by Judd Cole
He watched her as she crossed the camp, carrying her robe and beaded shawl. The flawless beauty of her smooth, amber-tinted skin evoked his ire and the deep hatred he felt for the Cheyenne tribe. For a moment he raised one hand to feel the deep, ragged trench caused by the tomahawk scar that had ruined his face. How satisfying it would be, he thought, to likewise destroy the beauty of her unmarred face.
He watched her enter the hide-covered lodge. A plan was already forming in his mind. He had left the main body of his men, twenty five strong and well armed, hidden back in the dense trees bordering the river well south of the camp. Lagace, assisted by McMasters and Longstreet, had already thoroughly scouted the area. They knew there were too many sentries for a surprise attack en masse.
Although there were few braves to defend them, Lagace knew that Cheyenne women and children could be fierce fighters when attacked in their own camp. He and his men might be able to kill old Yellow Bear, but it would be a costly attack.
It would be even better, Lagace thought, still watching the lodge the girl had just entered, to nab the chief’s daughter. She could then be used indefinitely as ransom. Either Yellow Bear called off this war against him or the girl died. Eventually, she might even serve as a lure to seize Yellow Bear himself.
In time, of course, the girl, Yellow Bear, and all of the Cheyenne would be killed. To Lagace, Indians were nits, and as he often repeated to his men, nits made lice.
Only, in this case, he had cleverly arranged it so that those particular nits were worth gold. The immediate problem, as he knew from his scouts’ reports, were those Cheyenne war parties presently out dogging him and his men. It was necessary to kidnap the girl and, thus, make the appearance of negotiating. Then the war parties would be called off.
Lagace imitated the sound of a thrush. In a few minutes he was joined by Longstreet and McMasters, who had been posted on either side of him.
“You,” he said to the coarse-faced Longstreet, “go back and pick five men. Take them up to that long ridge over there on the south side of the camp. When I give the signal, open up with diversionary fire. Kill as many as you want to. But don’t forget the locations of the sentries, and keep your eyes skinned for them. Be sure you slip past them unnoticed.”
He turned to McMasters, who was busy digging at a tick in his beard. “You,” he said, “are going down into the village with me. Every able-bodied redskin down there is going to rush to the south of camp, figuring it’s an attack. We’re going into that lodge and grabbing the chief’s daughter.”
“Into the lodge!” said McMasters. “Christ Jesus! They’ll lift our topknots.”
Lagace turned his dead, flat eyes on his lackey. “It’s filled with unarmed women. You think you can face that?”
McMasters grinned, revealing teeth stained the color of licorice spit. “I reckon I kin, at that.”
“There’ll be no time for what you’re thinking,” said Lagace. “We’re after the chief’s daughter, that’s all. We have to get in and out of there quick.”
Longstreet left to carry the message to the main body. Lagace and McMasters moved carefully forward, avoiding the sentries as they positioned themselves closer for the strike. Nearly two hours passed while they impatiently slapped at flies and watched the sun climb higher in the sky. Finally Lagace spotted the signal he was waiting for: three quick flashes from the shard of mirror Longstreet carried in his possibles bag for just such occasions.
Lagace pulled his .31-caliber Colt-Patterson pistol from his sash and fired one shot into the air. Instantly, all hell was loosed at the far end of the Cheyenne camp. Hidden rifles opened fire, dropping children and old people as if they were fish in a barrel. Screams broke loose below. Just as Lagace had predicted, the entire camp rushed to defend against the attack.
Lagace and McMasters had already broken into a run down the side of the hill. The women’s lodge was at the edge of camp closest to their position, and they were drawing near by the time the first girl, her face drained of blood in her fright, lifted the entrance flap and rushed outside.
Honey Eater was the second one to run outside. By now the two white men were close enough to be spotted. An old woman who came out behind Honey Eater drew a bone-handle knife from her dress. Longstreet lifted his big Sharps and blew a hole the size of a fist in her chest.
Seeing the old woman fall, her chest spuming blood, Honey Eater made the instinctive mistake of turning back to help the squaw. Lagace closed on her fast.
