Sioux Sunrise

by Ron Schwab

  Stone Dog nodded affirmatively and led the group over the crest. They moved snaillike down the treacherous slope, picking their way carefully to avoid sliding on the loose shale that covered much of the surface. Although there were no abrupt drop offs or sheer cliffs, an untimely misstep could send a person sliding and rolling down the mountainside right into the heart of the Oglala camp. The greater risk was the possibility of starting a small rock slide that would most certainly alert the camp to the invasion.

  About a third of the way down, Stone Dog gestured for Sarah to pull off and position herself behind a craggy boulder that protruded like a giant tooth from the slope.

  “Sarah,” Tom said, “we don’t want the Sioux to know for sure how many of us are here, so don’t shoot unless you absolutely have to. If for some reason, the rest of us don’t make it this far, you get the hell out of here and head back to the canyon; then make the circle around to Fort Fetterman the way Stone Dog explained.”

  Sarah paled noticeably, shadows of concern crossing her eyes. The possibility of failure had not even occurred to her till now, Tom realized.

  As he moved to follow Joe and Stone Dog down the incline, Sarah grasped his hand and held him back momentarily. She looked full into his eyes. “Take care,” she said softly, releasing his hand reluctantly.

  “You, too,” he answered.

  About halfway down the slope, the men paused at a cluster of scrub pine. “We wait here,” said Stone Dog.

  Tom glanced back up the mountain and saw Sarah crouched behind the boulder, the dead Indian’s Winchester cradled across her forearm. She waved, looking more confident now, and Tom waved back.

  They had a clear view of the Sioux village from this point, and the men, sheltered by the green pine needles, studied the camp for the better part of an hour trying to pick up some sign of the boy.

  “Getting ready for storm,” Stone Dog observed as the camp buzzed with activity.

  The squaws rushed about pulling curing hides from the long pole stretchers that dotted the camp. Several of the bucks stitched frantically at the outer walls of their tepees, apparently repairing and replacing the hides that made up the stiff covering. Others gathered ponies, leading them far out into the meadow, evidently to some sanctuary that offered protection from the storm. A brisk wind flapped the buckskin covers that were the tepee doors and, as the gusts increased in strength, an atmosphere of urgency obviously consumed the camp.

  Then they saw Bear. The black-maned giant strutted through the camp scratching his bulging paunch like a flea-bitten dog. Tom froze momentarily when the big man stopped suddenly and looked up toward the clump of trees behind which they were hidden and, for a moment, he was certain they had been spotted. He breathed a sigh of relief when the man stomped over to a nearby fire and hunkered down to warm his hands.

  Rotating, billowy clouds filled the snow now, and as early darkness descended upon the village, Bear rose and lumbered stiffly to one of the tepees, where a fat, stumpy squaw stacked broken pine branches for firewood. He stooped and crawled into the tepee and was followed soon after by the squaw. Shortly, thick, gray smoke rose from the cone-shaped lodge, evidence that the occupants were settling in for the night.

  With the darkness, the cold became numbing, and now Tom could hear the faint, almost animal-like, howl of the wind moving through the valley. He knew that Stone Dog had been right—he could feel the icy dampness in the air that foretold snow, and the gnawing pain in his shoulder confirmed a change in the weather.

  “We’re going to have to move fast,” he whispered to Joe. “Thank God his tepee’s at this end of the camp.”

  Joe nodded in silent agreement, his obsidian eyes concentrating vulture-like on Bear’s lodge.

  For the first time, Tom understood why the Pawnee were in such awe of the Black Buffalo. This side of Joe was capable of dealing cold, ruthless death.

  The village was silent now except for the occasional barking of a few dogs and the sporadic cries of infants erupting from several of the tepees. “Now,” said Stone Dog as he and Joe started down the slope, moving like two stalking cougars toward Bear’s tepee.

  It rankled Tom’s pride to watch his comrades inch their way down the hillside toward the village, leaving him behind. The mood passed quickly, however, as he reminded himself that their job was to get Billy, and that Joe and Stone Dog were best equipped to handle this part of their mission. He glanced back up the mountainside toward Sarah. He could just make out the shadowy outline of her form now, but he knew she was watching; he could count on her, and it gave him confidence.

