War Party (Cheyenne Western Book 8)

by Judd Cole

  Little Horse had been absorbed in deep thought for some time.

  “Brother,” he said when they paused to water their ponies at the Milk River, “I know Shoots Left Handed and most in his band. You saw them at the annual Sun Dance, again at the Chief Renewal. They are a generous and peaceful group and always bring many blankets and horses for the poor during the dances.”

  “I remember them well. They were the only Cheyenne band still wearing fur leggings in spring.”

  “At one time they lived closer to our Powder River hunting grounds. But Shoots Left Handed married an Assiniboin and fell in love with the north country. His wife died, but he stayed in the north. Soon other members of his Cheyenne clan migrated to join him. Now he is a peace leader of his own band.

  “He fought beside Arrow Keeper at Wolf Creek and saved his life from a Kiowa throwing ax. So I am not surprised that Arrow Keeper is quick to send us during this trouble. But that is not the only reason he wanted us—you—out of camp immediately. And why was our leaving a secret, unless he does not want your enemies within the tribe to follow you?”

  Touch the Sky listened carefully to all this, saying nothing. While he listened he gazed off at the distant mountains. From here they did indeed resemble bear paws, huge and blunt with snowcapped toes. Looking at them made him recall the time a grizzly had trapped him in a cave at Medicine Lake.

  “Yes,” he finally replied, “Arrow Keeper knows the danger well. When he sent me by myself to Medicine Lake, Wolf Who Hunts Smiling and Swift Canoe followed and tried to send me under. This time Arrow Keeper wants to make sure the dogs do not return to their vomit.”

  By now their ponies had nearly drunk their fill. To avoid suspicion as long as possible, Arrow Keeper had instructed them to leave their own ponies with the herd. Instead, he had them cut out two from his own string. Little Horse rode a ginger buckskin, Touch the Sky a blood bay with a pure white blaze on its forehead. Like all ponies owned by Arrow Keeper, these had been taught special tricks and blessed with strong medicine.

  “You are worried about Honey Eater,” Little Horse said, not making it a question.

  Touch the Sky nodded. His lips were set in a grim, determined slit. “I am worried, buck. Your words fly straight-arrow. Black Elk is sick with jealous hatred. At least in camp my presence served as a constant reminder that he must pay dearly for hurting her. Now I am gone, and who knows for how long?”

  “Is this why you took Two Twists aside before we rode out?”

  Again Touch the Sky nodded. Two Twists was a junior warrior in training. He had fought gallantly alongside Touch the Sky and Little Horse in freeing Cheyenne prisoners from the Comanche stronghold in Blanco Canyon. Touch the Sky had instructed him to keep a close eye on Honey Eater, especially when Black Elk was around. Touch the Sky had already served notice to Black Elk. Unlike the barbaric Comanche, Cheyenne law did not permit wife-slaughter and rife-beating. If he laid a hand on Honey Eater one more time, he was carrion fodder.

  Touch the Sky’s bay snorted and backed away from the water, having drunk its fill. Now, as they prepared to ride on, both youths again gazed toward the Bear Paws.

  Again they were riding into the maw of unknown danger. Not only was this area crawling with Blackfeet and other hostile tribes, but with blue-bloused soldiers too. And with Cheyenne being blamed for the recent attacks Arrow Keeper spoke of, they were open targets for vigilante fire.

  Therefore they had come well-armed. Touch the Sky’s percussion-action Sharps protruded from his scabbard, Little Horse’s four-shot, revolving-barrel shotgun from his. Both braves were also armed with knives, stone-headed throwing axes, and new green bows. Their fox-skin quivers were crammed with fire-hardened arrows.

  “It is time to ride, brother,” Touch the Sky said, gripping his pony’s hackamore.

  The tall, broad-shouldered youth cast one last, long glance south toward their Powder River camp. His eyes were clouded with trouble as he thought about Honey Eater. Then, pointing their hair bridles toward the Bear Paws, they rode on into the gathering twilight and unknown trouble.

  ~*~

  Almost three sleeps had passed before Wolf Who Hunts Smiling was sure of it. He turned to Swift Canoe and suddenly said, “Brother, we have less brains between us than a rabbit. Woman Face and Little Horse are gone!”

