Sundance 10

by John Benteen

  Cochrane’s face paled, then reddened. “Sergeant, when we get back to Regiment—”

  “Yeah,” Blake said. “But until then, they keep their shirts.”

  Cochrane stared at him, and for a moment Sundance thought he would draw his gun. Then he shrugged. “Very well. It’s a matter of no consequence. Take them outside and have them mount. Sundance, I’ll have your weapons. Then we’ll ride.”

  “No,” Sundance said. “You don’t get my weapons.”

  “My orders were to—”

  “Disarm the Indians. They’re disarmed. You have no authority to take my guns. You see—” his mouth twisted “—I’m not Indian enough. But—” He shifted stance slightly. “If you want ’em, come and get ’em.”

  For a moment, he thought Cochrane would try it. Then the lieutenant shrugged. “You’ll be watched, closely. Don’t forget that.” He wheeled, strode out of the house.

  Barbara came to Sundance, “Jim—”

  He held her tightly. “I hate to leave you here alone.”

  “No. I belong here. I’ll be all right. I’ll do what I can to hold the herd together. But ... ” She clung to him. “Hurry back.”

  “As soon as I get a wire through to Miles,” he kissed her, then let her go. “My parfleches,” he said. “The old ones. Get ’em.”

  She looked at him, startled, then nodded. Sundance went to the wall. From it he took down the unstrung bow of juniper tipped with buffalo horn—a weapon with which he could drive an arrow clean through a bison, or a man. Then a panther-skin quiver of arrows, their points of flint and sharp as razors. Next came the shield, made of the neck hide of an old bull buffalo on a circular frame of juniper, padded with prairie grass, and antelope skin stretched over all, emblazoned with a Thunderbird. His medicine shield, with six scalps dangling from it—three black, three of white men. By then Barbara had returned with two heavy bull hide bags. One neatly covered the shield; the other, longer one, held the bow and arrows. She asked quietly, “You think you’ll need these?”

  “I don’t know,” said Sundance. “But ... I want to have them with me if I do.”

  “All right,” she said. Then she added, “Wait.” She hurried out, returned immediately, and Sundance stared at what she held out to him. It was a white shirt of cotton cloth, fringed, hung with Eagle feathers, emblazoned with painted symbols.

  He swallowed hard. “A Ghost Shirt—”

  “I know. You don’t believe. Neither do I. Not the way they do.” Barbara’s eyes were huge and grave. “But what can we do when our men are going to war, we women, white or red? Only give them tokens of our love and faith and ... and hope that’s enough to make them bulletproof...”

  Sundance took the shirt. Carefully he folded it and put it in a pannier. Then he pulled her to him again and held her closely for a long minute. After they broke apart, he turned quickly and went out without further speech, the panniers across his shoulder.

  Outside, the soldiers were formed up, encircling the Indians. Sundance cinched the panniers on Eagle, mounted. Barbara was in the doorway. She lifted a hand. He returned the salute, as Cochrane gave the command to move out, and they headed for Pine Ridge. She was still standing there when they crossed a ridge and he could not see her any longer.

  ~*~

  All around them, the Badlands reared against the darkness of the night in weird, unreal shapes—towers and cones and tortured, eroded bluff and buttes. In the distance, a coyote howled.

  Cochrane, at the sound, sat up straight, firelight shining on his face. He looked tensely toward the sound’s source.

  Sundance chuckled without humor. “Don’t worry. It’s a real one.”

  “Maybe. Blake. Check the guard!”

  “Aye.” Blake arose, stepped around the fire, vanished into darkness.

  Cochrane, huddled in his greatcoat, turned back to Sundance. He gestured toward the three cones that were teepees housing the Indians, five to a lodge. “Why,” he asked acidly, “aren’t you over there with your red friends?”

  “Because,” Sundance said quietly, “they don’t want me in there with them. Not anymore. I’d only make them feel uncomfortable.”

  “Uncomfortable?” Cochrane’s brows went up.

  “That’s right. This is a time for choosing sides. They’ve chosen theirs. They know I haven’t.”

  Cochrane’s lip curled. “Why, I thought you were Indian through and through.”

