by Judd Cole
But what made his gorge rise were the three naked, hideously slaughtered white men in the middle of the camp.
All three had been scalped. They had also been castrated and their genitals stuffed into their mouths. Their eyes had been gouged out and placed on nearby rocks, where they seemed to stare longingly at the bodies they had once belonged to.
The camp was crawling with living white men, who were heavily armed. The strings of their fringed buckskins had been blackened by constant exposure to the blood of dead animals. And while Touch the Sky watched, one of them knelt beside a fourth dead man. Expertly, he made a cut around the top of the dead man’s head. Then he rose, one foot on his victim’s neck, and violently jerked the bloody scalp loose.
Touch the Sky looked away when the man castrated the corpse and gouged his eyes out with the point of his knife. The buckskin-clad man worked casually, as if he were jigging grubs out of old wood.
The man turned toward him and Touch the Sky took a good look. Some instinct warned him this was a face he should know. The man was tall and thickset; he wore his long, greasy hair tied in a knot. When he turned, Touch the Sky saw a deep, livid gash running from the corner of his left eye well past the corner of his mouth.
The huge man with the scar appeared to be in charge. Occasionally he barked an order that Touch the Sky could not hear from that range. Whoever and whatever these men were, this slaughter appeared to be all in a day’s work to them. One of the men was calmly boiling a can of coffee and mixing meal with water to form little balls. He tossed them into the ashes to cook. The leader casually scooped a handful out of the ashes and munched on them while his other hand still held the dripping scalp.
He barked out another command, and another of his men began folding beaver traps and lashing them to a pack mule. Only then did Touch the Sky become aware of all the whiskey bottles scattered throughout camp. Spotting more unopened bottles in cases lashed to the mules, the youth realized what had probably happened. The murderers had made their victims stuporous with strong water, then killed them in their sleep.
The scene was so horrible that Touch the Sky nearly cried out when a hand fell on his shoulder. But it was only Little Horse, showing him that Black Elk was signaling the retreat.
“There are too many and they are well armed. We must return to Yellow Bear’s camp at once and report this in council!” Black Elk said as soon as they were out of earshot. “I care nothing if the paleface devils slaughter one another. But I fear a great storm of trouble will soon come—these killings were done so as to seem that red men did them!”
Chapter Two
During the rapid journey back to Yellow Bear’s camp, Black Elk and his warriors-in-training were grim and raw nerved from what they had witnessed.
Black Elk had explained to his younger charges the seriousness of what they had just seen. Such ghastly mutilations of his earthly children were normally an offense to Maiyun, the Supernatural, and not the usual Indian way. Such a terrible death was reserved only for those guilty of especially horrible atrocities like mutilating war dead, raping women, or killing children. Furthermore, several Plains Indian tribes—the Arapahoe, the Shoshone, the Gros Ventre, and the Sioux—were known to kill this way on occasion. But this was the heart of Shaiyena country, the Cheyenne homeland, and surely they would be blamed by other white men bent on revenge.
As they rode, Touch the Sky, Little Horse, and the others remained silent and alert, using all their senses. Like Black Elk, they constantly scanned the horizon, sniffed the air, listened to every sound. But they spotted only bighorn sheep and cougars in the higher elevations, and one small buffalo herd down on the open plains. They rode cautiously through scattered stands of scrub pine and cedar, glimpsing mule deer and wolverines. Though they strained their ears, they heard only the song of the lark, the whistle of the willow thrush, the harsh calls of the hawk and grebe.
When their sister the sun was halfway through her journey across the sky on the day following the incident on the Rosebud, Black Elk stopped his band beside a streamlet to rest and water their horses. As usual, Touch the Sky and Little Horse separated themselves from Wolf Who Hunts Smiling and Swift Canoe. High Forehead, still not sure of his place in the group, sat off by himself sharpening his knife.
Wolf Who Hunts Smiling’s furtive eyes followed Black Elk until the warrior walked off to make water. Then he slipped off to join him.
“Cousin,” he said, “I have a thing to tell you.”
