horrible pain seered through his head, and he lay back down, wondering what Indians had come along to help him. Perhaps they were Cheyenne, for surely no Chip
pewa would help. They would have taken his scalp and left him for dead. Still, he recalled that everyone in his grandfather’s village had been dead. He vaguely remembered the Chippewa, the terrible blow to his face, and burying his tomahawk in a Chippewa’s back. Who could have found him?

  Perhaps he was a captive of the Chippewa, being taken to torture or slavery, he thought. Ignoring the pain movement caused, he turned his head enough to see a man riding beside the travois, wearing finely cleaned and sewn buckskins. The boy’s eyes widened as he realized his situation was even worse than he had feared. His captors were white men. He had never seen one before, but knew that was what the pale-skinned creature with hair on his face he saw riding beside him had to be.

  From all he had heard about the white man who had abused his Cheyenne mother and about the Americans who came to steal land from the Indians, Blue Hawk hated pale-skinned men. He wondered what kind of horrors these men had in mind for him. The one riding beside him was leading the boy’s old horse, and Blue Hawk wondered why they would steal such a worthless animal. He decided white men did not know much about horses.

  The boy tried again to rise, deciding he must run away quickly if possible. But he was bound too tightly, and the effort to free himself brought so much pain he could not help groaning. The sound caused a second man, whose horse was pulling the travois, to halt his mount.

  “I think the boy has come around, Tom,” the man riding alongside him said. Blue Hawk did not understand the words, but the one called Tom dismounted and walked around to stare down at the Indian boy.