by Judd Cole
Toward the middle of the afternoon, when their shadows were starting to lengthen in the sun, Wolf Who Hunts Smiling came galloping back to join them.
“Cousin!” he greeted Black Elk excitedly. “Our enemies have reached the place where the two rivers join, and clearly they plan to remain there for some time. They are erecting a rope corral for their animals and unpacking all of their equipment.”
“It is as I feared,” Black Elk said. “This spot is in the midst of the Indian nations. From there they can easily send word to the Sioux, the Crow, the Blackfeet, the Assiniboine, the Mandan, the Hidatsa. Is the scar-face with them?”
Wolf Who Hunts Smiling shook his head. “Nor the two hairy faces we saw enter the trading post, the two who always accompany him.”
Black Elk’s disappointment was keen. He already knew from the initial report of the scouts Yellow Bear had sent out that the scar-faced leader traveled from band to band. Nonetheless, Black Elk had hoped to surprise and kill him.
Black Elk glanced overhead to judge how much daylight remained. Then he made up his mind. “Now we must ride hard and strike quickly. We cannot attack the main body. But we will set up a lure. A herd divided weakens itself. Just as a good hunter always isolates a buffalo for the kill, we must draw a few white dogs from the protection of the pack!”
Before they rode on, he explained his strategy. He wanted the whites to know that they were being watched and followed, that death might strike any one of them at any moment. Black Elk spoke of Bluecoats who had gone Wendigo, insane, from this type of pressure, who had fled alone into the wilderness to meet sure death rather than live in death’s shadow.
Black Elk’s plan for their first strike was simple. First the Cheyenne would find a good hiding place for the main body of their band. Then Black Elk, riding alone, would appear to accidentally ride in sight of the camp. Since the whites were apparently killing every Cheyenne they encountered, they would surely send some riders after him.
If there were too many, he would lose them and return to the hiding place.
“But if the number is small enough,” he concluded, “I will lead them to your position. It will be up to you to kill them. Show me that you are true braves, and I will lead our entire village in honoring you when you hang our enemies’ scalps from our lodgepoles!”
Touch the Sky felt a tightening in his chest as the band neared the white men’s camp, Wolf Who Hunts Smiling leading now. They stuck to the scrub oaks at the rim of the river valley. They crested a long line of hills and suddenly the confluence of the Powder and the Yellowstone was visible below on their right.
So, too, was their enemy’s camp. It was just as Wolf Who Hunts Smiling had described it. White men bustled about everywhere, unpacking crates and panniers. The rope corral was completed and the horses and mules herded into it. Everywhere they went, the men made sure to carry their rifles.
“They have posted no guards yet,” Black Elk said. “But they will before nightfall. We will have a surprise for them after darkness settles, too. But now, ride quietly and follow me.”
They veered due west away from the camp. The terrain there was mostly hills alternating with sandstone shoulders. They rode until they found a narrow defile that led between two hills. Black Elk led them around behind one of the hills, then up to its summit. He positioned his band behind a cluster of boulders.
“Remember,” he said, “if too many follow me, I will be returning alone. If not, you must be ready. I will try to slow them below you, but your shots must count. One bullet, one enemy! One arrow, one enemy!”
Only Touch the Sky and Wolf Who Hunts Smiling, who still had the Colt rifle that had once belonged to Touch the Sky, had firearms. Little Horse owned a scattergun, which he had captured from the white miner he killed in Bighorn Falls. But it was back at Yellow Bear’s camp, useless until he could obtain more shells. Like Swift Canoe and High Forehead, he was armed with a buffalo-sinew bow and a stone-tipped lance.
After issuing his final instructions, Black Elk rode back alone in the direction of the white men’s camp. As he waited behind a boulder, Touch the Sky could not help admiring Black Elk’s courage in spite of the fact that the warrior hated him. It was a dangerous thing, purposely showing himself to such treacherous men—men who were taking Cheyenne scalps and selling them for gold.
But as he waited, impatience knotting inside his stomach like a tight fist, Black Elk’s words drifted back to him: “There must come a time when Honey Eater either accepts my horses or you and I must fight to the death.”