  Swift Canoe glanced up, startled. The two youths sat before Wolf Who Hunts Smiling’s tipi. Their sister the sun had gone to her rest earlier. Now the two braves were filing arrow points in the light of a bright cottonwood fire.

  “Gone? What do you mean?”

  “Buck, do I suddenly speak Arapaho? What else does ‘gone’ mean? I mean gone, they are not in camp! Have you seen them?”

  Swift Canoe thought about it hard, the furrow between his eyes deepening. Then he shook his head. “You are right, Panther Clan.”

  They had been sent out secretly by Arrow Keeper. Wolf Who Hunts Smiling knew that. Once before, the wily old shaman had sent Woman Face away to avoid danger in camp. Only this time, he had not announced his decision at council. And the two friends had taken different ponies.

  “It would be foolish,” Wolf Who Hunts Smiling said, “to trail them now. The sign will be cold. And Arrow Keeper would miss us and know.”

  “This time,” Swift Canoe said, disappointed, “they have played the fox and outwitted us.”

  “Perhaps not, Cheyenne. Only think on this thing. Did Arrow Keeper announce the departure from camp of Little Horse and Woman Face, as is custom and law?”

  Swift Canoe shook his head, confused. “You know he did not. You just said—”

  “And the others in camp? Soon now these two must be missed. When they are, the people will be furious to know. After all, these two have never cleared their names from serious charges that they have spied for Long Knives. But what if, before Arrow Keeper can concoct a story, another story flies through camp on the wind?”

  “What story, brother?”

  “Put those points down and follow me, buck. I know my cousin will want to counsel with us on this matter.”

  The two youths stayed in the apron of shadows at the edge of the main clearing. Slipping behind tipis and lodges, they avoided the groups where soldier societies had gathered to smoke and talk. Soon they stood before Black Elk’s tipi. A bright fire burned within, and they could see two long, distorted shadows: Black Elk and Honey Eater.

  Black Elk’s voice raged from within.

  “You will not take this tone with me and make me a squaw, haughty Cheyenne she-bitch! I am your husband and this tribe’s war leader. I have cut off your braid before, and what man has done, man can do.”

  “Brother,” Swift Canoe said nervously, “Black Elk has blood in his eyes. This is not a wise time to interrupt.”

  “You are wrong, brother,” Wolf Who Hunts Smiling said, his furtive grin dividing his face. Anger seethed inside him. His coup feathers had been the soul of his medicine bag, and thanks to Woman Face they were now a memory smell, a thing of smoke.

  “No better time,” he added. “This hatred in my cousin’s voice, who do you think has caused it? None other than Woman Face!”

  Wolf Who Hunts Smiling stepped boldly forward and stood before the entrance flap.

  “Black Elk! I would speak with you.”

  The flap was thrust wide and Black Elk stared out at the visitors, scowling. The fire inside back-lit his face and braided hair. The wrinkled, leathery flap of sewn-on ear made him look fierce in the eerie orange light.

  “Well?” he demanded. “Are you a totem pole, or is there a bone caught in your throat? Speak!”

  But the younger brave had hesitated because Honey Eater stood close to the entrance. Even Wolf Who Hunts Smiling, whose great ambition for leadership left him indifferent to women, was suddenly impressed yet again with her frail beauty. High, delicately sculpted cheekbones framed an oval face and full lips. Her hair had finally grown back long enough to braid with her usual white columbine petals. Her huge, wing-
shaped eyes watched the three braves suspiciously, knowing some new treachery was afoot.

  Wolf Who Hunts Smiling signaled to his cousin with his eyes, then looked at Honey Eater again.

  “Back off, mooncalf!” Black Elk snapped at her.

  When she was gone, Wolf Who Hunts Smiling said, “Black Elk, have you seen Woman Face or Little Horse these past several sleeps?”

  Slowly, Black Elk’s frown turned into a look of wary curiosity. His cousin was not one to make small talk.

  “Woman Face I rarely see anymore,” he said. “He wisely avoids me and my clan circle. But now I recall that Little Horse should be riding herd guard, yet I have not seen him. Do not be coy. We are not girls in their sewing lodge. Why do you ask this thing?”

  “Cousin, two of Arrow Keeper’s best ponies are missing. So are Woman Face and Little Horse. Yet nothing was said at council. Do you see? The old shaman has sent them on a secret mission in violation of tribal law. Even Chief Gray Thunder cannot authorize missions without a vote of the Headmen. Only the Star Chamber can do this, and they have not convened.”

