Death Chant

by Judd Cole

  “Your eyes look through me as if I were not here,” Touch the Sky said, his tone accusing. “Am I not your friend?”

  “My red brothers,” Little Horse replied stiffly, “do not caper and drink with white men’s murdering dogs.”

  “Do you still call me a spy, then?”

  Little Horse was slow to answer. “How can I know this thing? I have no eyes to stare into a man’s heart and find his hidden secrets. It hardly matters. Even if you are not a spy, you do not hold the dignity of your tribe and your Indian blood in high honor. How can I trust a Cheyenne who plays up to palefaces? You have spent too much time among the whites, and now your blood calls out to be with them.”

  Touch the Sky felt heat rising into his face. “These words are foolish, I—”

  “There is nothing else for me to say,” Little Horse said, cutting him off. “From this time forward, I have no friend named Touch the Sky. My friends are Cheyenne, and Cheyenne do not play the dog for those who would kill them!”

  With that Little Horse turned his back and walked away. Dejected, torn between anger and guilt, Touch the Sky returned to his tipi. There he used the bone-handle knife Arrow Keeper had given him to crop off his long black locks, honoring the three slain braves. Then he crossed to the old medicine man’s tipi to discuss the troubling events of the past few days.

  But the shaman had not yet returned from praying at the funeral scaffolds. Touch the Sky returned to his tipi once again. Exhausted, feeling more alone than he had since his early days with the tribe, he fell into a troubled sleep.

  When he finally woke again, the meadowlark and the hermit thrush were making their melodious morning music. He sat up in his buffalo robes, fully awake. But when he glanced toward the entrance flap of his tipi, he was sure he must be dreaming.

  Honey Eater was sitting there!

  “Please,” she said, her voice pleading with him to understand. “Do not think wrong things. There are things I must say to you. There is no other way I can speak with you.”

  She handed him a huge piece of bark filled with ripe serviceberries and juicy wild plums. But her troubled face told him this was not to be a social visit. He could smell the fresh white columbine braided through her hair. Her buckskin dress was adorned with beads, gold buttons, and shells.

  “What is it that troubles you?” Touch the Sky said. He made no move to go nearer. He knew full well the punishment that would befall any unmarried Cheyenne man and woman caught together like this.

  “Black Elk has sent his aunt, Sharp Nosed Woman, to my father with a gift of horses,” she said, her eyes glistening with unshed tears.

  Her news dug into Touch the Sky as if it were a knife turning inside his stomach. He had been with the tribe long enough to know the full significance of this act. Among the Cheyenne a marriage union was validated with an exchange of gifts. Acceptance by the girl’s family of the first gift of horses, always sent through a female intermediary, bound the troth. Acceptance or rejection was expected by the first sunset.

  “Did Yellow Bear accept this gift?” Touch the Sky said. The words felt like sharp thorns in his throat.

  Normally, Cheyenne customs gave the prospective bride little choice in the matter. The decision of her father and brothers carried the most weight. Since Honey Eater had no brothers, and her mother had been killed in the Pawnee raid, the decision rested solely with Yellow Bear. However, the entire tribe knew that Honey Eater was the soul of the chief’s medicine bag and that he doted on her. Therefore, her wishes would surely influence him to some degree.

  “This time,” she said, “the horses will be sent back. But I am not sure how many times this may be done before my father accepts them.”

  Touch the Sky understood her unspoken words too. She was hinting that tribal expectations would favor Black Elk. She could not keep persuading her father to send the horses back forever. Also, the tribe clearly did not fully accept Touch the Sky yet. He had no status, no possessions; he was still an outsider to many. It would be a terrible affront to the tribe if he set his sights on the daughter of a chief.

  In short, she was pleading with Touch the Sky to become somebody in the eyes of the entire tribe, and to do so quickly. Otherwise she would have to marry Black Elk. The betrothal was supposed to be accompanied by a feast, a great giving away of goods that corresponded to the girl’s status. Honey Eater was the daughter of a great peace chief. The impossibility of his situation filled Touch the Sky with hopeless desperation.

  “Black Elk is a warrior,” he said miserably. “A war chief despite his young age. Only a warrior can court and marry.”