  “So did I, for a long time.” Sundance stared into the fire. “But maybe being Indian is believing in certain things and ... maybe I don’t believe in those enough. Maybe my medicine has been bad all along.” He stood up restlessly, the wolf skin jacket shielding him from the cold night wind. “Maybe if it had been good, if I had been Indian enough, I’d have done things in a different way.”

  “Like what?” Cochrane watched him closely, still not trusting him; the truce between them had been sullen and edgy for the past forty-eight hours. The Indians themselves had kept apart from him, too, not in anger, but, he knew, in disappointment. By restraining them, keeping them from dying, reasoning with them, he had failed them.

  “Well,” Sundance said, taking out cigarette makings, “I would never have believed the white men’s promises. I would never have scouted for Sheridan or Sherman or even Crook on their assurance that the Indians would be dealt with fairly. I would have fought.”

  “You fought,” Cochrane said thickly. “Against the Seventh Cavalry. And maybe more times than that...”

  “I would have fought in a different way,” Sundance went on. “If I’d been as much Indian as I thought I was, back in 1866, when the Civil War was over and the Army came west again, I would have met them at the Missouri. And I’d have said, Stop. This far, no farther.”

  Cochrane laughed. “And they’d have run right over you.”

  “Would they? Not if I had done what I should have. I should have gone to the Cheyennes, north and south, and said, ‘Listen. If you want to save your land, you must make peace with the Crows, the Blackfeet, the Pawnees.’ And I should have gone to those tribes and said, ‘Join us against the invaders.’ And of course, the Sioux, and then the Arapahos and Kiowas and Comanches. And the Apaches, the Chiricahuas and all the others ... And in the Northwest, the Rogues and Pits, the Salish and Yakima and Bannocks; the Nez Perc6; the Paiutes, the Shoshones, even the Kaws and Osage; I should have raised them all. I should have told them, whatever else you are, you are all children of the Father, of the Sun. And all your warriors must join together and fight as one great army...”

  He bent, his face grave and bitter in the firelight, lifted an ember and lit the cigarette. “I could have raised fifty thousand warriors. And when the three or four thousand white soldiers came, not even knowing how to fight in the style you have to fight in out here, we could have thrown them back and thrown them back again.” He stood erect, dropped the ember. “We could have ripped up the rails and torn down the wires and taken a scalp for every square foot of ground; and then, when the time came to make a peace, it would have been our peace, and this would still have been our land. Instead—”

  He broke off. “Instead, I tried to believe. To believe that the white men, starving in the East, were entitled to a chance for life, too, out here in this country. That there was land enough for all and the Government of the United States was bound by its given word, a government of justice for all men. What I didn’t know was that it didn’t consider Indians men ... And so I let the chance slip by. Too late. Sitting Bull tried to take it, build such an Army, at—”

  “Little Big Horn.”

  “Yes,” Sundance said. “And maybe he would have built such a one again, this time, if they hadn’t murdered him...”

  “And now you’ve got that thought in mind—” Cochrane was on his feet “You renegade—”

  “No,” Sundance said. “No. I couldn’t do it now. I’m ... tainted, discredited. I let myself be used by whites too much. Only Sitting Bull. He was never used. Never. No matter ho
w much they lied to him, they couldn’t fool him. No matter what got in his way, he never lost his vision, old Tatanka Yotanka. But me—I told you, Cochrane, I’m too much white. I’ll fight, all right. To keep people alive. But not to see them go down in glorious suicide.”

  “That’s what it’ll be if they fight!” Cochrane’s voice rang with eagerness, and his eyes were glowing in his youthful face. “Suicide—”

  Sundance looked at him. “And that’s what you want, isn’t it?”

  “To kill Indians? You’re goddamned right!” Cochrane’s fists clenched. “Blood for blood. Blood for my father, for Custer, for the Seventh Cavalry.”

  Sundance shook his head. “Cochrane, Cochrane ... Let me tell you something. On the Greasy Grass that day, the Indians had gone to have a Sun Dance because the whites prohibited it around the agencies. They were worshipping, do you understand? They were in their church ... All they wanted was to do that in peace. And then to have a great council, talk about their problems ... They didn’t know soldiers were anywhere around.” His voice harshened. “Then here comes Custer, slamming into the village from one end, Reno from the other. Reno first, and Custer had sent a third of his command under Benteen far away, out of action, because he didn’t want to share the glory with a man he hated. So they fought back, of course. They drove Reno back across the river, and then they turned on Custer ... Thousands of them against two hundred … But he asked for it, he knew what he was getting into. His scouts told him. And he could have waited until Terry and Gibbon came up from opposite directions, and the whole village might have gone in peaceably ... I tell you, he was a fool, and it was Custer who murdered your father! If it weren’t for him, your father might still be alive today.”