  Joe and Stone Dog dropped to the ground as they drew near the encampment, slithering like two snakes to the back of Bear’s lodge. It was one of two tepees set back and off to one side in a corner of the village. There was no sound in the other, and pulling his eyelids closed, Stone Dog signaled that the occupants were asleep. Soft giggling intermingled with heavy, labored grunting came from Bear’s tepee as Stone Dog touched his ear to the tight, rawhide covering. His lips parted in a devilish smile and, rolling his single eye, he pointed to his crotch, nodding his head knowingly. Joe smiled back in understanding.

  Instantly, Stone Dog’s curved-bladed scalping knife appeared in his hand, and with a single sweep, the sliced hides quietly parted. The Pawnee slipped quickly and easily through the narrow opening and Joe followed, though less gracefully, right behind.

  Bear, his leathery, white buttocks exposed to the air, was astride the naked, dumpy squaw, and never knew what hit him as the bone handle of Stone Dog’s knife thumped him sharply behind the ear, yanking him rudely from the throes of conjugal bliss, rolling limply from the low-set cot to the dirt floor.

  Before the squaw could scream, Stone Dog grabbed her chin and, wrenching her head backwards, slid the keen knife blade across her throat. A wheezing, gurgling sound rose from the squaw’s throat when he released her head, blood rolling down her chest and dripping from her pendulous breasts as he pushed her to the lodge floor. A stifling odor consumed the tepee as the squaw relieved her bowels in death.

  Joe, who had joined Stone Dog, seeing that Bear had rolled in the hot coals of the lodge fire, dragged the big man off to one side, beating and brushing Bear’s back to smother the fire smoldering in his buckskin shirt. Momentarily, Stone Dog moved to his side and promptly produced a handful of long rawhide strips and commenced to lash the ends to Bear’s wrists and ankles, anchoring the thongs to the sturdy lodge poles. In a few moments, Bear was spread eagled on the floor of the tepee, still naked from the waist down.

  The lodge was hot and steamy now. Joe rubbed the sweat from his eyes. He glanced coldly and unfeelingly at the grotesque body of the squaw, lying in a rounded heap on the other side of the tepee. “Now, what?” he whispered.

  Stone Dog, his face emotionless, slipped up to Bear’s head and began slapping him lightly, but sharply, on his puffy cheeks. The big man’s eyes blinked open. Stone Dog waved his bloody knife in front of Bear’s eyes and ran his finger meaningfully along his own lips to convey the unmistakable message of silence.

  Bear’s eyes rolled to the ghastly form of the squaw, and his expression switched instantly from belligerence to fear.

  Joe broke the silence. “Okay, mister, we want some answers, and we want them quick. We came to get a little boy, Billy Kesterson—blond, blue eyes—and don’t bother to deny anything. We know you and your friends took him—his sister told us.”

  At first, Bear looked puzzled, uncomprehending. Then, anger flamed in his eyes. “That Goddamned, yellow-haired bitch,” he spat out.

  Stone Dog’s hand thrust against Bear’s mouth, squeezing his jaws together with viselike force, and his knife slashed downward, opening a gaping, sagging gash the length of his cheek. Thick, red blood ran down the side of the big man’s face, soaking his matted beard and hair. Stone Dog released the man’s lips, again exhibiting the knife menacingly.

  “I never touched the boy,” he lied, gasping for breath. “Lone Badger—th
e next tepee—he took the boy for his . . . uh, squaw. He’s a strange devil. He likes boys . . . know what I mean? I didn’t mean the kid no harm.”

  “Where is he?” Joe repeated.

  “He ain’t here, I swear,” answered Bear. “He got away just a few days after we got to the hills. Jumped in a creek and washed down the mountain—gotta be dead. No way he coulda lived in them fuckin’ mountains.” Then, eyeing the Pawnee, “Goddamn, you gotta believe me,” he choked.

  “What do you think?” asked Joe, his eyes meeting Stone Dog’s.

  Stone Dog moved away from Bear’s face and knelt near the man’s hips. He moved the knife blade slowly toward the vulnerable mass between Bear’s legs, studying the man’s eyes as the point of his knife pricked his genitals, drawing a few droplets of blood. Goose bumps spread over Bear’s body and salty sweat mixed freely with the blood on his face.

  “God have mercy,” Bear whispered. “I told you the truth.” He looked at Joe pleadingly. “Goddamn, mister! Call him off. I told the truth—I swear it, I swear it.”

