The Sublime Seven

by Nicki Huntsman Smith

  “Not yet,” Shoe said. His grip on the weapons was unwavering.

  “Right. They’ll be in range in a few seconds.”

  “Yes. Remember, aim for the one on the left.”

  Jacob located his target between the notched metal of the Winchester’s sight. He took a deep breath, then blew out half the air in his lungs. He counted his heartbeats to steady his nerves. Horse hooves pounded against the ground like distant thunder, punctuated by high-pitched yells coming from the braves themselves.

  He had wished never to hear the bloodcurdling sound of the Sioux war cry.

  “Now.” Shoe unleashed one of his arrows into the chest of the leading attacker.

  Jacob fired a half-second later. Two of the three men toppled from their horses. The third kept coming without seeming to notice the absence of his companions. Shoe’s second arrow stopped his progress the next moment.

  All three had been hit, but they weren’t down. They trotted alongside their ponies, using them for cover. Arrows arced toward the soddy now. Injuns could run and shoot at the same time, and one of them managed this feat with a feathered shaft sticking out of his chest.

  He kept firing.

  “Watch out for the tomahawks,” Shoe said. “They will switch to those in a few seconds.”

  Sure enough, two of the attackers dropped their bows almost in unison and ran toward them now with tomahawks in hand. The third man was down. Shoe’s second arrow had finally done its job.

  “Keep firing, Jacob Payne. You should have five more rounds.” The voice was utterly calm.

  Jacob didn’t have time to be amazed at his friend’s composure, but it did register through the cacophony of noise and the disorienting gun smoke that Shoe had been keeping count of the bullets.

  He sighted the brave on the left again and pulled the trigger. The bullet caught the man on the side of his head and brought him down for good. His pony ambled to a stop.

  The leader zig-zagged toward them, tomahawk in hand, the keening Sioux war cry silent now. Jacob tried to target him through the smoke, but couldn’t keep the darting figure in his sights.

  Two tomahawks flew, released at the same moment, almost touching as they passed within a hair’s breadth of each other.

  Both weapons found their marks.

  Shoe’s tomahawk connected with the forehead of the leading attacker, whose tomahawk connected with Shoe’s upper thigh. The man was dead before he hit the ground. Shoe merely collapsed, still breathing, still alive, his hand on the weapon wedged into the flesh of his leg.

  Jacob dropped his rifle and ran toward him.

  “We done it!” he said kneeling down to inspect the injury. “We got all of ‘em.”

  “We did it. Not we done it,” Shoe replied with a grimace.

  “Right. How far in did it go?”

  “Not quite to the bone.”

  “Good. You stay put. I’ll go fetch some water and the stitchin’ kit.”

  Thankfully he had hauled fresh water from the nearby stream that morning. What was in the bucket would be fairly clean, but he would still boil it along with the needle and thread from his sewing box, just to be safe. He didn’t want the wound to putrefy, so he would also wash his hands with lye soap before he began.

  “This is gonna sting a titch,” he said a few minutes later.

  Shoe’s eyes were open. They studied Jacob’s hands, as steady now as Shoe’s had been with the bow and arrow. “You have done this before?”

  “Yep. My ma taught me. The doc lived all the way in town, so whenever any of us kids or daddy got hurt, she tended to us. She got so good at it, neighbors came ‘round to get stitched up, too.”

  “An impressive woman.”

  “She is. I learned a lot from her. Now be still. I’m gonna pull this out on the count of three. You ready?”

  The braided head nodded.

  “One...” Jacob said, then pulled out the blade. Blood quickly filled the gash. No white showed through, though. That was a blessing.

  “You said you were counting to three.”

  “And you fell for it.”

  Shoe gasped as water splashed into the wound.

  “I thought you injuns were supposed to be stoic.”

  “That is an excellent word, Jacob Payne.”

  “What, injun?” he said with a grin. “I do know a few words. Just not always the best way to string them together.”

  Shoe hissed as Jacob began stitching up the three-inch gash.