Again Touch the Sky felt his fear of several nights earlier returning. Though he was still not a blooded warrior like Black Elk, he had at least counted coup on their Crow enemies—and Black Elk himself had seen it. This was not an impressive record for a buck with dreams of marrying a chief’s daughter, but it was at least a start. So, too, was the handsome gray horse he had stolen from the Crow. Touch the Sky had decided not to ride it. Instead, it would be saved as the beginning of the bride-price for Honey Eater.
But would he live to offer the bride-price? Touch the Sky glanced to his left, where Wolf Who Hunts Smiling and Swift Canoe were huddled together. Had Black Elk meant the thing he promised about treating him fairly? Or was that merely intended to throw off his suspicions so that the others could more easily kill him? Touch the Sky knew that a war leader—like a peace chief—was above tribal law. For this very reason, any leader was expected to always be just and fair. But being above the law also left Black Elk incredible power to do evil without answering for it. What would a brave do for love of Honey Eater?
Suddenly his thoughts scattered like chaff in the wind as pounding hoofbeats reached them.
“Here comes Black Elk!” said Little Horse, who was huddled on Touch the Sky’s right with High Forehead. Little Horse held his bow with an arrow notched. “Now be ready! Two whites are following close on his heels!”
A rifle shot rang out below, another. They heard Black Elk shout a taunting “Hi-ya!” to his pursuers. More quickly than they expected, the three riders entered the narrow defile below them.
Wolf Who Hunts Smiling was determined to make the first kill. He flopped on his stomach over the boulder, drawing a bead on the first white. A moment later he squeezed his trigger and there was a flat, metallic click. His rifle had misfired.
Touch the Sky, busy aiming his pistol, was only vaguely aware of this. He was about to shoot when, suddenly, he was knocked to the ground by a flying weight. It took him a moment to understand: Wolf Who Hunts Smiling had jumped him to keep him from making the kill!
While the two struggled in the dirt behind the boulders, Little Horse let fly his arrow. It pierced the first white clean through the neck and dropped him from his saddle. Swift Canoe and High Forehead loosed their arrows at the second rider. One struck him in the upper left arm, the other in the back. When he turned his horse to flee, Black Elk whirled around and shot him from his saddle.
Meantime, the two young Cheyenne struggled in the dirt. Touch the Sky had the size and weight advantage, but Wolf Who Hunts Smiling had stunned him when he slammed into him. They gripped for each other’s throats and gouged eyes, each trying to heave the other loose and leap on him.
Suddenly Touch the Sky felt an iron grip tearing him loose from his adversary. Black Elk stood over them, his normally passive face twisted in open scorn.
“Two Cheyenne warriors!” he said, his voice heavy with disgust. “Clawing each other in the dirt like women while their enemy escapes them! Do you realize this thing you have done? For myself, I do not value my life more than a gnat’s. But do you realize the seriousness of letting a war chief be killed? My obligation is to my people. You did not merely endanger me—you endangered your entire tribe!”
Overcome with contempt, he turned to the others. “You braves! And from this day I call you braves! Quickly, go below and take the scalps you have earned. But quickly, for soon the palefaces will send many riders out to see what delays these two.
”
As he sat up, blood running from a gash in his cheek, Touch the Sky felt himself swelling with rage and shame. Had the others not seen that Wolf Who Hunts Smiling had jumped him first? But when he glanced at Little Horse and High Forehead, they were already scuttling below to carry out Black Elk’s orders.
Black Elk aimed a final glance at Wolf Who Hunts Smiling and Touch the Sky. “An Indian who does not place his tribe before his own pride is useless as a warrior. Only through the tribe do we live on. I consider both of you no better than enemies until you prove that I am wrong.”
“But cousin,” Wolf Who Hunts Smiling protested, “it was not I who—”
“Silence!” Black Elk said, cutting him off. “I have no ears to hear your words. A warrior’s worth is measured in deeds, not words. I repeat, from this time forth, until you prove otherwise, I consider both of you no better than enemies of Yellow Bear’s tribe!”