  Joe said matter-of-factly, “There aren’t many men that would lie with a knife pointing at their balls.”

  Stone Dog pulled the knife back. “He speaks the truth. Boy’s not here,” he said.

  Joe clenched his fist in frustration and struck it hard against his thigh. “Damn, all this way for nothing, and in a few minutes, we could have half the Sioux nation on our backs. Let’s get the hell out of here.”

  The flap lifted at the tepee opening, and the two men jumped up simultaneously as the icy wind whipped in. There they met the startled face of Lone Badger who let out a bloodcurdling yell that echoed eerily through the village, just before Stone Dog’s knife plunged hilt-deep into his chest.

  The Indian stared at Stone Dog disbelievingly for a moment and sank to the ground, grasping the rawhide flap and tearing it loose as he fell face down in the dirt.

  Joe and Stone Dog darted out the opening in back of the tepee and started up the slope as pandemonium broke loose in the Sioux camp. They could hear Bear’s outrageous bellowing rising above the din as they scrambled up the shale and rock. “Damn it, we should’ve cut the bastard’s throat,” Joe said disgustedly.

  The going was slow, and they slipped repeatedly on the loose shale, sometimes losing more ground than they gained. Joe glanced over his shoulder and saw Bear pulling on his trousers and barking orders to the warriors who had gathered about his lodge. Bear and a half dozen of the Sioux broke off from the assemblage and charged up the incline in fierce pursuit. Several rifles exploded, and bullets splintered the rocks at Joe’s feet.

  Then Tom’s Winchester cracked steadily, raining bullets on the Sioux. Abruptly, his rifle fire quieted as he stopped to reload. “This way, Joe,” Tom yelled. “Hurry up, they’re closin’ the gap!”

  Another rifle cracked from below and Stone Dog faltered, took a few more steps and stumbled to the ground. When he saw the Pawnee’s plight, Joe stopped and skidded back to the wounded Indian. Tears glistened in his dark eyes, as he felt the warm, sticky liquid pumping from Stone Dog’s back. Gently, he turned him over and read death in the glazed, lone eye.

  “No good,” Stone Dog gasped. “The great spirit calls. Go to the golden one—run.” He implored again, “Run.” And then, summoning some hidden reserve of strength, the Pawnee rose, snatching up his rifle, and staggered down the slope, charging directly into the path of his Sioux enemy. His rifle fired three times, dropping two of the stunned Sioux warriors. The singsong wailing of the Pawnee death cry was cut short as Oglala bullets shredded Stone Dog’s body, and the old Indian rolled with the sliding shale down the slope.

  Seeing there was nothing he could do for his Pawnee comrade, Joe leveled a few quick shots at the Sioux and, as they ducked for cover, continued his retreat up the mountainside. Instantly, Bear and three or four Sioux warriors were up, chasing after him, their fury mounting as Tom’s bullets sprayed the rock in front of them. As he reached the pines where Tom was hidden, Joe dived into the trees, catching his breath, while Tom emptied his Winchester at the pursuers who were now huddled belly-flat against the slope.

  “Where’s the boy?” Tom asked.

  “He’s not there,” Joe said. “He got away when they reached the Black Hills. Probably dead.”

  Tom nodded soberly, his eyes continuously searching the slope. He saw more Sioux stirring at the bottom. They could not keep the whole tribe at bay, and that is what they would be facing pretty quick. “You ready?” Tom asked.

  “Yeah.”

  “Let’s go,” he said, and led the way to the top.

  Bullets showered around the two men until Sarah’s unrelenting fire slowed the pursuit. Nevertheless, by the time they reached Sarah, Bear and the Indians had closed to within fifty feet, and Joe and Tom slipped in behind the rock to return their fire.

  “Tom,” Sarah said, “Billy . . . where is—”

  “He got away awhile back, Sarah,” Tom interrupted. “We don’t know where he is right now.” He decided the rest of the story could wait.

  “Stone Dog?” she asked.

  “He’s dead,” Tom replied softly. He squeezed the Winchester trigger as one of the Sioux raised up to leap forward. With almost sadistic pleasure, he heard the Indian yelp and saw him tumble backward down the slope.

  In another five minutes, Bear and the remaining two Indians would be joined by another dozen Sioux, Tom observed.

  “Come on,” he said, “let’s get over the top.”