  “Come on, sissy britches. This ain’t more than a scratch. I don’t see anything in there, like pieces from your tunic or such. That tomahawk must have been sharp, which is lucky. If you got any junk in a wound that’s been stitched up, it’ll putrefy. Have any,” he added.

  “You are a fast learner, Jacob Payne.”

  “That’s what my ma used to say, when she wasn’t scolding me for asking so many questions. All done. You’ll be right as rain in a week or so. You should stay quiet for at least a couple of days, or you’ll bust them stitches.”

  “Those stitches.”

  “Grammar ain’t easy.”

  “No, it is not.” Shoe’s eyes were closed from the pain.

  Jacob smiled, happy to be looking at a living Shoe instead of a dead one. The thought prompted another.

  “You stay put. I’m gonna take the spade and bury those fellers. I know they’re heathens, but they deserve a proper burial. Besides, they’ll start stinking ‘fore too long.”

  “Take your revolver.”

  “You think they might be playing possum? And how did you know I had a revolver?”

  “It is a possibility they are not dead. And you are a white man homesteading in Cheyenne territory. Of course you have a revolver.”

  Shoe was right about both. The brave on the left was still breathing. When he was ten feet away, he could see the shallow rising and falling of the chest. He could also see a knife poking up from a dark-skinned fist.

  He sighed. Even from that distance, he knew the head damage was too extensive to survive. He took a few more steps, then fired the revolver. The chest didn’t rise again.

  It took the rest of the afternoon to dig a hole deep and wide enough for three bodies. In between the laboring, he checked on Shoe, who lay on the western side of the soddy, enjoying the warmth of the sun’s downward progression. It was floating just above the horizon by the time the burial work was finished.

  He squatted next to his dozing friend, noted the paleness of his face, and felt the heartbeat in his wrist. It was strong and regular.

  “Yes, I’m still alive.”

  “I didn’t know what words were proper for a Sioux funeral. So I used the ones you said about spirit energy.”

  “What did you say?” Shoe’s eyes were open now. He probably hadn’t even been asleep.

  “I said, ‘Go young men into Mother Earth and Father Sky. Your bodies will soon become part of them just as your spirit already has. Let your energy now live in the breeze that turns the grass into a sea, in the clouds that float in the heavens, and the soil and rock of the prairie and the mountains. In this way, you will live forever.’”

  Shoe’s eyes were wide now. “That was beautiful, Jacob Payne.”

  “Surprised you, didn’t I? Told you I was a good learner.”

  “I may have underestimated you.”

  He shrugged. “Most folks do. At least until they get to know me. Now it’s time to start supper. You like chipped beef gravy?”

  “I do not know. I have never eaten it.”

  “Well, you’ll be eating it on top of the leftover breakfast biscuits.”

  “Then I will enjoy it immensely.”

  “I thought you said they were just adequate.”

  “’Adequate’ is a good enough word.”

  “’Adequate’ is only an adequate word. Especially when it comes to my biscuits.”

  “Very well. They were delectable.”

  “Wait ‘til you taste my gravy.”

  *** />
  “You can’t keep sleeping outside,” Jacob said. “You’ll freeze. You feel that bite in the air? That’s called winter, my friend. It’s just around the bend.”

  He talked as he worked on the soddy. Tonight would be the first time since arriving at his homestead that he would be snoozing under a roof. Didn’t matter that it was made of dirt and grass and moss. It was his, and it would keep him warm, unlike the stubborn injun sitting on the corral fence, sharpening his tomahawk blade.

  Shoe had been convalescing for a week now, but he still refused to sleep in a white man’s house. Instead, he slept next to Waynoka in the horse lean-to. Every morning Jacob would check on him, expecting to find a frozen, dead injun. But every morning, his friend was alive, in moderately high spirits, and a day further along in his recovery.

  “I do not intend to keep sleeping outside,” Shoe replied.

  Jacob recognized the tone that said something was up, and thought he knew what it was. “Dang it. I ain’t gonna lie. I’ve been dreading this day. You reckon you can still catch up to your people? They got a big head start on you.”