Chapter Ten
Honey Eater rose before her father and dressed quickly in the chill morning air. Then she raised the flap over the entrance to their tipi and stood in the opening for a few minutes, gazing out over the camp and thinking. The night before she had picked fresh white columbine and left it pressed between wet leaves. Now she carefully braided her hair with it.
Down toward the river, mist still hovered in ghostly pockets. It would not burn off until the sun cleared the hills that sheltered the Tongue River Valley. Normally the camp would be quiet at this hour, though it often remained noisy and active far into the night. But with this terrible threat hanging over the Cheyenne, camp life had been disrupted. Gold for their scalps! How could human beings be reduced to nothing more than beaver pelts? Honey Eater found it difficult to hate anyone. But she hated the Pawnee with all her soul for killing her mother and bringing such bloodshed and misery to her people. And she hated the whites for placing a bounty on the Cheyenne.
With the warriors out tracking their white enemies, the old men, children, and women had taken over the defense of the camp. Sentries ringed the village day and night, and more worked in shifts within the camp itself. Everyone except the smallest children carried weapons with them everywhere. Anyone who attacked them would pay dearly for scalps.
Behind her, old Yellow Bear stirred in his robes, coming to life for the day. Hearing him reminded her of her obligations. She stepped outside and stirred the charred wood beneath the tripod. It had grown cold during the night. She walked to the nearest tipi where a fire was blazing and borrowed a piece of glowing punk. Then she returned to the tripod and started the morning fire.
For a moment she hesitated in her labors, glancing suspiciously out past the river. For a second she had felt a premonition of danger that made her blood run cold. But a moment later it passed.
Yellow Bear’s meat rack stood behind the tipi. She selected two fresh elk steaks and dropped them, dripping with marrow fat, onto the tripod. Soon the meat was sizzling, the delicious odor wafting back into the tipi. The tantalizing smell was enough to wake Yellow Bear from his slumber.
“Good morning, little daughter,” his gravelly voice said behind her.
She turned to greet him. The Cheyenne chief had wrapped his red Hudson’s bay blanket around him, long silver locks spilling down over his shoulders. Lines radiated from his eyes like parched tributaries.
Honey Eater served him, then sat beside him to eat her own meal. When she had finished she went back inside the tipi to prepare for the morning’s instruction at the women’s lodge. There, older squaws taught the unmarried girls the domestic arts of tribal life. Most important was the elaborate beadwork and embroidery for which Cheyenne women were famous throughout the plains.
Honey Eater gathered up a robe she was decorating with quillwork embroidery. This, and a beaded shawl to be worn at her squaw-taking ceremony, would be part of the many valuable gifts she would present to her husband in exchange for the bride-price he paid her family.
This time, as she was leaving the tipi, Yellow Bear surprised her by placing his gnarled hand on her smooth brown arm to halt her. “Daughter, I would have a word with you.”
She stopped and stood with her eyes cast respectfully down, in the way that younger Cheyenne listened when elders were speaking.
“Honey Eater,” he said, his voice kind and patient, “have you considered well this thing with Black Elk?”
His words did not surprise her. Yellow Bear had been troubled ever since she prevailed upon him to send Black Elk’s horses back.
“Yes, father, I have.”
“Have your wishes changed?”
Honey Eater shook her head.
Yellow Bear sighed and gazed out over the camp. This thing was awkward. Any Cheyenne father, but particularly a chief, was expected to show more authority in the question of his daughter’s marriage. But Honey Eater reminded him of his wife Singing Woman, who had been killed by Pawnee warriors before Honey Eater’s eyes.
“Do you understand,” he said, “what Black Elk has done for the tribe? How brave he is?”
“Yes. I admire Black Elk greatly. War has made him hard, but not mean.”
Yellow Bear nodded at the wisdom of this remark. Truly this good girl was like her mother!
“Is there no way, daughter,” he said, gently persisting, “that your heart may melt toward him?”
This time Honey Eater took a long time before answering. She could not openly admit yet to her father that her heart was already filled with love for Touch the Sky. Again, she thought about how magnificent he appeared to her: taller already than most adult braves, broad in the shoulders, his eyes keen and dark and handsome.