  As they inched their way upward, they paused intermittently to return the pursuers’ fire. As they reached the top, they had to throw their rifles over the ridge, using their hands to pull themselves up. Sarah went first, Tom giving her a boost as Joe poured a steady stream of lead down the incline. As soon as Sarah climbed over the rim, Tom threw his rifle over and clambered after her. With Tom half suspended on the ledge, Joe’s rifle clicked a hollow, empty sound. As he bent to reload, Bear and the two Indians seized upon the moment and charged recklessly up the slope. Bear closed in on Joe aiming his rifle at the mulatto’s chest.

  “Now, you black bastard—” he roared.

  A rifle exploded. Bear’s own weapon clanked as it bounced down the slope, and the big man slid and tumbled after it, blood gushing from the hole in his neck, until his unfeeling body came to rest against a lone pine.

  Sarah’s rifle barked again as Tom pulled himself over the top, and one of the Sioux grabbed his belly and fell to the ground. The other Indian dived for cover, content to wait for the reinforcements moving more cautiously up the slope.

  As Joe came over the top he said, “Well, Sarah took care of the big bastard. He’s done the last of his killing. Damn, I don’t know why we didn’t finish him off in the camp.”

  Tom said, “It doesn’t matter now. The main thing is to get the hell out of here—quick. There’s no need to split up anymore. Let’s head back to the canyon.”

  The three stopped long enough to spray the mountainside with bullets. Then Tom, noting that the Sioux were losing interest, said, “I don’t think they’re in a hurry right now. Let’s ride.”

  After they had raced back to the horses and mounted, Tom took the lead heading back the way they had come. Glancing back, he noticed Joe wasn’t with them; then saw the mulatto farther back, reining his mount to the southwest. “Joe, hurry up,” he said.

  “I’ll see you at Fetterman, partner.” The black man waved and kneed his horse down the other trail.

  Tom pulled his horse around to follow, and stopped, as he saw an Indian pull himself over the rim. Tom raised his rifle, aimed deliberately, and squeezed the trigger, and the Sioux toppled backward down the mountainside. Another scrambled over, and Tom called to Sarah, “We’re cut off from Joe; we’ll have to ride to the canyon.”

  Without horses, the Sioux could not keep the pace with the riders, and they were safe for the moment. It would be several hours before the Sioux could descend to their camp, round up ponies, and follow, Tom
figured. Then there was the question whether they would follow Joe’s trail or the route back to the canyon.

  As the bitter wind laced his cheeks sharply, Tom’s mind turned quickly to other dangers. It occurred to him that with the increasing likelihood of a storm, the Sioux might not even follow, but he knew from his past experience in the Wyoming mountains that a snowstorm could be every bit as much a threat to their lives as the Indians. Anyway, they were temporarily safe from the Sioux.

  30

  WITHOUT EVEN STARLIGHT to illuminate the trail, Tom and Sarah slowed the horses to a walk as they picked their way across the mountain ridge. Neither had spoken since their separation from Joe.

  Finally, Tom broke the awkward silence. "I'm sorry, Sarah. . . . I’m really sorry," he said, as he sidled his horse next to hers and reached across to give her back a gentle pat.

  She turned her head toward his and nodded with her quivering lips forming a forced smile, silent tears streaming slowly down her cold, chapped cheeks. "I know," she answered sincerely.

  The force of the wind grew to almost hurricane-like proportions and, as they turned to head down the narrow canyon trail, tiny snowflakes began to dot the steel-gray sky. Moving down the trail, Tom saw quickly that it would be suicide to ride the horses down the steep grade this night.

  "Sarah," he said, "we'll have to dismount. It's going to take us some time to get down there, but there's no turning back now. Just hug the wall and follow me. If your horse should start to go off, just let him go. Understand?" She did not answer. "Sarah, did you hear what I said?" he asked sternly. He knew they were in trouble and, instinctively, he was a soldier again.

  After a long pause, Sarah replied, "I understand."

  An hour later, they were still only halfway down the trail which now had become icy and treacherous. Several times, violent blasts of wind slammed against the canyon walls, almost blowing horses and riders off the trail, sending them crashing to the rocks below. Now the snowfall was heavier and beginning to pile up on the path, making it increasingly difficult to tell where the rock wall of the canyon ended and the snow-covered trail began.