  Despite his bravery so far, Touch the Sky was not an official warrior. He had never taken part in the Medicine Arrows ceremony nor gone to war as Black Elk had. Thus he could not throw his blanket around any tribal female and grab her for love-talk unless he had also first seized and stopped an enemy in battle.

  Also, unlike Black Elk, Touch the Sky had not earned even his first eagle feather. Black Elk boasted many in his war bonnet. These meant that he had counted coup on an enemy. Even more honorable than killing an enemy in battle was to strike him with quirt, bow, or knife before he actually attacked. This symbolic strike caused no injury and said to the enemy, “I have deliberately not killed you yet, giving you a chance to strike me first. See how brave I am, how little I fear you!”

  Realizing there was nothing more to discuss, Honey Eater rose and said, “I must leave now.”

  Only then did Touch the Sky finally move, accompanying her to the flap. As if they both silently understood the possible danger of touching each other in such intimate quarters, Touch the Sky only allowed himself to briefly touch her fragrant black hair with his lips. Then she lifted the flap, peered carefully outside, and left.

  For a moment Touch the Sky gazed after her, watching the delicate swaying motion of her slim hips as she walked. He was about to close the flap again when he spotted something that made his blood run cold.

  Partially hidden behind Arrow Keeper’s tipi, watching him with savage hatred in his usually stoic face, was Black Elk.

  He must have followed Honey Eater when she came, Touch the Sky realized with a grim sense of foreboding. Black Elk was making life miserable enough for him as it was. Now, seeing Honey Eater leave his tipi on the same day when his marriage gift would be returned, what would his wrath be like? Touch the Sky suspected that Black Elk would not report this forbidden visit to the tribe elders at council. It was the fierce warrior’s way to settle his own scores.

  Black Elk cast him a final, malevolent glance, then turned and stalked away. Touch the Sky was about to drop the flap again when suddenly the pounding hooves of the camp crier’s pony caught his attention.

  “A word-bringer has arrived!” he shouted over and over. “A word-bringer from the Lakota!”

  The arrival of a word-bringer from the Sioux was a great event. Touch the Sky hurried to join the people milling toward the council lodge in the middle of camp. The word-bringer had already arrived. He was too excited to wait for the usual formalities of smoking to the four directions.

  “Yellow Bear!” he shouted as soon as the old chief arrived. He pointed west across the river. “Over there two sleeps! Five Cheyenne hunters have been found dead in their camp. All have been scalped and mutilated. And all are from Yellow Bear’s tribe!”

  Chapter Five

  Despite the serious news about the five dead Cheyenne hunters, the headmen delayed their council. They followed Yellow Bear’s advice to wait until the scouts he had sent out returned.

  However, the incident made the entire tribe fully aware of the danger they faced. Extra sentries were posted at the approaches outside of camp, and hunting parties were temporarily suspended. Only braves leading warriors in training were allowed to ride out. The headmen agreed with Yellow Bear that, more than ever, it was necessary to provide the tribe with capable fighters to defend them.

  On the morning after the Sioux word-bringer arrived, B
lack Elk gathered his party and led them northwest toward the Little Bighorn River. It was rumored that their enemies, the Crow, were hunting in that area. Crow raiding parties had recently stolen ponies from Cheyenne herds in daring nighttime raids. Now Black Elk had his mind set on revenge.

  One sleep after they had set out, riding hard, Black Elk called a rest at midday. Once again Touch the Sky found himself sitting alone, as he had in the early days of training. He was not surprised when Black Elk approached him, his face grim with hatred. Only the night before, Black Elk’s ponies had been returned from Honey Eater.

  “Do you see this?” he said, pointing to the dead flap of leathery skin where his detached ear had been sewn on. “A Bluecoat saber took it off. But the soldier who did it paid with his life. I told you before that I never give up anything that is mine without a fight to the death.

  “The entire village knows by now that my horses have been sent back. This thing humiliates Black Elk. You and I alone know why the horses were sent back. You have plotted against me. You have whispered the love words that have confused Honey Eater’s mind.”

