He needed to continue a few more miles before getting wide of the trail and making camp for the night. He would sleep inside a circle of carefully arranged dry twigs that would wake him at the merest touch. It would be the lightest of sleep, with one hand resting on the butt of his Colt. At the first suggestion of light he would wake.
And it would begin all over again.
Chapter Eight
White Eagle stood on the arid ridge of land overlooking the flat hollow below. His legs were set apart, his arms folded across his chest. From the right forearm hung his round shield, made from the neck of a buffalo. Its outside edge was painted an uneven deep red and around the center there was a yellow sun. From the top of the shield hung a single white eagle’s feather.
White Eagle’s body was naked except for his simple, undecorated breech cloth.
His limbs shone with grease and his face was painted with forked lines of black, white and red. Another eagle’s feather hung from the back of his hair and stirred in the slight wind that blew from the north west.
But White Eagle looked towards the east: towards the sun.
In the hollow the warriors had finished cutting the lengths of wood to the correct length and were trimming away the smaller side branches. Some of the Sioux had made holes in the ground, beginning to push the ends of the stouter branches down into them.
White Eagle remained where he was, unmoving, as the work continued.
The lengths of wood were set into a circle with a space at the eastern side. Then the men bent them forward and across, pulling them towards one another and laying the ends side by side. Finally they bound them tightly with strips of hide so that they made the shape of a lodge.
From the timber line away from the hollow, two of the Sioux brought a tall, straight piece of fresh wood and trimmed it and stripped it of its bark. There was a fork that broke three ways at the top of the wood. The other end they sank deep into the ground at the center of the lodge.
When the pole was in place the Indians moved away from the lodge and sat at the edges of the hollow. After a short time White Eagle came down from the ridge and walked slowly towards the lodge. He examined it carefully, before turning and going to his pony. On the ground close to the animal lay a bundle covered by his buckskin shirt. White Eagle squatted down and opened it up, taking from it a small pouch.
The pouch was buckskin with several inches of fringe at the bottom and a thin fastening of hide at the top. The center of the pouch was decorated with the figure of a war chief riding into battle, fashioned from colored beads. Above and below this was a series of triangles made with quillwork.
White Eagle loosened the fastening and held the pouch over one outstretched hand. The heart and liver of a bird tumbled down into his palm.
White Eagle closed his fingers lightly about them and moved his hand until it rested against his own heart. For several moments he held it there, eyes closed, lips moving.
Then he stood up and dropped the heart and liver back into the pouch, fastening it once more. He turned and walked back to the lodge, pausing before entering.
At the highest point White Eagle could stand straight and raise his arms midway above his head.
He placed the pouch carefully inside the fork of the central pole, then moved back outside.
He stretched out his arm and pointed to the trees beyond the clearing. Two of the braves went forward at a run and disappeared from sight. A few minutes later they came back into view and they were not alone.
Ali Henderson was between them, the thongs that had held her wrists bound unfastened and hanging free. The strip of leather that was tied around her ankles remained so that she could not walk, only stumble as the two Indians dragged her across the space towards the lodge.
Ali shouted and screamed until her voice choked and after that only tight, sobbing sounds emerged from her mouth. Several times she slipped and fell, banging her knees on the harsh surface.
The Indians hauled her up again and dragged her on until the next fall.
Finally she was pulled to a halt before White Eagle.
The fourteen year old girl looked up into the Sioux’s face and retched. She tried to put her hand to her mouth but the brave refused to relinquish his grip. Her blonde, curly hair shook as her head jerked forward, then back.
There was nothing she could do to prevent herself from vomiting.
A spray of thin, almost translucent fluid came from between her lips and splashed on to White Eagle’s bare chest. Her head to one side, the remnants of the vomit ran down the corners of her mouth and over her chin, dripping on to the bodice of her blue dress.
White Eagle’s eyes narrowed with anger.
Ali coughed, almost choking; she tried once more to free her hands but could not.
She closed her eyes and waited, almost falling.
Nothing happened.
The wetness was sticky on her skin.
The heat of the sun increased.
When she opened her eyes again White Eagle did not seem to have moved, but he held in his hand a bone-handled knife with a curved blade.
Ali began to shake.
The Indian said something and the men at either side of her twisted her arms round behind her back so that she was forced to bend her body forwards from the waist.
From under the ends of her hair she could only see White Eagle’s moccasined feet and then his legs as he stepped towards her. Fingers like steel gripped her neck and for a few seconds she tried to struggle against them but to no avail.
The fingers moved to her hair, yanking her head cruelly upwards.
Ali screamed out with the pain of it.
She could smell the Indian’s breath, the heat of his body, the rankness of the grease intermingled with sweat; the sickly odor of her own vomit upon both of them.
White Eagle let go of her hair and pushed his fingers inside the top of her dress. He pulled and the material held, jolting her forwards so that she lost her footing and fell against him.
He thrust her away and pulled at her dress again; this time the hem gave and the cotton at the top tore downwards in a line that stopped between her breasts.