  “Nope.”

  “Then what do you mean?”

  “I will go down to the stream and collect my belongings that I hid there before we became friends. I will stay in my own house tonight.”

  “You...what? Wait a minute. All this time you been sleeping outside when you got a tepee nearby?”

  “We heathens are not as delicate as white folk. I enjoy sleeping under the stars, even when it is cold. But today I will put up my own house. Not too close to yours, but enough so as to smell the breakfast biscuits.”

  “I ain’t never seen a tepee being put up. Haven’t seen, I mean. This should be interesting.”

  While Jacob finished the roof on the soddy, Shoe took Waynoka down to the creek to gather the rest of his things. When he returned, the pony dragged a travois loaded with leather hides and satchels. The poles of the travois itself were part of the scaffolding that would support the bison-hide walls of Shoe’s home.

  Those Cheyenne were skilled at making items useful in multiple ways.

  By the time Jacob placed the final section of sod, Shoe had assembled his home about a hundred yards away. Apparently, a hundred yards was close without being too close. Whatever that meant.

  “That went mighty quick,” he said when his friend approached the evening fire.

  “My people are not sedentary. We can have an entire campsite packed and ready to go in an hour. Takes a bit longer to set it all up again somewhere else, though.”

  “You’re walking better,” Jacob said, stirring the contents of the cauldron. This time tomorrow, all the cooking apparatus would be moved to the interior hearth of his new home. He hoped the chimney would draw well. He expected the soddy to be a little smoky, but if he had constructed it correctly, it shouldn’t be too bad.

  “Thanks to your doctoring,” Shoe said, accepting the tin plate covered with the steaming stew. He sniffed the aroma and smiled. Jacob suspected his friend had already become addicted to his cooking. Even though the supplies were going more quickly than he liked, he didn’t begrudge feeding the heathen who had likely saved his life during the attack. He figured he owed him a few meals.

  “We are going bison hunting in the morning,” Shoe continued, between bites. “I heard them pass to the east late yesterday. We need to bring down two animals. Then we will be set for the winter.”

  “So that means you’re staying?”

  “Yes. I do not want to hear about a white man starving in Cheyenne country when my tribe returns in the spring.”

  “I don’t plan on starving. I have more than you think.”

  “You mean the five caches?”

  “Dang it. You know about those?”

  “Of course.”

  “There’s something I’ve been worrying about, Shoe. What happens if the locals find out we killed them Sioux? I know tribes fight each other, but they’re still your kinfolk. More so than the whites.”

  “We cannot worry about what may happen, Jacob Payne. We can only address what is happening now and what we know will happen soon. Like the first snow. I think it will arrive within a week.”

  “You have a Farmer’s Almanac in your gear?”

  “No. No one can predict the weather from year to year. Only from day to day. I smell snow, though. Can you?”

  “I believe so. There’s a different quality to the air, like it’s traveled through a blizzard in the mountains up north to get here. It meandered through pine and juniper on its way. I swear I’m breathing those scents even though the trees we have here are willow and cottonwood.”

  “Well said,” Shoe nodded. “Have you butchered a bison before?”

  “No. I’m eager to see how it’s done.”

  “You will do more than see. You will be elbow-deep in raw organs.”

  “I don’t have a problem with handling them. I just don’t want to gobble ‘em down, like some folks.”

  Shoe chuckled. “You did a fine job on your house. It is solid and well-constructed. Is it your first one?”

  “Yep. I’ve built a few log cabins back home, but never a soddy.”

  “Then how did you know the correct method?”

  “I met a feller who had built a couple. Asked him to explain it to me in detail. That was before I decided to come here. I was interested in how it was done, not knowing I would need to do it myself one day.”

  He felt Shoe’s eyes on him. That was his appraising look.

  “I definitely underestimated you, Jacob Payne. You are not a typical white man.”

  “And you’re not a typical inj...indigenous tribesman.”

  “Do not strain yourself. How about using ‘native’ instead of ‘injun?’”