Black Elk turned an impassive face to his young cousin. True, the youth was strong and brave, and he feared death less than a bird fears the air. But he was also rash and foolhardy and prone to disobey orders. Black Elk remembered their raid, two moons ago, on a Pawnee mountain stronghold. He strongly suspected that it was Wolf Who Hunts Smiling, not Touch the Sky as his cousin claimed, who had woken the Pawnee. In his zeal to scalp their leader, he had brought revenge down on the camp of Yellow Bear.
“Speak this thing,” he said coldly.
“Cousin,” Wolf Who Hunts Smiling said, “it concerns Woman Fa—”
He caught himself just in time. “It concerns Touch the Sky and Honey Eater.”
Black Elk’s fiery black eyes grew slightly fiercer. Otherwise, his carved-in-stone face showed no reaction. “Speak!” he said again. “Or would you have me beg for gossip like girls in their sewing lodge?”
“I have seen them meeting together,” Wolf Who Hunts Smiling said. This much was the truth. But now he added lies. “I have also heard him speaking against you. And Cousin, I have seen him hold Honey Eater in his blanket.”
Still Black Elk showed no reaction, though his face felt as numb and dead as his sewn-on hunk of ear. His younger cousin was referring to a Cheyenne courting practice that had been adopted from the Dakota: a serious suitor would run up and throw his blanket around his chosen sweetheart, holding her fast while he spoke to her.
Despite his emotionless face, Black Elk felt a turmoil of feelings inside. True, Wolf Who Hunts Smiling hated Touch the Sky and did not always speak the straight word concerning him, but his cousin’s story was consistent with something Black Elk had seen one night in the shadow of the medicine lodge. Touch the Sky and Little Horse had been honored earlier that day for saving the tribe from Pawnee raiders. That same night, Black Elk spied on Honey Eater and Touch the Sky, and he saw the chief’s daughter cross her wrists over her heart—sign talk for love.
“I have no ears for these words!” Black Elk said scornfully. “How could Touch the Sky ever pay the bride-price for a chieftain’s daughter? He marry Honey Eater? He who has no horses, no weapons, no meat, nor even a rack to dry it on? A fox will mate with an elk before she performs the squaw-taking ceremony with him!”
Wolf Who Hunts Smiling rejoiced at the anger in his cousin’s tone. But he wisely refrained from further comment. As he rejoined Swift Canoe, he cast contemptuous eyes at the white men’s scalps dangling from Touch the Sky and Little Horse’s breechclouts.
“It takes no skill to raise the hide of dogs lying dead in the road,” he said, looking at Touch the Sky. “I hear much of your bravery, but how is it that few in the tribe have witnessed these courageous deeds?”
Little Horse and Touch the Sky were seated side by side on a fallen cedar log, chewing on hunks of jerked buffalo.
It was Little Horse who answered. “You have cut me once,” he said. “I still bear the scar on my chest from your knife. But pull a weapon on me again, and one of us will become worm fodder.”
“Everything in its time,” Wolf Who Hunts Smiling replied, still watching Touch the Sky.
“Yes,” Touch the Sky agreed, recalling the night when his enemy deliberately stepped between him and the fire, thus making a clear death threat. “Everything in its own time.”
Wolf Who Hunts Smiling only sneered scornfully and rejoined Swift Canoe. But oddly, his mention of the white men’s scalps had set Touch the Sky to thinking of his life among the whites. Although Honey Eater had replaced
his thoughts of Kristen Steele, the youth still fiercely missed his white parents. He knew they loved him and must be worried about him.
He also missed Corey Robinson and Old Knobby, the former mountain man who ran the Bighorn Falls Feed Stable. Corey had not hesitated for even the blink of an eye when Touch the Sky asked him to ride far into hostile Indian territory to help the tribe. And Old Knobby had saved his life when the Bluecoat lieutenant who was courting Kristen started to draw on him in rage after Touch the Sky had thrashed him.
Touch the Sky’s reminiscences were put to an abrupt end by Black Elk’s order to ride. Before the sun had lengthened their shadows much farther they had reached the grassy rise overlooking Yellow Bear’s camp beside the Tongue River. The buffalo-hide tipis were pitched in clan circles, some spewing curls of cooking smoke out of their top holes. Nearby, a crude corral of buffalo-hair rope held the tribe’s pony herd.
