by Judd Cole
“That he was an Indian, brother. A mountain Indian. A turncoat Ute, perhaps, or a Blackfoot.”
“And if it was a Ute,” Touch the Sky said, “he surely plays the dog for Bluecoat whiskey and tobacco.”
“And thus, Shoots Left Handed is right. Soon comes the attack.”
Touch the Sky nodded glumly. At this point, there was little they could do to prepare for an attack except pray and wait. The only hope lay in thwarting the whites disguised as Indian raiders. But could they move in time to prevent the annihilation of Shoots Left Handed’s camp?
The first opportunity to try presented itself soon after sunrise the next morning.
The two visitors to the north country were counseling with Pawnee Killer and White Plume when a sentry raised a shout. He was hidden in the rimrock of the ridge which sheltered the camp from view below. From his position he could see all the way to Fort Randall and beyond, to the Milk River.
“Other sentries, far across the river valley, are in touch with him with mirror signals,” Pawnee Killer explained. The battle leader squinted as he spoke these words, watching carefully as the sentry above now used his fragment of mirror to transmit the message to the main camp.
Pawnee Killer finally nodded. “As I thought. Our ‘Cheyenne’ raiders have been sighted again!”
“Where?” Touch the Sky demanded.
“There is a white way station on the Milk River Road, near Roaring Horse Creek. The wagons and coaches always stop here to water their horses. It would seem our pretend Cheyennes—five of them, as always—are lurking in a coulee nearby, waiting to strike when that happens.”
“Five of them,” Little Horse said. “Could we not form a war party and ride hard, and perhaps stop them?”
“I understand you are keen for them,” Pawnee Killer said. “So are we, buck. But only think on this thing. How would a war party get from here to there without being spotted by whoever killed Goes Ahead? Even now, Bluecoats are closing in on our camp. We are no longer free to move in this area.”
Touch the Sky nodded, his lips set in a straight, determined slit. “I have ears for this. A war party is no good. But two riders might stand a chance. Arrow Keeper did not send me here only to pray. Little Horse and I will ride out.”
~*~
“Now goddamnit, Lumpy, remember. Don’t talk so much. Just point your iron and grunt a lot. You’re an Indian, not a damn jaw-jacking Frenchman.”
Woodrow Denton looked at the rest of his men, checking their disguises.
“You, Noonan! Get rid of that damn quid, Indians don’t chew. And you, Bell. Put some more of that berry juice on your face, you look like a spotted owl.”
Denton, his four men, and Captain Seth Carlson sat their horses just inside the entrance of a deep coulee located a stone’s throw from the Milk River Road. They had been waiting for hours. From here, they could see the approaching road and the way station built beside Roaring Horse Creek. It was a split-pine building surrounded by dilapidated outbuildings and a stone watering trough.
“Now remember,” Carlson said, “they’ll be looking for trouble. The freight company has hired two extra guards. They’re riding in the coach with the passengers. Get the drop on them after they get out to stretch their legs. I’ll be waiting back here in case there’s any trouble.”
A thin line of nervous perspiration dotted Carlson’s upper lip. This holdup today would be even more lucrative than usual: The coach was carrying a cash shipment intended for the trading post at Pike’s Fork. Now that Colonel Lofley was breathing fire to kill those “Cheyenne” attackers, Carlson knew this sweet little gold mine was almost played out. These last few strikes, with luck, might make his fortune, or at least guarantee an easy retirement.
“Shh,” Lumpy said suddenly, cocking his head to listen. His tobacco-stained fingers probed at the goiter on the side of his neck. “Hear that?”
Soon the others did—the distant and steady jangle of approaching traces.
“Here she comes,” Denton said, pulling a feathered bonnet on over his bald white pate. “Gotta die sometime, boys. Let’s put at the sonsabitches!”
~*~
Pawnee Killer had quickly made a picture in the dirt for the two Powder River Cheyennes, showing them the country all around. Now, as their sister the sun tracked ever higher in a seamless blue sky, they discovered the merits of Arrow Keeper’s ponies.