Her face defiant, she began singing the death song even as she clawed at the rawhide thong around her neck, pulling something out from under her buckskin dress.
Lagace knew the Cheyenne tribe well enough to know what she was doing. The thong in her hand held a small knife, which all young Cheyenne women wore in case of the threat of capture. They valued chastity so strongly that they would rather kill themselves than face the possibility of defilement by rape. The woman he had assaulted had tried to stab herself before he beat her senseless.
He reached her just as she was about to plunge the short, wide blade into her breast. He backhanded her in the temple with the muzzle of his pistol, and she collapsed unconscious.
McMasters, stained teeth showing through his red-streaked beard, was drawing a bead on the back of a fleeing girl.
“Never mind that, you jackass!” roared Lagace. He picked up the unconscious girl as easily as if she were a rag puppet. “Cover my back trail! Let’s get the hell out of here before the rest figure out what’s happening!”
Chapter Eleven
Unaware of the tragedy back at Yellow Bear’s camp, Touch the Sky and the rest of Black Elk’s band continued harassing their white enemies in the style of warfare the Cheyenne had learned from battles with the Apache. They attacked alone or in small groups, striking swiftly, silently, and without being seen.
For nearly three sleeps they continued their assault on the white men’s nerves. A sentry was found with an arrow through his heart and his scalp missing. A sniper’s bullet cut another man down as he was relieving himself in the river. But each time the angry enemy sent a well-armed party out to scour the surrounding hills and plains, no sign of Indians could be found.
“You have done well,” Black Elk told his band on the third night following the ambush of the two white riders. “Now our enemies sleep with one eye open, jumping to their feet at the hoot of an owl or the scream of a wildcat.”
They had made a cold camp in the shelter of a limestone outcropping well downriver from the enemy camp. A full moon reflected off the pale limestone, providing a soft glow like foxfire. Touch the Sky could just make out the features of the others in the dim light.
“Tonight,” Black Elk said, “we will pluck the eagle while he is sleeping in his nest! One of us will sneak into their corral and scatter their horses and mules while another distracts the sentry.”
Although his words were meant for all of them, Black Elk looked only at Little Horse, High Forehead, and Swift Canoe—the three he had called braves after the ambush. Still angry at Touch the Sky and Wolf Who Hunts Smiling for their behavior, he ignored them. When he was forced to speak to them, his manner was harsh and abrupt.
Black Elk’s manner influenced the other three. Before the ambush, Little Horse and High Forehead had simply ignored Touch the Sky, pretending he did not exist. Since Touch the Sky had shamed himself by fighting with Wolf Who Hunts Smiling when his tribe needed him, the other youths had adopted Black Elk’s tone, speaking to him with unhidden coldness and hostility. Even Swift Canoe had changed in his friendship with Wolf Who Hunts Smiling. Since being called a brave by Black Elk, Swift Canoe did not fawn over his old friend nor sit alone with him.
All of this only served to increase Wolf Who Hunts Smiling’s hatred for Touch the Sky. He blamed his enemy for all of his troubles. But Touch the Sky’s main concern was to somehow prove to the others—especially to Little Horse, whose friendship he sorely missed—that he did care deeply about the tribe.
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nbsp; Black Elk walked toward the river for a moment. When he returned, he held six pieces of reed in his hand.
“Whoever draws the shortest reed,” he said, “will also draw the dangerous duty of scattering the horses and mules. He who pulls the next shortest will distract the sentry. It will not be possible to kill him. There is too much open ground between the guard and the shelter of trees. It will be necessary to make a slight noise—enough to cause him to investigate, but not so much that he raises the cry of alarm.
“When the guard is distracted, our man must cross the open ground and use his knife to cut the rope corral. He must then scatter the animals without raising a great noise. This is a difficult task, made more treacherous by this fat moon. You know, too, that a warrior killed at night dies an unclean death. For this reason, I will order no one to do it.”
He stepped up to each of the bucks in turn and they drew their length of reed. When they made their comparisons in the moonlight, they found Touch the Sky had drawn the shortest—and Wolf Who Hunts Smiling the next shortest.