  For many heartbeats Black Elk was silent, thinking about this.

  “Cousin,” Wolf Who Hunts Smiling continued, speaking faster in his gathering excitement, “you know there is bad feeling within the tribe for these two. This, ever since they deserted their people to fight for Woman Face’s white family. Now, any time they ride out, the people talk. They say, ‘This Touch the Sky, why does he ride off so much without the camp crier announcing it? Why so much secret business for this one?’”

  Black Elk was catching on. A faint smile touched his stern lips. There was grudging admiration in his tone when he said, “I have ears for this, cousin. As you say, nothing was told at council.”

  “Nothing. And cousin, do you recall? River of Winds recently scouted the Valley of the Greasy Grass for buffalo sign. He spotted blue-bloused soldiers camped there.”

  Black Elk nodded, suddenly very impressed by his younger cousin’s scheming mind. He said, “No one would believe either of us. It is commonly known we would gladly feed his liver to the dogs. But cousin, you and I have brothers in our Bull Whip soldier troop. They will gladly claim to have seen Woman Face and Little Horse playing the white man’s Indian for soldiers.”

  ~*~

  Touch the Sky and Little Horse rode as far into the mountains as they could before night settled over everything like a dark cloak. They made a cold camp beside a runoff stream. A meager meal consisted of cold water, and pemmican and dried plums from their legging sashes.

  The next morning, as the word-bringer Goes Ahead had promised, they found signs where Shoots Left Handed’s band had blazed a trail to their latest camp. For the better part of a day the two youths climbed steadily higher and higher. The trees held as they rose, but grew thinner and more wind-twisted. Deadfalls, piles of rock scree, mud slides caused by spring runoff blocked the way. But all this also, the two young braves realized, made it tougher for enemies to find this camp.

  Finally, climbing up out of a long cutbank, they were greeted by the owl hoot of a friendly Cheyenne sentry. He led the new arrivals to the high-altitude camp which had been made in the lee of a well-protected ridge.

  The squalor of the place shocked and saddened both youths. Dogs were always numerous in Cheyenne camps because of their usefulness as sentries, but they had all long since been eaten. The few ponies which remained were starvation-thin, their ribs protruding like barrel staves. It was foaling time for the mares, but they were too weak to birth. The pony-loving Cheyennes would cry openly as they were forced to kill the mares and cut the new foals out.

  Nonetheless, life went on. Water haulers made the long trip from the nearest stream, full bladder-bags sloshing. Old women sat in a circle preparing precious chokecherries, gathered earlier after hours of hard scouring. There was no other food.

  “Tonight,” Shoots Left Handed said, soon after meeting the new arrivals, “we will eat another pony.”

  His words shocked them into silence. Tribal history told of times, of course, when Cheyennes had been forced to kill and eat ponies. And they knew that such tribes as the Apache ate horse meat as casually as they might eat buffalo or elk. But never had they seen Cheyennes forced to such barbarism.

  They sat in a small circle in Shoots Left Handed’s tipi, a fire blazing in the pit to counter the cold mountain air. The group included Pawnee Killer, the band’s battle leader.

  “Our band has lost many warriors because of these attacks against whites,” Pawnee Killer said.

  He was a brave with perhaps forty winters behind him, still vigorous and strong though his braids were traced with silver. He wore a leather shirt adorned with the intricate Cheyenne beadwork admired throughout the West.

  “Warriors are not the end of it,” Shoots Left Handed said. The old peace chief had left his snow-white hair unbraided, and a milky cataract clouded one eye. Hunger had emaciated the entire tribe, and their leader had not been spared. Touch the Sky winced when he noticed that the fingers clutching the old man’s blanket about him were as thin as twigs.

  “These constant attacks by pony soldiers,” he continued, “have forced us further and further into these barren mountains. This is intolerable. We are Cheyenne, plains-loving horsemen! My people are sick, miserable, hungry, and tired of eating fish.”

  “Too,” Pawnee Killer said, “all this constant moving to new camps puts us at risk from attack by the Piegan.”

  Touch the Sky and Little Horse nodded, recognizing the name by which the Blackfoot tribe called itself.

  Touch the Sky said, “Would the Piegan disguise themselves as Cheyenne and attack whites?”