The country between the hidden camp and the Milk River Road was mostly a series of folded ridges. Heavily timbered, with few trails, they were a constant challenge to riders in a hurry. But Touch the Sky’s blood bay and Little Horse’s ginger buckskin seemed to sense, in the urgent pressure of their riders’ calves and knees, the need to fly on the wind.
They strode the ridges almost as effortlessly as if they were open plains, racing at breakneck speed into seemingly unbroken walls of timber, yet always somehow sensing an opening. Their endurance, even for Cheyenne ponies, made the two riders exchange dumbfounded glances and foolish grins despite the danger they rode toward. How could any pony climb ridge after ridge, leap streamlet after streamlet, and not even spray foam on its rider?
“There!” Little Horse said, pointing as they crested the final swayback ridge before Milk River and the wagon road which followed it.
“See them, brother? They are just now moving into position in the last line of trees near the white man’s lodge.”
“If those are Cheyennes, I am a Ponca. I have eyes for them, brother,” Touch the Sky assured him. “Our ponies are keen for sport, let us give them warriors for riders! If we ride hard, we can arrive before the stagecoach and scald some dogs.”
Their mounts laid back their ears and put on a final burst of speed. Quickly the two Cheyennes cleared the ridge and emerged onto the badly rutted wagon road. Riding the smoother ground just to either side, they raced toward the way station. Each brave had pulled his long arm from its scabbard, and now held it at the ready in one hand.
Touch the Sky spotted it first.
A brief glint of military brass, emerging from the opening of that coulee on their left. And even as he spotted it, his newly emerging shaman’s sense told him it was too late.
He pulled hard on the blood’s hackamore, turning her toward the coulee. A moment later he was staring straight into the shocked eyes of Seth Carlson.
Carlson, shaken to the core of his being by this completely unexpected appearance of his worst enemy, held fire for just a second. Then, before Hanchon could lower his Sharps and snap off a round, Carlson pointed his carbine dead-center on the tall Indian’s torso and squeezed the trigger.
Only a heartbeat after Touch the Sky made the discovery, Little Horse too spotted the officer.
“Brother, leap!”
But it was too late to jump out of the way. Even as Carlson pressured the last fraction of trigger resistance, Little Horse lunged off his pony and into the path of his friend.
Touch the Sky felt his face drain cold when, with a sound like taut rawhide bursting, the bullet struck Little Horse in the chest.
Chapter Six
“Little brothers! I have a thing I would speak to you.”
Wolf Who Hunts Smiling allowed a rare note of cordiality to seep into his tone. It was his responsibility to train a group of the junior warriors in the arts of combat, tracking, and survival. Now his young charges were gathered about him while their tired ponies drank their fill from a nearby stream. A hard day of training was ending, and Sister Sun was a ruddy glow behind the Bighorn Mountains.
“You have done well today! You, Bright Hawk! Five times you aimed your throwing ax at a cottonwood while at full speed on your pony. And five times you sank the blade deep into hard wood!
“You, Two Twists! You launched fifteen arrows in the time it might have cost a hair-mouth soldier to reload his carbine. And they flew straight, stout buck!”
Neither of the young braves thanked Wolf Who Hunts Smiling for this praise. Nor did they show gratitude or pride in their faces
. They only held them stern, as the blooded warriors did around women and children.
Unlike Bright Hawk, however, Two Twists was suspicious. He respected Wolf Who Hunts Smiling as a warrior—only a fool would not. But any time the fierce brave became amiable, currying favor like this from the more popular junior warriors, it usually meant he had treachery firmly by the tail. Treachery involving Touch the Sky. Two Twists had only fourteen winters behind him. But his brain was as quick as his bow. He saw clearly enough that Wolf Who Hunts Smiling was ravenous for power. And like two grizzlies circling before a savage territorial battle, Touch the Sky and Wolf Who Hunts Smiling were destined to clash.
“Little brothers,” Wolf Who Hunts Smiling continued now, “you are doing your task as demanded by our Cheyenne Law Ways. But only think! Does everyone in the tribe respect the Law Ways? Do Touch the Sky and Little Horse? Does Arrow Keeper?
“I ask this, bucks, because it is common knowledge now that the old shaman sent these two riders out without benefit of Council. These two riders who have been seen counseling with white soldiers! I speak straight-arrow. Ask River of Winds. He saw them, and does he ever speak more than one way to any man?”
