by Judd Cole
“All right,” Lumpy said. “But what about when Carlson comes back? Won’t he get wind of this raid?”
“Does asparagus make your piss stink?” Denton said. “Of course he’ll get wind of it. He’s a soldier, ain’t he? But ’zacly what will he do about it? Go to law, for Christ sakes?”
Denton had been wanting to part trails with Carlson anyway. True, it had been useful having a soldier in his camp. But Denton realized this little piece of cake had finally gone stale. The newspapers were full of outraged editorials about the savage aboriginals. It was only a matter of time before the U.S. Army—treaty limitations be damned—sprang a nasty surprise on them.
So why cut the officer in on this last haul? Besides, Carlson wasn’t putting all his cards on the table either. He was nursing some private grudge against the Cheyenne tribe. During that last raid, Denton had heard Carlson busting caps behind them, had heard riders. But when he’d asked him about it later, Carlson had lied. Denton had no desire to put his bacon in the fire just to help a man settle a private grudge.
Omensetter had broken cover to ride down and scout the road. Now he came racing back.
“She’s a-comin’. I see a dust plume on the horizon.”
Denton nodded. “Remember, this is our last strike in these parts. We’re taking the entire team and wagon. That means no one can survive this one—they’ll get too close a look at us and guess our game. That means we kill the driver and the guards. We’ll leave the bodies behind with their hair raised and Cheyenne arrows in them.”
Touch the Sky and Little Horse knew better than to flee south toward Shoots Left Handed’s camp. That would be like leading wolves to a warren. Better to escape in the opposite direction, diverting the soldiers. Now that Carlson had recognized his arch-enemy, they knew he would lock onto their scent.
The two friends joined up while fleeing down the backside of a steep ridge. Arrow Keeper’s surefooted ponies managed to find footholds that mules might have missed.
But Carlson’s mountain troopers too rode excellent mounts—half-wild mustangs from the high country, broken in by Indian trainers. For some time they stayed right behind the fleeing Cheyennes.
And as they did, the two braves realized they were up against a dangerous new breed of Bluecoat fighter. Paleface soldiers were always dangerous down on the open plains, waging the style of warfare suited to their formations and training. But usually, in this kind of rough terrain, shaking white pursuers was a matter for Indian sport. But not now. Now they were forced to ride full out, barely outrunning the bullets behind them.
Several times they were forced to assume the defensive riding position invented by the Cheyenne tribe: They slid far forward, clinging to their ponies’ neck with their legs. The rest of their bodies were tucked down under the horse’s head, out of sight. If a pony were shot, this position allowed the Cheyenne to kick off and away from the falling weight.
“Brother!” Little Horse shouted as they raced along a rocky spine, looking for a way to cross to the next swayback ridge. He pointed down into a small valley to their right. “Look!”
Touch the Sky’s glance followed his friend’s finger. A moment later he tasted the bitter sting of bile rising in his throat.
Dead Blackfeet and horses lay sprawled everywhere, thick with blue-black swarms of flies. Touch the Sky, who had grown up next to Fort Bates, recognized the brass casings of artillery shells. His face went cold and numb when he saw that several of the bodies had literally been blown apart. Carrion birds were everywhere, forming a living, moving carpet of black over everything.
It took him a moment to realize why the birds kept turning their heads to expel something from their beaks. Then he understood. They were spitting out lead slugs—some of the bodies, incredibly, had been shot dozens of times.
The two braves locked glances. Little Horse was clearly dumbfounded—what kind of powerful hair-face magic could open a man up like a dressed-out deer?
But there was no time to wonder. Behind them, a sharpshooter’s carbine cracked, and a bullet whizzed past so close to Touch the Sky’s ear that it sounded like a bumblebee.
Despite the tenacious mustangs pursuing them, the superior training of Arrow Keeper’s ponies eventually began to show. But as the distance between Carlson’s men and them opened up, Touch the Sky saw that fatigue was sapping Little Horse.
“Brother!” he said. “Make for the wagon road. These ponies are keen for speed. It is dangerous to ride in the open, but we must open the distance and then you must rest.”