  Cochrane only stared at him, then spat into the fire.

  “What you don’t know,” Sundance went on, “is that there are two kinds of battles. One, white soldiers against Indian warriors, that’s one thing. It’s ugly, but fighting men against fighting men ... they know the odds and they take their chances. The other kind of battle, like Sand Creek or the Washita, that’s a different thing, and that’s what this’ll be, if there’s war. Soldiers against a whole village. Women, babies, little children who can hardly walk, much less defend themselves ...”

  Still Cochrane only stared at him. Sundance shook his head. “You don’t understand,” Sundance said. “You’ve never seen it... If you ever see it—”

  “They’re Indians,” Cochrane said hoarsely. “That’s all that counts, far as I’m concerned. All I want to do—” his hands still clenched, unclenched “—is kill some Indians.”

  Sundance raised his hands, dropped them. “You ... kid,” he said, and there was more pity than anger in his voice. “You poor, Goddamned little kid ... ” Then he stalked away, rolled up in his blankets ... But it was a long time before he went to sleep.

  Chapter Eight

  Cochrane stood there motionless. Then he snapped, “Blake! Form up the detail and get ready to ride. Damn it, these Badlands give me the creeps. We’ll be out of ’em by daybreak; then, according to my map, we hit a creek called Wounded Knee and follow it on south—”

  “Yes, sir,” Blake said, and his bellow split the darkness. “All right, you men. Boots and saddles!”

  ~*~

  The winter bitten country rolled endlessly before them, bleak and treeless, save for the low line of growth along the winding stream. Clouds seemed almost to touch the slick horizon, as the detail moved smartly south. Behind Sundance, who rode between Blake and Cochrane, the Indians, hemmed in by soldiers, were utterly silent, and Sundance felt a chill lingering on his spine at the quality of their silence. It took something of great import to keep Indians from chattering among themselves. Whatever Sam Walking Calf had dreamed, it was terrible...

  And yet—“Hell,” Blake said. “We’re only twenty miles from the Agency, Sundance. All your red fortunetellers must be barkin’ up the wrong tree.”

  “Maybe,” Sundance said. “For your own sake, hope they are.”

  “I do,” Blake said. “I only got a little while to go before retirement. And me, I got a gutful of fightin’ ... I jest—”

  He broke off, went rigid in the saddle. Ahead, the scouts had checked their horses, stared, then whirled their mounts, came galloping back. “Detail,” Cochrane bellowed, lifting one arm, “halt!”

  Then he touched his mount with spurs and galloped forward to meet the scouts. After a moment, Blake said hoarsely, “Come on, Sundance.”

  “Right.” Sundance put the Appaloosa into a run, and in a moment he and Blake reined up alongside Cochrane and the point men.

  “Well, I’ll be damned,” Blake whispered and spat another stream. “What do you make of that?”

  Sundance did not answer. Below, the teepees of a big Indian village dotted the plain near the creek. Roads crisscrossed the prairie, and in the distance there were a few of the shabby little cabins Indian farmers had built. But what riveted his eyes were the soldiers.

  Cavalry, a regiment of it, in camp, surrounding totally the village of hide lodges. Hundreds of soldiers in a ring. Smoke rose from their campfires and from the smoke holes of the Indian tents, multiple gray fingers against a sky nearly as gray. Horses whinnied and nickered, and guidons flapped in the cold wind.

  Cochrane sucked in a breath. “The Seventh Cavalry,” he muttered. “By God, the whole damn regiment’s out. It must be something big ... Sundance. Are those teepees—are they Minniconjou?”

  Sundance nodded slowly. “They’re Minniconjou.”

  Cochrane laughed deeply, happily. “Then, by God, they’ve finally caught up with Big Foot! That sneaky bastard—Before we left, he gave Sumner the dodge up on the Cheyenne River, disappeared. But, by damn, he couldn’t dodge the Seventh! They’ve caught him cold, trying to make the Badlands to join the hostiles!” Maybe,” Sundance said tersely.