The Indian moved his hand and tore the dress down to her waist. He still had the knife in his other hand. Slowly he brought the blade forward and up until the point was pushing through the thin white of her underthings, plucking at it.
The knife made a hole and cut upwards; the linen parted and Ali was half-naked above the waist, the swell and curve of her partly formed breasts open for the Indian’s gaze.
The knife hovered above them as he stared.
This, thought Ali, is what will happen. Now. What my mother feared. The reason that she wanted to put a bullet in me rather than let me fall into heathen hands.
With a sob she bowed her head forward and let her arms drop to her sides. White Eagle was close to her again and she could now almost feel the warmth that sprang from his near-naked body.
Tears coursed down her cheeks and ran, salt, into the corners of her mouth.
White Eagle seized her curly hair and began to slash at it with the knife. Hack and hack and hack. Ali struggled and screamed and threw up her hands to prevent him but there was nothing she could do. She tripped with the hide that still bound her ankles and tumbled against him, brushing her face across the sweat of his chest. White Eagle pulled her upright and carried on his demonic shearing.
In the end Ali simply stood there, sobbing soundlessly, while White Eagle pulled and cut, pulled and cut.
Tight curls of fair hair fluttered on to her neck, fell past her arms, curved about her breasts and floated on to the skirt of her dress. She was surrounded by a cascade of curls, stranded helpless in the midst of them.
The cutting ceased: White Eagle put up the knife and stepped back.
When Ali opened her eyes again he was bending low to the ground, gathering up the curls and stuffing them inside a pouch.
She pulled at the cut sections of shift and the torn d
ress and held them over her breasts, shaking.
The Sioux ignored her, intent upon what he was doing. Only when all the hair had been collected did he stand up. When he looked at her it was as if he was no longer seeing her.
The Indian stepped away and shouted to the two braves who had brought her from the trees. They came at a loping run from the edge of the hollow and retied her wrists, even tighter than before so that the hide threatened to stop the circulation.
Ali tried protesting but it did no good.
They hustled her back across the clearing, making her stumble and fall several times. Her knees were grazed through the skirt of her dress and her shin cut by a sharp stone.
The front of her dress had fallen open again.
When she was out of sight, White Eagle walked back into the lodge. Slowly he approached the pole and set the second, larger pouch containing the girl’s fair hair in the fork alongside the smaller one.
He stood there for a while, not moving, then came out. The sun was steadily rising in the sky. Soon it would be time.
White Eagle gave more orders and the braves went into the trees and cut off thin branches, no more than the thickness of a baby’s finger. These they bound into bundles, twenty or thirty sticks together.
Those who were still wearing shirts or leggings removed them. They came close to the lodge, not entering yet; not until White Eagle had stared up into the sun, waiting for the moment when the blazing ball would be directly above the lodge.
One of the Sioux had a small hand drum under one arm and when White Eagle made the sign he began to beat upon it, a steady rhythm which increased its speed once all the men were inside the lodge.
They stood in a circle, facing the central pole with the sacred objects set into its fork. Over the drumming, White Eagle spoke, both arms outstretched, the palms of the hands facing upwards.
‘May the Gods that are long friendly to the Oglala Sioux hear me. I have looked into the sun and sought guidance from its heart and taken its wisdom into my own heart. I have done as my vision showed me. I have taken arms against the white man and have told my brothers to do likewise.
‘Together we will wage war that others of my people will hear of and wonder at and they will join us.
‘With your strength to help us we will struggle until the white man has been driven from our holy lands and my people are free once more to ride and h n and worship the great Gods as they wish.’
White Eagle remained in that position while the drumming grew in ferocity and as it approached its peak he brought down his hands and jumped back with a shout and the dance began.
The warriors leaped round and round the pole, every now and then throwing back their arms and heads and letting out a high wailing sound that rose high into the surrounding hills. As they spun in their tight circles, their legs began to give way beneath them and the rhythm slowed, picking up again several minutes later.
As it was repeated the dance became more fervent and the braves seized hold of the lengths of twig that had been gathered and bound earlier and lashed these across their own bodies. Harder and harder. More and more strongly as the beat of the drum threaded its way into their minds and the sun’s fierceness drove down into the tops of their skulls. All the while their eyes stared at the pole with its objects, hardly leaving it, so that the movement and the concentration seemed to hold them in a trance.
Minutes grew into hours and still they danced on, seeking wisdom and strength from their Gods.
Crooked lines ran across their bare flesh, the red that ran from them intermingling as it coursed down their bodies so that they were more red than brown. It seemed as if the sun rained blood down upon them.
First one, then another, staggered backwards, fell on to the sides of the lodge and dropped to their knees. Their heads continued to move to the same rhythm. Their eyes stared out.
Hour after hour.
Finally only White Eagle remained on his feet. In places his skin was torn completely away; the bleeding flesh was raw, yet he seemed to feel no pain. An expression of intense excitement covered his face.