The lookouts had already spotted their approach. Now the camp crier raced throughout the village to announce their return. Touch the Sky had his own tipi beside Arrow Keeper’s. Like Chief Yellow Bear’s, theirs occupied a lone long hummock apart from the clan circles. Touch the Sky left his weapons in his tipi, then turned the dun loose with the herd to graze.
He knew the crier would soon be announcing a tribal council to discuss the incident on the Rosebud. But his muscles were still tense and his nerves raw from the things he had seen. He went down to a spot near the river where elk hides had been draped over a willow-branch frame to form a sweat lodge.
He stripped naked, slipped inside, and started a fire to heat a circle of rocks. When they finally glowed red hot, he poured cold water on them. The steam was so hot, at first, he could barely breathe it. But he could feel his muscles relaxing like a bowstring being slowly released. Gradually, the bloody images from the incident on the Rosebud River faded from his mind.
Then, as Arrow Keeper had taught him, he stepped outside and rubbed the glistening sweat off with clumps of sage.
This was followed by a cooling plunge in the river before he dressed again.
By the time he returned to his tipi the camp crier was announcing a council. Normally only the councilors— male representatives from each clan—and full warriors were allowed to attend. But the recent Pawnee raids had left Yellow Bear’s tribe dangerously short of warriors. Since the junior warriors had fought bravely during the last raid, they were permitted to attend alongside the adult braves.
Touch the Sky donned beaded leggings decorated with feathers and his best moccasins adorned with porcupine quills. He stopped at Arrow Keeper’s tipi, but the old medicine man had already left for the council. Touch the Sky joined the stream of men making their way toward the council lodge.
A huge square structure made of bent saplings with buffalo hides stretched over them, the council lodge dominated the center of camp. It had been painted red and tattooed with the secret and magic totems of the tribe. Nearby was the tribal scalp pole, displaying the hair of their enemies. One of the newest was the scalp of War Thunder, the Pawnee leader Touch the Sky had killed with a throwing ax during the raid on Yellow Bear’s camp.
Seeing it made him pause and recall Wolf Who Hunts Smiling’s taunting earlier that day. His pride in killing War Thunder was tempered by the knowledge that his act of skill had gone unwitnessed by all except Arrow Keeper and Honey Eater. As Arrow Keeper explained to him afterward, both witnesses would remain silent. Since many in the tribe resented the attention and friendship the two had shown him, their testimony would not be believed by all and would only further harden his enemies against him.
Touch the Sky was about to lift the flap and enter the council lodge when he spotted a group of young girls walking together. They were on their way to the lodge where the tribe’s unmarried women learned domestic arts from the squaws. One of the girls, white columbine petals braided through her long black hair, met his glance.
Touch the Sky felt his blood sing out at her beauty. Her frail cheekbones were high and finely sculpted, her bare legs like slender golden columns. The two of them exchanged a long look.
Suddenly a strong hand gripped his shoulder and roughly jerked him away from the entrance.
“Stand aside, mooncalf! This is a meeting of warriors!” said Black Elk. He had watched the exchange of looks with a fierce, disapproving glance in his dark eyes. “If you wish to learn cooking and beadwork, dress in a shawl and join your sisters.”
His face warm with shame, Touch the Sky stood aside to let Black Elk enter. Then he went inside and joined the junior warriors seated against the back wall. The councilors sat in a circle in one half of the lodge. In their midst sat Chief Yellow Bear. He was wrapped in a red blanket, his silver hair flowing over his shoulders. At his left elbow sat Arrow Keeper, his ancient but distinguished face as weathered and wrinkled as an old apple core. He was older even than Yellow Bear, who counted sixty winters.
The other half of the lodge was filled with adult braves who were permitted to speak, but not to vote. As always, Chief Yellow Bear opened the council by filling his favorite clay pipe with a mixture of tobacco and red willow bark. He held it toward all the directions of the wind and smoked, then handed it to Arrow Keeper. The medicine man, in turn, passed it on to the headmen and the warriors. Touch the Sky, too, eventually took his turn.
After all had smoked, filling the lodge with the bittersweet fragrance of burning willow, Yellow Bear called for Black Elk to come forward.