His words rallied Little Horse. “I have ears for this. As you said when I lay in the tipi, brother. Today is not a good day to die! Hi-ya, hii-ya!”
~*~
Touch the Sky’s hunch proved right. Arrow Keeper had indeed blessed these ponies with great speed.
Not since his great chase across the plains after Henri Lagace, the white whiskey trader, had Touch the Sky felt a pony fly on the wind as his blood bay did now. Nor did Little Horse’s buckskin lack heart for the run. Once they gained the wagon road, both animals tucked their ears back and forced their riders to hang on dearly.
Carlson and his men were nowhere in sight. Touch the Sky’s plan was to find a good shelter for Little Horse, then backtrack and find the soldiers. If they planned to resume the ride to Shoots Left Handed’s village, Touch the Sky would have to somehow divert them—even if he had to make himself a target again for Carlson.
They flew over a rise, rounded an S-turn, then drew their mounts in when they saw what lay beside the road.
Three white men, riddled with bullets and arrows—flint-tipped Cheyenne arrows. All three had also been scalped. The attack had been recent, for the pungent smell of spent cordite still tainted the air.
“Our make-believe Cheyennes are back,” Little Horse said.
“All the merrier for us,” Touch the Sky replied, “if we are caught down here. Do not forget a Bluecoat pack is on our heels, buck! Now we ride.”
But despite their urgency to escape, they were soon forced to stop once again, amazement starched into their faces.
The two young braves had left the road and were threading their way across a long pine slope. They were slipping across the treeless swath of a watershed when Touch the Sky spotted the danger just in time to halt his friend in the trees.
Well up the slope, the watershed veered hard right and disappeared behind the treeline. Just to the left of this point stood a run-down shack. A huge wooden wagon stood in the watershed nearby, wheels chocked with hunks of wood. Several men worked steadily at hauling goods from the wagon into the shack—men dressed in Cheyenne garb, though most had removed their fake braids and went bareheaded. One was bald as a newborn; another had an odd lump on his neck. All looked like hard-bitten killers. The two Indians could clearly make out where the white men had dyed their skin.
“Finally,” Little Horse said, keeping his voice low, “we meet the white dogs who would stain our sacred Arrows. I am for them now, buck! I count five. We have killed more.”
“We have, but not so many as are still closing in behind us, brother. And do not forget how close this place is to the soldier-town called Fort Randall. If you want to catch an eagle, you never climb up to its nest. Nor is this any place to be attacking hair-faces when you still lack red blood. Maiyun will be with us enough, buck, if we are alive tomorrow when Sister Sun claims the sky.”
Little Horse frowned at these words at first, still keen to send their enemies under. Then, as weariness began to make his limbs feel like stones, he saw the truth of his friend’s words.
“It is clear Arrow Keeper had a hand in shaping you,” Little Horse said admiringly. “As you say, now we ride.”
“As for these,” Touch the Sky said, nodding up the slope. “I feel we may lock horns yet. For now, let us remember that Shoots Left Handed’s camp is the next place Carlson will hope to find us.”
“Then, brother, let us not disappoint so worthy a foe. Let us be there to welcome
him!”
Chapter Twelve
While Touch the Sky and Little Horse were fighting for their lives up north in the Bear Paws, their enemies back at the Powder River camp continued to tighten the net of danger around them.
Even as the white thieves were loading stolen goods into the shack, the Headmen were meeting in council. The common pipe had been smoked and laid aside. Now the Headmen and warriors— the only ones permitted to attend at council—sat in a semicircle listening to an important report from the Bull Whips named Stone Jaw and Angry Bull. Though he was the youngest brave present, Two Twists was allowed to attend. This was in recognition of his bold fighting against the Kiowa and Comanche during the last buffalo hunt.
“Fathers and Brothers!” Angry Bull said. “You have heard me recite my coups. Now have ears for these words. Several sleeps ago, Lone Bear, leader of our Bull Whip troop, sent me and Stone Jaw to the Valley of the Greasy Grass. Our mission was to scout the wild pony herds. Our riding out was approved in council.”