  “No!” Touch the Sky said. “Not once have I done these things!”

  “Silence! When a warrior speaks, a child listens! There was a time when my heart began to change toward you. Truly, you have worked hard and made great progress. I no longer consider you the worthless white dog you seemed at first. You are strong and capable, and I believe there is courage in your heart.”

  Despite his anger at the unjust charge, Touch the Sky felt a warm glow of pride at this rare recognition from the warrior.

  “However,” Black Elk said, “we must be enemies from this day forth. I am a man of honor and will not let my emotions lead my heart. I will not treat you unjustly nor value your life less than that of the others. But know that there must come a time when Honey Eater either accepts my horses or you and I must fight to the death. Do you understand this?”

  After a long pause, Touch the Sky nodded. Again misery and loneliness filled his heart. Following Little Horse and Wolf Who Hunts Smiling’s lead, the rest were ignoring him. Now Black Elk was telling him that if he persisted in his love for Honey Eater, he was a dead man. Would acceptance never come?

  “Good,” Black Elk said. “Now prepare to ride.”

  Again they pointed their horses toward the Little Bighorn country. As they crossed a wide stream, they spotted an elk buck about to cross downstream from them. Black Elk showed them how to wait until a target was thigh deep in the water before attempting to kill it, thus slowing it down in case a second shot was needed. He brought it down with his first shot. Then they dressed out the meat and packed it along with them.

  With every member of Black Elk’s band fully aware of the talking paper back at the trading post, a sense of danger followed them every moment. The white men had always been their enemies. But now Cheyenne scalps were worth gold.

  The band encountered a huge buffalo wallow just outside the tableland overlooking the Little Bighorn. The muddy depression was filled with tufts of buffalo hair and fresh tracks, where Indian ponies had skirted the edge. Black Elk studied the tracks for a long moment and then pointed out the slight cleft made by the back of the hooves—the distinctive mark of the stocky mountain breed preferred by Crow hunters and warriors.

  Black Elk pointed toward a grama-grass meadow high up on the foothills, just below the rimrock of the Little Bighorn Mountains. “We must ride up to the high country,” he said, “and spot our enemy first before we ride farther.”

  They rode single-file through a huge stand of aspen, then up a narrow defile. As they approached the meadow, Wolf Who Hunts Smiling turned to cast his furtive, hateful stare at Touch the Sky. The look was a reminder that Wolf Who Hunts Smiling had vowed to kill him. Now, with Swift Canoe and Little Horse his enemies and even High Forehead ignoring him, Touch the Sky felt a sense of apprehension like a tight knot in his belly. Once he had heard old Arrow Keeper say that a Cheyenne without friends was a dead man. These thoughts were soon forgotten, however, when Touch the Sky and the others reached the meadow and obtained a good view of the river valley below.

  “There!” Black Elk said, pointing toward a cliff with limestone outcroppings overlooking the river. “The Absaroka!”

  He had used the ancient name of the Crow, who normally hunted in the Yellowstone Valley. Below, five Crow braves had gathered around a fire to roast fresh-killed buffalo. Their horses were tethered in the lush grass at the edge of the river. The Crow tribe had lately begun to move farther west from the Yellowstone to the mountains the whites called the Rockies. Now there were the River Crow and the Mountain Crow.

  “Stub-hands,” Black Elk said with contempt. This was a mocking reference to the Crow practice of chopping joints off their fingers as a sign of mourning. Sometimes a group of braves did not have a whole hand among them. Warriors would save their thumbs and trigger fingers.

  “We will attack,” Black Elk said, “and we will steal the horses. But we will not draw the blood of our enemies. The Stub-hands have stolen our ponies, but it has been many moons since they have sent any Cheyenne under. Only the lice-eating Pawnee kill when it is not necessary to do so. The Cheyenne kill only in self-defense or for revenge when our people are killed. We will do something braver than killing: we will count coup.”

  Among the Crow, any horses seized by a raiding party belonged to the leader. He was then expected to divide them among the party as an act of generosity. But the Cheyenne, Black Elk explained, believed that any horse belonged to whichever brave first struck coup on it by touching it in his first pass. The brave with the fastest horse was thus at a great advantage.