  “As a people,” Pawnee Killer said, “they are as low as the lice-eating Pawnee. Yes, they are capable of such a thing. But for many winters now they have stayed well south of the Milk River Road. Nor are they a tribe to bother with such games as dressing up.”

  “Truly,” Touch the Sky said, nodding, “I know of no red tribe that plays at such games, though our Lakota cousins will dress in a blue blouse after they kill a soldier.”

  Pawnee Killer watched the tall newcomer closely, his eyes slitted in an approving scrutiny. “As you say, young Cheyenne. I see that your mind flies on the same wind with mine. This painting and dressing for crime is more of a white man’s game.”

  Outside the tipi, the cold mountain wind whipped up to a blustering frenzy, driving everyone for shelter. Touch the Sky heard a starving horse nicker piteously, heard a sick baby crying with a steady, faint tone of utter hopelessness. Hot tears threatened his eyes as he realized: All around him, the people who shared his blood were dying.

  “We must find out at once who is making these attacks,” he declared with conviction. “And the tribe must be blessed with strong medicine. When were the Arrows last renewed?”

  Pawnee Killer shook his head, making the cut-off sign as he mentioned the dead. “Scalp Cane was our Arrow Keeper. But he lay sick for several moons before he crossed over, unable to renew the Arrows.”

  Alarm tightened the young shaman apprentice’s face. “Are they safe?”

  “Of course. They are with White Plume of the Sky Walker Clan. But he is not a shaman. We have no priest to conduct the ceremony.”

  “I will conduct the renewal soon,” Touch the Sky said. “Not just for the warriors, but to cleanse the entire tribe.”

  Chief Shoots Left Handed nodded. His milky eye glistened in the flickering firelight.

  “This is a good thing, little brother. I knew Arrow Keeper would send the right brave. But I fear strong medicine alone cannot spare us from the new Bluecoat mountain troop. Even now their turncoat Ute scouts are sniffing out this camp, and soon the attack will again be on us.”

  Chapter Four

  Colonel Orrin Lofley said, “You know my motto, Carlson: The shit rolls downhill.”

  “Yes, sir,” Captain Seth Carlson replied, thinking to himself as usual: Why don’t you set it to music, you tiresome
blowhard? But the silver eagles perched on Lofley’s epaulets stared at the captain with stern, unblinking authority.

  “That was my wife who got shot in this last attack, Carlson!”

  “Yes, sir. The colonel has my deepest regrets. Is Mrs. Lofley doing better?”

  “She’s going to survive, Carlson, no thanks to you. Your deepest regrets aren’t worth a plugged nickel. You’re in charge of what’s supposed to be the best Indian-hunting company in the Far West. I don’t want regrets from you, I want action.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The commanding officer of remote Fort Randall was a short, barrel-chested redhead with coarse-grained skin and a weak chin disguised by a goatee. His left arm had been partially paralyzed during the Sioux campaigns. He could not lift it above his shoulder and required assistance in taking his jacket off. But if a man could walk and still had one functioning trigger finger, Army regulations permitted him to serve.

  “Carlson, this fort is already the butt of jokes back East. Every shit-bird recruit who can’t open his mess kit gets posted here. I’m sick of cringing every time the newspapers arrive, crammed full of stories about how the goddamn aboriginal hostiles are making a mockery of the U.S. Army! Now that my own wife has eaten an Indian bullet, you think the papers aren’t rawhiding me mercilessly?”

  “Yes, sir. I mean, no, sir.”

  Carlson knew damn well that Lofley only had himself to blame for his troubles. He had ended up at Fort Randall because his inept battlefield tactics were infamous in military circles. In one campaign against the Hunkpapa Sioux, a regiment directly under his command had expended twenty-five thousand rounds of ammunition in killing five Sioux, all women and children. Carlson’s unit of mountain-trained sharpshooters, in contrast, had once wiped out an entire Assiniboin camp and expended only five hundred rounds. The trick, Carlson knew, was to hit them in their sleep and shoot plumb for their vitals.

  “The Army is caught between the sap and the bark on this Indian question,” Lofley said, standing up from his desk. Behind him on the wall was a Mercator map of the United States. The all-important hundredth meridian was marked with a heavy black line. This was the crucial boundary where rainfall dramatically slacked off and the tall grasses gave way to the short-grass prairie—marking the official beginning of Plains Indian country.