“You saw me smoke this pipe,” he said. “You have touched it with your own lips. Now unburden your heart and speak straight-arrow to your tribe.”
“Father!” Black Elk said. “I am a warrior and will die the glorious death, not sleeping in my tipi. I have killed Pawnee and Crow and smeared the blood of my enemy on my face and arms. I have gone south and taken horses from the Kiowa and Comanche. I have counted coup on the Apache and Ute. But Father! These things I have seen recently on the Rosebud swell my heart with fear for your people!”
Yellow Bear and the rest listened attentively while Black Elk described the grisly murders that had been made to look like Indian treachery. Hearing it all again left Touch the Sky’s heart racing, his palms slick with sweat. The moment Black Elk finished speaking, the lodge buzzed with excited and angry talk. Yellow Bear patiently folded his arms and the commotion quickly subsided.
“These words hurt my ears,” Yellow Bear said. “No people are more terrible in their wrath for revenge than the white men.” He turned to Arrow Keeper. “What is it you advise, shaman?”
“First,” Arrow Keeper replied, “we must send word-bringers to all the Sioux, Cheyenne, and Arapahoe chiefs, informing them of this matter and learning what they may know of it. Then we must give a sun dance and cleanse our homeland of this foul thing.”
“Fathers!” Black Elk said. “You are wise like the owl. These things are good and must be done, I agree. But they are not enough. We must also form a war party to track down and kill these treacherous whites!”
Again the lodge buzzed with talk. Chief Yellow Bear crossed his arms until the lodge was silent.
“Black Elk is a brave and strong warrior,” Yellow Bear said, “and though he is young, he is our best battle chief. But he is quick to wade into the water before he can see the bottom. We know nothing of these white men. Who are they? What is their plan? Perhaps we can kill them, but will many more take their place and exact our blood for theirs?”
Many of the councilors approved this talk while some of the younger warriors were silent, supporting Black Elk. But before the debate could be carried farther, the flap over the door was suddenly lifted.
Surprised, Touch the Sky recognized a brave named River of Winds, whose medicine bundle was the rattlesnake. He was not at the council because he was the lookout at the northern approach to the camp.
“Fathers! Brothers!” he said, his voice tense with worry. “I ask your pardon for this interruption and for leaving my post. But I have important words for you!”
“Speak them,” Yellow Bear said.
“You know that, three sleeps ago, Strong Eyes, Buffalo Hump, and Sun Road were sent with pelts to the trading post at Red Shale.”
Yellow Bear nodded.
“All three of their ponies have returned,” River of Winds said, “without their riders. And Buffalo Hump’s pony is covered with blood!”
Chapter Three
Early next morning, even before the hunters left for the day, Touch the Sky made ready to ride out. Because he spoke the white man’s tongue, he had been selected to accompany Black Elk and the other adult warriors to the trading post at Red Shale. Little Horse, whom Black Elk had witnessed fighting bravely during the Pawnee raid, was the only other junior warrior so honored.
Touch the Sky emerged from his tipi into the gray half-light of dawn. Dew still clung to the grass, and a low mist hung over the river like a pale ghost. Immediately he smelled elk steaks cooking and glanced over at Arrow Keeper’s tipi. The old medicine man was cooking over the tripod just outside the entrance flap of his tipi.
“Eat,” the shaman said when Touch the Sky walked over. He handed the youth a piece of bark that held a thick loin steak dripping kidney fat.
Arrow Keeper’s cracked-leather face was lined deep with worry. “I have told you,” he said while Touch the Sky ate, “of my vision at Medicine Lake. A dream was placed over my eyes, and in that dream I was told many important things about Yellow Bear’s tribe. Soon I must speak to you more about this medicine vision.”
Touch the Sky said nothing. His impassive face failed to reveal the strong emotions Arrow Keeper’s vision always caused inside him. The old man was the keeper of the sacred Medicine Arrows, which were always renewed in a ceremony before battle. And Touch the Sky had seen proof of Arrow Keeper’s big medicine. During the Pawnee attack he had thrown his magic panther skin over Honey Eater’s shoulders, and even bullets fired point-blank failed to touch her.