  At this, Touch the Sky and Wolf Who Hunts Smiling exchanged long stares. Though Wolf Who Hunts Smiling was considered the best rider in Black Elk’s party, Touch the Sky’s spirited dun was the swiftest pony.

  “When we draw nearer,” Black Elk said, “select the pony you wish to own. Then ride like the wind, count coup in your first pass, and seize it by its hackamore during your second pass. Then flee back here toward the high country. Cheyenne honor demands that you select another horse if you witness another Cheyenne touch the pony before you.”

  This last remark was directed at Wolf Who Hunts Smiling and Touch the Sky. Then, once again leading his warriors-in-training in single file, Black Elk retraced their path back down toward the river valley.

  Hugging the south bank of the river, well hidden by thickets and thick stands of cottonwood, the Cheyenne approached slowly until they reached an elbow bend just before the Crow campsite. The water was shallow there and they crossed easily. Black Elk fanned them out in a skirmish line, taking the lead. He raised his hand. Touch the Sky felt his throat tightening and his heart scampering in his chest like a frenzied animal. Soothingly, he stroked the dun’s neck and spoke softly to her.

  Black Elk plunged his hand down. “Hiya, hi-i-i-ya!” he screamed, and hearing the war cry, Touch the Sky felt his blood humming in his veins.

  The band of Cheyenne broke around the bend, riding six abreast, and completely surprised the Crow hunters. Immediately Touch the Sky saw the pony he wanted: a spotted gray with a beautiful white mane. He dug his heels into the dun’s flanks and surged ahead of the others.

  But a moment later, in the corner of one eye, he was aware of Wolf Who Hunts Smiling’s pure black pony about to catch up to him. Wolf Who Hunts Smiling was riding in classic Cheyenne fashion, swung low over his pony’s neck to present a small target.

  The first surprised Crow were running for their rifles, stacked halfway between the fire and their horses. Suddenly, Wolf Who Hunts Smiling swung deftly from his pony’s left flank to the right, kicking out with his right foot. Touch the Sky felt a painful blow to his temple, saw a burst of bright orange light inside his skull as his enemy almost kicked him off his dun. But somehow he managed to cling to her, urging her forward even faster.

  A rifle spoke its piece, another, and Touch the Sky heard a noise like a
n angry hornet as a bullet whizzed past his ears. There were more shots, and abruptly High Forehead’s pony collapsed. Wheeling his horse almost in mid-stride, Little Horse abandoned the ginger buckskin pony he had been about to count coup on. He raced back and took the fallen Cheyenne up behind him. Knowing it was useless to attempt a coup now, Little Horse raced back toward the high country.

  Touch the Sky was bearing down rapidly on the gray, his own horse about a half-length ahead of Wolf Who Hunts Smiling’s black. He leaned sideways, struck with his right hand, and felt solid contact. A moment later Wolf Who Hunts Smiling also struck coup. Touch the Sky wheeled his dun, bullets buzzing all around him now, and seized the gray’s buffalo-hair hackamore. He broke for the grama-grass meadow.

  Cursing him, Wolf Who Hunts Smiling counted coup on a roan pony and followed him. Black Elk brought up the rear, leading a huge claybank.

  Swift Canoe was the only casualty of the raid. He had caught a slug in his right thigh and been forced to flee without counting coup. In all, they had seized three ponies, enough to persuade the Crow that it was useless to attempt to follow them. Black Elk praised his party for their bravery, singling out Little Horse for saving High Forehead when his pony was shot out from under him.

  “Not one of you showed the white feather,” he said. “My heart swells with pride!”

  “But cousin!” Wolf Who Hunts Smiling said in protest. “Touch the Sky has stolen my horse! I first counted coup on the gray, but he seized it on his first pass while I was making my second, as you instructed.”

  Black Elk’s face hardened, his black eyes were like two hard agates. He rode forward until he was directly in front of the two younger Cheyenne.

  “Does my young cousin speak straight-arrow?” he demanded of Touch the Sky.

  “He speaks in a wolf bark, living up to his name,” said Touch the Sky. “I first struck coup.”