Two Twists felt heat rising into his face. He had to bite his tongue to keep from demanding: “And what of you, Wolf Who Hunts Smiling, who bribes old grandmothers into visions’ against Touch the Sky?” But he tried to control his anger as warriors must. Touch the Sky had sworn him to secrecy about Two Twists’ mission to watch Honey Eater. It was not wise to call attention to himself. But deep in his heart of hearts, Two Twists considered Touch the Sky the best and bravest Cheyenne warrior he had ever known. He would readily follow him into the very jaws of the Wendigo himself.
“Young brothers, only think. The wily old shaman can break our law, this Touch the Sky can break our law, even play the big Indian for the white dogs. But can you break any laws? Bucks, tell me. If you pull off an unmarried girl’s rope, what happens?”
An uncomfortable silence greeted this remark. Wolf Who Hunts Smiling was referring to the knotted-rope chastity belt worn by all unmarried Cheyenne girls. Every young buck present knew full well the serious consequences of touching a girl’s rope. The Bull Whip soldiers would beat them senseless; all their goods would be destroyed, their tipis would be shredded, their horses would be for those who took them; they could never again smoke from the common pipe or touch any common eating utensil.
“Your silence answers me well, bucks. You know what happens when you break the law. But the doting old shaman and his white men’s spies—they hold themselves above our Cheyenne Way. Remember this because you are the future of our tribe. Soon you may have to make a decision about which leaders to follow. Place my words in your sash and study them later.”
Wolf Who Hunts Smiling fell silent. But his final words left Two Twists’ heart stomping against his ribs. Clearly, something ominous was afoot! Often Wolf Who Hunts Smiling spoke with open admiration of Roman Nose and other young leaders of the Dog Men—the rebellious young Southern Cheyenne braves who had broken from the rest of the tribe which still followed the older chiefs and the Council of Forty.
It was as plain as blood in snow, Two Twists realized now. Wolf Who Hunts Smiling planned to eventually defy the established leaders and take over the tribe and its destiny. And now, somehow, some way, he was moving to eliminate the one man he sensed could stop him: Touch the Sky.
Two Twists knew he had to watch this thing closely. For a moment his eyes met those of Wolf Who Hunts Smiling.
I praised you publicly, but I know you play the dog for him, the older brave’s mocking gaze seemed to say. I may praise you to your face, double-braid, but watch your back-trail!
~*~
While Wolf Who Hunts Smiling did his part to destroy Touch the Sky’s standing with the tribe, Black Elk was back in camp doing his.
Like his younger cousin, Black Elk was a member of the Cheyenne military society known as the Bull Whips. It was their job to punish certain offenses and to police the tribe during ceremonies and the all-important buffalo hunts. They were quick to resort to their knotted-thong whips, and thus feared and despised by most of the tribe.
Now, as grainy darkness took over the camp and the clan fires sprang up, Black Elk stopped by the Bull Whip lodge. It was a smaller version of the main council lodge: elk-skins and buffalo hides stretched over a bent-willow frame. From a pole in the front fluttered brightly dyed strands from enemy scalps.
Bull Whips filled the interior, smoking in little groups, gambling, discussing the news from the other soldier troops. Black Elk’s keen black eyes searched out two of his favorite troop brothers.
“Stone Jaw! Angry Bull! One of my meat racks has collapsed. Come help me repair it.”
The two braves, their highly feared whips tucked into their clouts, followed him across camp toward his tipi. They knew full well that Black Elk needed no help repairing a meat rack. But it was their usual excuse to counsel in private behind his tipi.
“Brothers,” Black Elk said as soon as they were safely out of sight of the rest. “Do you think it might be time to replenish our troop’s pony herd?”
Neither of his companions was noted for brains. They both stared at him in confusion.
“But Black Elk,” Stone Jaw said, “the Bull Whip string has never looked finer.”
“You yourself said so when Red Feather rode in with two more fine buckskins,” Angry Bull added.
“You can never have too many fine ponies,” Black Elk said impatiently. “The scouts report fine-looking mustang herds near the Valley of the Greasy Grass.”