Black Elk had instructed Angry Bull to include this last sentence. Now Black Elk slyly watched Arrow Keeper. But the old shaman merely held his seamed face impassive, revealing nothing.
“When we arrived, we found paleface soldiers on maneuvers there. They were accompanied by turncoat Pawnee scouts. It was a mighty battle force.”
Though this news made many uneasy, it drew few surprised reactions. The Valley of the Greasy Grass offered excellent graze and was a favorite spot for the hair-face war games.
“And we saw two Cheyennes counseling with them. Eating their contaminated food, drinking their strong water.”
A shocked silence met this remark. Now Two Twists understood what was on the spit. A tight bubble of anger rose inside him.
“We dared not ride close enough to study them well,” Angry Bull continued. “True it is, they might have come from any band. But one was tall, the other short and solid. They rode a blood bay and a ginger buckskin.”
Everyone present knew by now that Touch the Sky and Little Horse were missing. Again, Two Twists watched all eyes focus on Arrow Keeper. Everyone present also knew those were his ponies. But his face was still an inscrutable leather mask.
Like Two Twists, Arrow Keeper read the sign clearly enough. Touch the Sky’s enemies knew better than to swear they had recognized him—this could be verified by making them take an oath on the Medicine Arrows. Even the most corrupt Cheyenne feared such serious blasphemy. But so long as they fell short of swearing to their claim, they were immune to such a demand.
The council lodge had been buzzing ever since Angry Bull’s announcement. Now Chief Gray Thunder folded his arms—the command for silence.
“Stone Jaw,” Arrow Keeper said, cleverly directing his question to the more stupid of the two, “you both got close enough to make out a tall and a short Cheyenne?”
“Truly, Father, we did.”
“And you also got close enough to make out a ginger buckskin and a blood bay?”
“As Angry Bull said, Father. All this was clear enough.”
“Then tell me, Bull Whip, which Cheyenne rode the buckskin?”
Stone Jaw gaped stupidly, glancing toward Angry Bull for a clue.
“The tall one,” Stone Jaw said.
“The short one,” Angry Bull said at the same moment.
Arrow Keeper smiled, nodded, glanced at Gray Thunder. “Remember what you just heard.”
Now Arrow Keeper directed himself toward the leader of the Bull Whips.
“Lone Bear, I have never seen your troop’s pony string look finer. Why send scouts out now?”
Lone Bear shrugged, already well rehearsed by Black Elk and Wolf Who Hunts Smiling. When he answered, he used the new tone Wolf Who Hunts Smiling had assumed with Arrow Keeper—not one of respect, but of condescending amusement, as if Arrow Keeper were senile.
“Father, since when can Cheyennes have too many good ponies? This is truly an embarrassment of riches.”
Several braves laughed at this. Now Wolf Who Hunts Smiling spoke up.
“Clearly, Arrow Keeper does not believe Angry Bull speaks straight-arrow. Our old shaman can resolve this mystery for us quickly enough. Where did he send Woman Fa—that is, Touch the Sky and Little Horse?”
Again all eyes were trained on Arrow Keeper. He could reveal the mission. But such information would alert Touch the Sky’s enemies as to the direction from which he and Little Horse would return—assuming they survived their ordeal up north. Then they would face death as they rode in.
“It is a sorry day,” Arrow Keeper announced, his voice solemn as he stared at Wolf Who Hunts Smiling, “when Cheyennes would conspire to stain the sacred Arrows by shedding the blood of their own.”
Now he looked at Angry Bull. “You say we should listen to you here today because you have recited your coups. True it is, you have counted coup. Do you think he has not? Who here now saw him count first coup in the Tongue River Battle, which saved our hunting grounds from the white land-grabbers?”
“I did, Father,” said Tangle Hair, a Bowstring soldier.
“You and many others, buck! You and many others also saw him savagely beaten when this one”—Arrow Keeper nodded toward Wolf Who Hunts Smiling—“lied and accused him of chasing buffalo over a blind jump during the hunt. This same two-tongued Cheyenne who also bribed an old grandmother to lie about a vision, causing Touch the Sky to hang from a pole for hours.”