Only when the sun had passed over the lodge and started to dip down on the other side did White Eagle cease his dance. Then he left the lodge and took his mortified yet exultant body away from the hollow. He would wash and purify it anew: with the next dawn he would lead his warriors out of the hills.
The blood that ran down his limbs would be as nothing when compared to that shed by the white man.
Chapter Nine
The Badlands were like no other place that Herne had encountered. A maze of arroyos which twisted and turned between limestone ridges. A jagged landscape almost entirely without water. It was like riding through the land of the long dead.
The chalky, grayish-white of the limestone seemed to be everywhere. Even the patches of scrub or the stunted trees that somehow managed to grow were covered in the same whiteness.
Just occasionally there was a patch of reddish clay; a twisting line of silvery sand left behind by a stream that had long since dried out.
The whitish dust rose up as he rode, coating his clothes, clogging his nostrils and ears and the pores of his skin. His tongue seemed to be coated with it; the back of his throat rasped drily.
If there was a Hell, thought Herne, and there surely was, then it was like this. Not fiery flames that leaped in bright and vivid colors, but constant dry heat and a never-ending, tortured land like this one.
Jesus! he cursed inside his head. Sweet Jesus! This is one bastard of a place!
The hills rose about him on all sides. It was impossible to follow tracks with any sureness. The white dust simply settled back over them, covering them up almost as soon as they had been made.
Now Herne had to rely on his other senses—in particular those instincts that he had trained through years of fighting to survive on the frontier. As well honed as the bayonet blade he kept in his boot, they had saved him many times. Saved him two days before when he had turned at the last second away from the arrow that had dug into his arm.
He thought they would serve him now.
He was following the trail like a man blinded by too much light.
Herne stopped. The sound was distant but unmistakable. He dropped to the ground and went on to his knees, head angled over against the earth. Satisfied, he remounted and rode the horse up the slanting side of the hill, twisting round in the opposite direction once the top was gained. At the end of the next draw three trees huddled round a dried-up spring.
He tethered his mount, then used his rope to hobble it, lest it should somehow break loose and stray.
He didn’t want to be stranded in the midst of the Badlands on foot.
He checked his Colt, replacing shells in the loops of his gun belt where they were missing. Next he took a box of .55 shells for the single-shot Sharps and stuffed some into his pants pockets.
He pulled the Sharps clear from its scabbard and set off at a fast walking pace, heading back in the direction from which he had heard the sound. Not exactly, taking into account the speed of movement of the ponies. Thinking ahead, knowing he was trying to outsmart the Indians at their own game and knowing also that it was imperative he succeeded.
He didn’t fancy dying already in Hell.
White Hell.
Herne crouched low, fingers splayed in the gray-white dust. The band of Oglala Sioux passed into his gaze, no more than a hundred yards away.
They were over to the north, maybe a hundred or so feet lower down. He could see their heads, the tops of their bodies; now and then the bobbing head of one of their ponies.
Some of the braves wore long feathered headdresses, others a small, close group of feathers which sprouted from the back of their dark hair.
It was not so with the leader. Herne focused on the single white feather dangling from the twisted knots of hair that fell towards his neck. A white eagle’s feather.
Herne remembered the giant bird, forlornly fishing above the river. T
he huge head and bill; the white, wedge-shaped tail.
His attention shifted back to the others. He counted sixteen of them altogether, riding in single file. Some had bows slung over their shoulders, quivers of arrows. He saw war clubs, knives.
Rifles.
As the land dropped away in front of them, Herne noted the heavy, big-bladed hatchet that swung from the leader’s belt.
And other things attached to the same belt. Human hair that swayed with the movement of the pony; hair and skin and dried blood; they had been taking scalps.
Herne wetted his lips and eased the Sharps on to the edge of the ground. He sighted on the leading rider, following his progress along the barrel of the rifle. From that range he could blow him out of the saddle, make a hole in him big enough to drive a man’s arm into.
But it would not be enough.
There were too many of them and he was alone.
It would have to be done in other ways … and there was still the girl.
When the last of the Sioux had gone from his vision, Herne waited a few moments and then set off after them, knowing all the while that tracking the Indian that closely was inviting the worst kind of death.
For an instant the sight of the scalps hanging from the rider’s belt came back to him, but he moved on, dismissing it.
The Sharps in his left hand, he crossed behind where they had gone, seeking the higher ground. Ten minutes later he picked them up again; they were heading deep into the hills.
Herne guessed that they had made some kind of permanent camp and left the girl there under guard. If she were still alive.
Herne moved on again, keeping his movements slow and quiet. He wondered about the girl. Why they had not killed her at the Agency? Why they’d brought her this far? It could be that one of them, possibly the leader, wanted her for a squaw, but that was unlikely.
Perhaps there was another reason, one he hadn’t figured yet. Whatever it was Herne didn’t reckon it would keep her alive for very long. If he was going to get her out it had to be soon.
The land rose, layer upon twisted layer. Herne climbed with it, careful not to get too close nor to let the Sioux too far out of reach.
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