He paused, turning to look behind him toward his tipi. Like the others, it glowed dull orange from the fire within. He could make out the long, distorted dark line of Honey Eater’s shadow. But he couldn’t tell if she was listening or not. He lowered his voice.
“Have ears, brothers. Bluecoats are on maneuvers near the Valley of the Greasy Grass. If you were to ride in that direction, merely to scout the’ herds, you would of course have to be careful of the soldiers. And of course … ”
Black Elk paused, adding emphasis to his next words. “If you happened to see the soldiers counseling with two Cheyennes, clearly you would be required to report this thing.”
Stone Jaw was still lost, the puzzled furrow between his eyebrows deep. But Angry Bull had caught Black Elk’s drift.
“Touch the Sky and Little Horse,” he said. “No one knows where they are.”
Black Elk nodded, letting this sink in. He had selected these two because they were among Touch the Sky’s worst enemies in the camp. From the beginning, when he was first captured, they had argued for his death as a spy. Instead, the tall young stranger had won more and more respect within the tribe—but as he had, the hatred of his enemies had intensified.
Stone Jaw avoided Angry Bull’s eyes, knowing the two of them might laugh and infuriate Black Elk. It was common knowledge throughout the Bull Whip troop that his wife loved Touch the Sky and he her. In fact, most of the Whips assumed the tall youth was holding her in his blanket for love talk, perhaps even bulling her. Of course, nothing was said in front of Black Elk. Perhaps his squaw had put the antlers on him; nonetheless, he was no brave to fool with.
Still, it would be satisfying to finally put an end to this arrogant stranger who grew up wearing white man’s shoes and now played the big Indian with Gray Thunder’s tribe.
“As you say, brother,” Angry Bull finally said. “Our string could use a few more good ponies. Stone Jaw and I must prepare for a ride to the Valley of the Greasy Grass. Who knows what we might see there?”
Black Elk thought a moment. Then he added, “Do not swear to seeing this thing. Arrow Keeper might then force you to repeat your oath on the Arrows. Instead, paint broad strokes with your words. Say you could not get close, say only that you saw two Cheyennes. One was tall, the other smaller.”
Black Elk thought of something else. He smiled, then added, “Say too that one rode a
blood bay, the other a ginger buckskin.”
“Arrow Keeper’s ponies?”
Black Elk nodded. He knew his younger cousin was moving to directly challenge the old shaman. At first Black Elk has resisted this out of respect for Arrow Keeper. But as his hatred for Touch the Sky reached a white-hot intensity, Black Elk could read the sign clearly. It was Arrow Keeper who protected Touch the Sky. Therefore, Arrow Keeper’s power and influence must be hamstrung.
“We will ride out as soon as the Council agrees to it,” Angry Bull decided.
“They will agree to it quickly,” Black Elk assured him. “I am not just a Bull Whip trooper, I am this tribe’s war leader. That pretend Cheyenne has somehow led a charmed existence so far. But even Arrow Keeper’s big medicine cannot come between him and a bullet forever.”
~*~
Hot tears welled up in Honey Eater’s eyes, zigzagging down her pronounced cheekbones and dripping into the robes covering the ground inside the tipi.
She had seen Black Elk and his fellow Bull Whips duck behind the tipi. And though she could not make out their exact words, the treacherous tone alone told her that Touch the Sky’s trials and sufferings were far from over.
How long could it possibly last? How long? He had suffered more than she would have believed ten men could endure. And that was only the suffering she knew of—what about the trials he faced when away from camp, as he was now?
A thousand times over she had regretted her marriage to Black Elk, yet what could she have done? Touch the Sky had apparently deserted the tribe forever, her father had crossed over, and tribal law forced her to marry. If only, through all of Touch the Sky’s suffering, she could have been beside him!
Yet … and yet, she told herself with a burst of desperate hope, was there not the song sung by the girls in their sewing lodge? Though it did not mention their names, it sang of their love. And in this song, their marriage finally came to pass.
But how, she scolded herself now, could she be pining away about marrying Touch the Sky when his very life was in danger? Her own husband, assisted by two of the lowest and meanest braves in the tribe, was even now playing the fox against him. Even if it meant her life—and it well might, given Black Elk’s insane jealousy—she must somehow thwart this plot.