“Perhaps,” Black Elk said, “there was medicine behind this decision. Perhaps this is the chance for both of you to show that you think of the tribe first above all else. There can be no fighting now. Do you understand this thing? Your lives depend one upon the other, and Yellow Bear’s entire tribe depends on both of you. Do you have ears for my words?”
“Yes, Black Elk,” Touch the Sky said.
“I hear you well, Cousin,” Wolf Who Hunts Smiling said. But he refused to meet Touch the Sky’s eye.
“Go, then,” said Black Elk. “You are both on your own. Go on foot and take only your knives. I have been angry with you. But now you go forth to face the glorious death like warriors, like true Cheyenne brothers, and my respect goes with you.”
His words swelled Touch the Sky’s heart with pride.
Saying nothing to each other, staying well apart, Touch the Sky and Wolf Who Hunts Smiling began following the Powder upriver toward its confluence with the Yellowstone, where the whites had made camp.
The going was easy in the moonlight. The gentle murmur of the current was enough to cover the sounds of their rapid movement. Despite the fear that dried his mouth, Touch the Sky felt himself wondering if this mission would be enough to melt Wolf Who Hunts Smiling’s heart toward him, to soften his hard feeling.
But as they rounded the final bend before the camp, he forgot about everything except their incredible luck: the sentry had momentarily abandoned his post to sneak down close to the river for a smoke. This was their chance to kill him without revealing themselves first. Killing at night was not the Cheyenne way. But the goal of this mission was to save the entire tribe from destruction.
“He is mine,” Wolf Who Hunts Smiling whispered. “Remember which reed I drew.”
Touch the Sky nodded, squatting behind a boulder. Wolf Who Hunts Smiling glided silently forward like a wraith in the moonlight. Touch the Sky heard only a surprised grunt, then saw the glowing tip of the paleface’s cigarette drop into the water. Moments later Wolf Who Hunts Smiling returned, his furtive eyes keen with triumph. A bloody scalp dangled from one hand.
“I have made your task easy,” Wolf Who Hunts Smiling boasted. “Now I will wait for you here while you complete the mission. But remember that another sentry walks along the far side of the corral toward the mountains.”
“You have done well,” Touch the Sky praised him. “I will scatter their horses to the four directions of the wind!”
He removed his knife from its sheath and crept silently forward across the open grass, staying low and relying on hummocks and natural depressions. He could hear the occasional nickering of the horses. Beyond the corral, the camp was covered in a dome of orange light from the many blazing fires. Men laughed and talked loudly in their drunkenness, someone played a harmonica.
Touch the Sky reached the rope corral without incident and started to saw through the strands of hemp. Suddenly he heard a voice in the darkness.
“What in blazes! Who’s tossin’ them damn rocks? That you, Jake?”
Hurried footsteps thudded closer through the grass. The other sentry was nearing his position! Touch the Sky crouched down as low as he could, his face breaking out in cold sweat. Confused, he turned to glance over his shoulder toward the river. He was just in time to see Wolf Who Hunts Smiling hurl another stone, alerting the sentry.
A moment later the second guard had spotted him in the clear moonlight. In the few seconds it took the white to gather his senses and raise the alarm, Touch the Sky leaped forward and brought him down.
The sentry lost his rifle when he went down. Touch the Sky managed to cover the man’s mouth with one hand, stifling his first shout of alarm. But the former mountain man was huge and strong and used to ground fighting. He drew his knees up to Touch the Sky’s chest and hurled him free.
“Innuns!” he shouted to the rest of the camp. “Up and on the line! Innuns are in the camp!”
Touch the Sky leaped for him again just as the white drew his Bowie. The well-honed tip sliced Touch the Sky’s chest deeply. Anger mixed with desperation drove Touch the Sky’s own knife deep into the man’s rib cage, and the sentry went slack.
There was no time to take a scalp. Already men were spilling out of the camp circle, their rifles spitting fire. His chest blazing with white-hot pain, Touch the Sky broke for the river. Fortunately he made the cover of the thickets before he was spotted. He was not surprised to note that Wolf Who Hunts Smiling had deserted him.