  “No maybe about it! He’s trapped like a damn rat. Look!” Cochrane pointed. “On that hill! Hotchkiss guns, commanding the whole camp! Let ’em try somethin’, and those cannons’ll blast them all to hell!” He turned to Blake excitedly. “Blake, tell the men to draw their weapons. I want those Indians under heavy guard when we go down. We’ll rejoin the regiment, and whatever happens we’ll have our share in it!”

  Blake nodded, touched his hat, spun his horse, wholly the soldier in that moment. Sundance kept his eyes fixed on the big camp. Probably, he thought, Cochrane had it right. Hunkpapa from the Grand River would have fled to Big Foot for sanctuary after the death of Sitting Bull. Big Foot, worried by the news of that murder and the following fight, urged on by Yellow Bird, might well enough have decided to take his band off the reservation, joining the hostiles in the Badlands. If not to fight, at least to get out of the line of fire. But, of course, he hadn’t made it. Again the short hair on the back of Sundance’s neck prickled. Now, he told himself, he knew why Walking Calf and the others had sung their death songs. His eyes went again to the battery of Hotchkiss two-pounders parked on a knoll above the Minniconjou camp, the muzzles of the cannons aimed and ready, the cannoneers behind their guns. He saw, too, the Indians moving excitedly in the open space among the teepees, and saw the oyster-colored morning light glinting on the white Ghost Shirts that they wore. He swallowed hard. Here, he thought. Here in this place on Wounded Knee. Is this where it happens, where it begins? Or... does it end here?

  “Let’s go down,” Cochrane said. “Sundance, you stay with me. One bad move, and you’re in trouble.” He lifted an arm, whipped it in a downward signal. “Forward, ho-o-o!” Then they were galloping down the hill.

  As they approached the Army camp, a detail of men galloped out from the small city of tents to meet them, and they came together on the level ground five hundred yards from the camp, fifty men circling and falling in to escort them, staring curiously at Sundance and at the fifteen Indians in Ghost Shirts. Walking Calf and his men paid the soldiers no attention; heads high, riding in utter silence, their eyes were on the camp.<
br />
  “Cochrane,” the bearded first lieutenant in command of the detail said, falling in beside him. “You’re just in time. I’ve got a hunch there’ll be some action here.”

  “God, I hope so.” Cochrane’s nostrils flared as, still at the gallop, he took in the panorama of the encircled camp. “What’s up?”

  “Big Foot and his Minniconjou Sioux. A bunch of Hunkpapa joined ’em after Sitting Bull got his ... Then they cut out from the Cheyenne River, give Colonel Sumner and the Eighth Cavalry the dodge ... We’ve been sweeping Pine Ridge and all the country from here to the Cheyenne River agency on the lookout for ’em—and Major Whitside caught up with ’em yesterday. Just about the whole regiment came out from Pine Ridge to lend a hand, we’ve got near five hundred men here now, and Colonel Forsyth himself is in command. Looks like you got some hostiles, too.” His eyes went to Sundance. “You’d better report in to Forsyth first thing.”

  “I intend to. While I do that, you watch these Indians I’ve collected.”

  Sundance said, “I want to see Forsyth, too. Right away.”

  Cochrane reined up before a Sibley tent on the inner edge of the ring around the village; an American flag and the regimental flag of the Seventh flew above it. “You’ll see him if he wants to see you. Godfrey,” he told the other officer, “I won’t be long.” Then he swung down, dodged into the tent.

  Lieutenant Godfrey looked narrowly at Sundance while they waited. “I think I know you. You’re the half-breed ... the Cheyenne with yellow hair.”

  Sundance didn’t answer. He was looking at Walking Calf, whose hands moved in sign language. We want to join our people...

  Sundance nodded. “Yeah,” Godfrey was saying. “And the last time I saw you was fourteen years ago at Little Big—” He broke off as Cochrane stuck his head through the tent flap.

  “Sundance!” Cochrane barked, and Sundance swung down. Instinctively, he hitched at his weapons belt as he entered the teepee-like Sibley tent, with its blazing stove in the center. Then, with Cochrane at his elbow, he stopped short.