Now Arrow Keeper’s accusing stare also took in Black Elk, Swift Canoe, and Lone Bear.
“It is a sorry day,” he repeated, “when Cheyennes speak in a wolf bark against their own. Have not the red men enough enemies from without? Do they need to kill each other? Now look here, how this Wolf Who Hunts Smiling pretends to swell up with ‘righteous’ anger. Do not let him place a lie over your eyes, Headmen—he is a base plotter, and has the putrid stink of the murderer on him!”
Now Arrow Keeper stood up, stiff kneecaps popping, and turned his back on the proceedings. A moment later he did something no brave present had ever seen him do—without conducting the usual prayer and the closing smoke, he clutched the long clay pipe to his chest and simply walked out.
As Arrow Keeper had wisely foreseen, his abrupt exit from the lodge completely disrupted the careful ritual of tribal law. Chief Gray Thunder was forced to immediately suspend the council without taking further action. Otherwise, the Headmen might have voted with their stones—sentencing Touch the Sky to death or banishment.
Two Twists was in a welter of nervous excitement. For the rest of the day he stayed within sight of Black Elk’s tipi, impatiently waiting for the brave to leave. Finally, Black Elk selected his favorite pipe and strolled across the camp clearing to join his brothers at the Bull Whip lodge.
Trying to will himself invisible, Two Twists slipped up to the entrance flap of Black Elk’s tipi.
“Honey Eater!” he called out. “I would speak with you!”
The words were barely spoken before the flap was lifted and a slim, pretty arm reached out to tug him inside. Honey Eater had been sick with worry ever since Black Elk returned from council, smiling smugly.
“Two Twists! I know it went hard for Touch the Sky,” she greeted the young buck. “Has he been banished or … worse?”
“Nothing yet, sister. But it went hard for him indeed, and only Arrow Keeper’s playing the fox has delayed a terrible fate. Now the time has come. Touch the Sky’s enemies are keen for his vitals. Now I think it is time to approach Arrow Keeper about our Star Chamber plan.”
She nodded, realizing it was true. Black Elk should be gone for some time. The greatest risk was getting caught entering or leaving Arrow Keeper’s tipi. But by no means could he come here—not now.
“Let us go then,” she said, taking Two Twists’ hand for courage. “I am frightened, Two Twists. We must be careful. Black Elk will kill both of us if he finds out.”
Thus alerted to Black Elk, they set out. Honey Eater was right that Black Elk would be g
one for some time. What she failed to watch for was Swift Canoe’s hawk eye. Black Elk, suspecting something, had instructed him to watch his tipi while he was gone. Now Swift Canoe saw Black Elk’s wife and Two Twists slip out, hand in hand, and hurry across toward Arrow Keeper’s tipi.
Now the bull will roar, Swift Canoe assured himself as he hurried off toward the Bull Whip lodge.
~*~
Arrow Keeper listened patiently, as still and quiet as the totems in front of the council lodge, while Two Twists summed up everything he had seen and heard.
“Away from camp, Wolf Who Hunts Smiling is sowing seeds of hatred in the younger warriors, Father. He speaks against you and the other elders, calling you soft-brained fools who play the dogs for hair-faces. He plans to take over the tribe. And because Touch the Sky is your loyal ally, Wolf Who Hunts Smiling is eager to kill him.”
Two Twists fell silent. Now Honey Eater told about all she had seen—about Black Elk’s plotting with Angry Bull and Stone Jaw before they rode out, as well as his secret meetings with Wolf Who Hunts Smiling and Swift Canoe.
When both had finished speaking, Arrow Keeper pulled his blanket tighter around his shoulders. Finally he spoke.
“Perhaps I may try to approach the Star Chamber. But this thing troubles me: that we have no proof, nothing we may offer them to place in their sashes. Rebellious speeches by Wolf Who Hunts Smiling, furtive meetings between Black Elk and his Bull Whip brothers, to the Star Chamber these are things of smoke.
“Remember, young ones. The Star Chamber is the Cheyenne’s court of last resort. These are good men, but they are very reluctant to override the Council of Forty. If only we had some proof we could swear to. But we are up against some influential men in the tribe.”