He swam with the current so the whites could not pick up a blood trail and follow him. The ice-cold river water felt good against this wound and stemmed the bleeding somewhat. But by the time he reached the cold camp, it was clear that Wolf Who Hunts Smiling’s lies had done their damage.
“Did you scatter their horses?” Black Elk demanded.
“I could not,” Touch the Sky said hotly. “Your cousin deliberately alerted the sentry.”
“Alerted him?” Black Elk held up the scalp in the moonlight. “Is this what you call alerting him? Wolf Who Hunts Smiling risked his life to make the mission easier! How can you speak in a wolf bark against him?”
Glancing around at the accusing faces of the others, Touch the Sky realized he was trapped. No one would believe his story. Such treachery as Wolf Who Hunts Smiling had demonstrated could not be believed, particularly when he had lifted the hair of an enemy. So instead he simply stared at Wolf Who Hunts Smiling and directed his words to him.
“Your cousin knows that I do not speak in a wolf bark. This night, again, he tried to kill me. He has shamed me in the eyes of all the rest. The time will come when we fight a fair fight, and at that time I will not merely cut him. I will carve his heart out of his chest!”
Dawn was still a pink blush on the eastern horizon when the persistent hooting of an owl woke Touch the Sky. He sat up, surrounded by the ring of dried brambles he used to protect himself during the night, and listened closely. The hooting grew closer. He rose and stepped out from under the shelter of the limestone outcropping. The others still slept behind him. The air was cool and pimpled the skin around his crudely wrapped knife wound.
He glanced right and saw, through the river mist, a rider approaching. He rushed back under the outcropping and woke Black Elk. As soon as he touched his arm to shake him, the warrior sat up with a knife in his hand.
“Quickly,” Touch the Sky whispered. “Someone approaches!”
Black Elk rose from his buffalo robe and grabbed his rifle. Touch the Sky drew his Colt and stepped out behind him. But the owl hoot sounded again, right on them this time, and he realized it was a Cheyenne word bringer from Yellow Bear’s camp. Moments later they recognized Little Shield of the Panther Clan, a youth who had only eleven winters behind him.
“Black Elk!” he greeted the war chief, relief clear in his tone. “For nearly two sleeps I have searched for you. I was told only that I would find you in the Powder River Valley.”
“
This is a dangerous place to be wandering about, little brother,” Black Elk said sternly. “Why have you been sent?”
“You must return to the village at once. We have been attacked by the paleface devils, and several elders and children were killed. And Black Elk—the whites have stolen Honey Eater!”
His words struck both Black Elk and Touch the Sky with the force of a fist. For a moment, their animosity forgotten in the shock of hearing this news, the two Cheyenne exchanged a long, troubled look.
When the others woke, they retrieved their ponies from a hidden copse downriver. Eating pemmican and dried fruit on horseback, stopping only to water and rest their ponies, they made the long ride back to the camp. But Touch the Sky did not once notice the hard journey. He could think only of Honey Eater, wondering if she were even still alive.
They were the last band of warriors to return, and the camp crier announced a council as soon as they had arrived. Exhausted and filthy from the journey, Touch the Sky took his place along the back wall with the rest of the junior warriors.
Old Yellow Bear had clearly suffered greatly since the abduction of Honey Eater. Arrow Keeper and another elder supported him on their shoulders as they entered the council lodge. The lines in the chief’s face had deepened, and lack of sleep had left his eyes puffy and red rimmed.
Arrow Keeper greeted Touch the Sky with a nod. Then he conducted the opening ritual in Yellow Bear’s place, filling and smoking the pipe before he pushed it toward the headmen. When all had smoked to the four directions, Yellow Bear rose and spoke.
“Brothers! By now all have heard of the misfortune which has befallen our camp. While you warriors were returning, a Lakota word-bringer arrived with a message.”
Touch the Sky leaned eagerly forward, torn between anxiety to hear of Honey Eater and fear she was already dead. Black Elk did the same.