She knew that Black Elk was a strong, brave man, a blooded warrior. But thinking of him did not make her smile inside herself as she did when she thought about Touch the Sky. And though he, too, was a Cheyenne by birth, there was something different about Touch the Sky that excited her. That one memorable night when they had met secretly in the shadow of the council lodge, he had pressed his lips to her hair briefly, and her heart had raced as if she had run a great distance. She had never heard of red men doing such a thing, yet it thrilled her.
But he, too, was a brave warrior. For a moment Honey Eater almost forgot her promise to Arrow Keeper. She almost told her father how brave and magnificent Touch the Sky had been during the Pawnee attack when he saved Yellow Bear’s life by killing the Pawnee leader, War Thunder. But only she and Arrow Keeper had witnessed his bravery.
Instead, she said simply, “Father, you know I will never disobey you. If you tell me I must marry Black Elk, I will. I will be a good wife to him. But my heart does not embrace him as a husband.”
Yellow Bear’s seamed face was troubled. In his heart he knew that Honey Eater loved Touch the Sky. He understood that the young buck was pleasing to look at, and he had made great progress in learning the Cheyenne way, considering his wretched ignorance when he joined the tribe. If Honey Eater were not the daughter of a chief, Yellow Bear would not be so troubled by her choice.
But she was the daughter of a chief, and there were other considerations. Every ten years, in the spring when the snows melted and game was again plentiful, there was a chief-renewal ceremony. Yellow Bear was in the final year of his chieftainship, and he was glad it was almost over. A medicine dream had already told him that he would not live to see the next greening of the grass. The last important thing to do before he crossed to the Land of Ghosts was to see Honey Eater settled in the right marriage. And Black Elk was clearly the right marriage.
True, Black Elk was too young yet to serve as a peace chief. He would certainly be passed up at the next chief-renewal. But he was already a war leader, and in ten more winters it would certainly be his time to lead the tribe. The others in the tribe expected this thing to pass.
“Hear my words, little daughter,” he said, his voice taking on an edge of authority. “I will not use my power as your father—not yet. But know that just as a chief has influence over his people, they have influence over hi
m. He is the voice of the tribe, but the collective wish of the people is the will. Do you understand this thing?”
Eyes still downcast, Honey Eater nodded.
“The time will come when you must accept Black Elk’s horses. Now I have finished speaking. Take my words away with you and examine them carefully.”
Her heart heavy with the sad truth of her father’s words, Honey Eater crossed the camp toward the women’s lodge at the far side. By now a large group of children had assembled in the middle of camp to play at their favorite game, going on the warpath. Honey Eater stopped for a few moments to watch them.
The children had divided into two camps, one pretending to be a hostile tribe. The boys played at fighting like seasoned braves, taking captives and counting coups. They tied bunches of buffalo hair to poles for scalps and carried lances made of willow branches. Their shields were bent willow shoots with the leafy twigs hanging down like feathers. They also carried little bows and arrows.
While the boys fought and charged, yipping the war cry, the girls stood ready to pull down the make-believe lodges built from branches. If the battle went badly against their group, they would gather the branches up and begin to run away.
Watching them play, Honey Eater felt sad. This was no game. How well the children had learned the lessons about life as a Cheyenne! Still carrying her robe and beaded shawl, she finished crossing to the women’s lodge. Right before she entered, she stopped again and gazed out across the surrounding forests and hills.
Once again a chill of premonition passed through her like ice water in her veins. But surely, she told herself, if there were danger the sentries would sound the familiar wolf howl of alarm.
Her pretty face troubled and preoccupied, she raised the flap and entered the lodge.
From his vantage point on a ridge overlooking the Tongue River, Henri Lagace watched Yellow Bear’s camp stir to life for the day.
His field glasses gave him a good view of the tipis in their neat clan circles. He knew that the chief’s tipi always stood in the midst of camp, yet apart from the clans. So he also knew that the old man in the red blanket must be Yellow Bear, and the pretty girl with white columbine in her hair his daughter.