  He pondered it. “I think I like that. Native isn’t offensive?”

  “Not at all.”

  “All right. From now on you’re either a native or a Cheyenne or Shoe.”

  “And you are just Jacob Payne. The meal was delicious, as usual. Tomorrow, I will make bison for supper.”

  “Cooked bison, right?”

  Shoe’s chuckle wafted behind him as he disappeared into the darkness.

  ***

  “This hunt will be different from how my people do it. There are only the two of us, not the dozens of men normally taking part. We will leave the horses behind with the wagon and walk over that hill.”

  Shoe pointed at the highest slope within eyesight. This part of the Dakota Territory contained a few bluffs, but most of the topography consisted of gentle hills and sloping terrain, intersected by running streams and dry gulches. When Jacob had first arrived, he knew he was where he was meant to be. The wide-open spaces and unending sky of the plains felt like heaven on earth.

  “Got it. I can hear ‘em and smell ‘em.”

  “They can hear us and smell us, too. That is why we will approach from the south, since the wind is blowing from the north.”

  “Right.”

  They crept up the incline on all fours as they neared the summit. Blue eyes and brown eyes peered over the final ridge a few seconds later.

  “Sakes alive! This isn’t the same herd that passed through a couple of weeks ago. Must be thousands down there.”

  “Yes, but all we need are two. Small ones would be best for transporting. No females. They are calfing. We need to get closer, but not so close that if they start running, we’ll get trampled.”

  “If I shoot my gun, that’ll spook ‘em, won’t it?”

  “Yes, so save your bullets for when my arrows are gone.”

  With weapons attached to their backs and keeping a low profile, they continued down the hill. It was a magnificent sight, all those gigantic, shaggy brown beasts spread out over a vast expanse of land. The truly amazing thing was they would be gone in a day. When the herds arrived, they soon ate all the grass and sedge and moved on.

  A male of average size yielded several hundred pounds of usable meat, plenty to
feed a man over the winter. As with beef, there were many ways to utilize all the cuts from these impressive beasts. Jacob’s mouth watered at the thought of tenderloin frying in his skillet.

  “What’s your range with those?” He indicated the quiver of arrows strapped to Shoe’s back.

  “In white-man terms, I am accurate up to about a hundred yards. I can shoot farther, but my precision suffers.”

  “Then we have a bit more to go. Dang this cactus.” The bison had selected a location loaded with prickly pear and brittle cactus. His clothing had already collected a number of malicious, spiny needles.

  “Do not curse it. You will be eating its fruit next year.”

  “I’ve never eaten it before. We didn’t have much of it back home. Do you cook it or eat it like an apple?”

  “As much as I would like to discuss the finer points of prickly pear as it applies to cuisine, we are on a hunt. Concentrate on the task.”

  Jacob snorted at the chastisement but did as he was told. As they scrambled, he kept his eyes on a small bull that had wandered off a ways.

  “This spot will do.” Shoe motioned for him to crouch. Of course it would be right next to a monstrous clump of jumping cactus.

  “I’ve got mine picked out,” Jacob said, eyeballing the herd.

  “Do you have a backup?”

  “No. You think I’m gonna miss?”

  “Yes. You will miss the first one, and perhaps the next one, too. Plan three animals ahead. Then, when the first or second targets move in such a way that the shot is no longer optimal, go for the next one.”

  “You’ve done a lot of bison hunting?”

  “Of course. I am an injun.”

  “Heeeyyy,” Jacob began, but Shoe stood, releasing arrows in swift, fluid movements.

  They were more than a hundred yards away, but the arrows hit their mark. It took three arrows to bring the first animal to its knees, then to the ground. Three more arrows in rapid procession toppled a second.

  “My turn now?” The herd had noticed them and was getting agitated. Horned heads lifted from the grassy plain, and wide nostrils flared, scenting the human-tinged air.

  “Yes. Just be ready for them to panic as soon as you shoot. Make it count. A running bison is much harder to hit than a grazing one.”