Return of the Spirit Rider (Leisure Historical Fiction)

by Cotton Smith

  Lockhart laughed; he had heard the stories of Hickok not liking the theater. “I think I’ll stick to horses.”

  “If you see Cody, tell him I said he was full of it,” Hickok chortled.

  After politely answering another question about gold from Utter, Lockhart said, “Wild Bill, it’s been an honor meeting you. You, too, Charlie. I wish you much luck. If you come back through Denver, I look forward to your staying at the Black Horse and enjoying a drink at the Silver Queen. On me.”

  “Mighty generous of you, Lockhart,” Hickok said, shaking hands. “But I’ve got a hunch Deadwood’s going to be my last stop—an’ then I’ll hurry back to Cincinnati.”

  Utter joined in the farewell, shaking Lockhart’s hand firmly. “Hey, I almost forgot. That rock didn’t help any. Couldn’t draw a pair to beat hell. Ol’ Wild Bill’s the lucky one.”

  Lockhart nodded and swung into the saddle, leading the bay by its lead rope. He heard Utter tell Hickok that he thought Lockhart was really going hunting for gold. After leaving the livery, Lockhart stopped at the general store and purchased what he needed for the trail: salt pork and jerked beef, a coffeepot, tin plate, cup, and utensils, a small sack of salt, a large one of beans, another of coffee and one of sugar, cans of peaches, matches, a bottle of whiskey and a dozen cigars, some apples and potatoes, three boxes of cartridges and another of shotgun shells, and packed them on the bay. Two filled canteens were added. A third was strapped to his saddle horn.

  He was pleased with the way the horse was handling the load and couldn’t help wondering how Sean and Harry Rhymer were doing with the new horses, especially Magic. It seemed like another world. He shook his head to remove the thoughts; it would be a long time before he could turn them into reality. Telling Hickok and Utter about hunting for horses made him decide, if things went right, that he and Touches-Horses just might round up some mustangs for the return trip.

  His stop at the telegraph office found a message waiting for him. It had just arrived, the lanky operator said without looking at him. Silently, he read the wire from Crawfish:

  TOLD FALLING LEAF WHAT YOU ARE DOING SHE CRIED STOP ALL RIGHT OTHERWISE STOP MATTIE BACON CAME BY MY HOUSE SURPRISED YOU WERE GONE STOP BE CAREFUL NEWS UP NORTH IS NOT GOOD STOP RESTAURANT WILL BE OPEN WHEN YOU RETURN STOP WITH AN ORCHESTRA STOP HORSES DOING GOOD STOP WILL KEEP YOU IN OUR PRAYERS CRAWFISH

  Lockhart wrote a return message, telling his friend and partner that he was leaving Cheyenne today and would wire if he could, but not to expect it. He congratulated Crawfish on his progress with the restaurant and the horse ranch, then added that Falling Leaf might be helpful with the horses. In a one sentence recap, he said Jean-Jacques Beezah, the stage guard, had been wounded in the attempted stage holdup, but would recover. He said that they had become friends. He told about meeting Hickok and Utter and their intention to go to Deadwood. He stopped short of stating that he missed everyone back home; what good would that do, except make them feel bad?

  A quick checkout at the hotel produced his packed saddlebags, long coat and rifle; all were added to the dun’s saddle. His last stop before leaving town was the stage office and a visit with Beezah. Ellison greeted him warmly in between handling ticket requests from waiting passengers and waved for him to go on back. As he entered the small sleeping quarters, he was surprised to see the black gunfighter sitting up in his bunk, petting his cat. Its leg splint was fresh; the feathers were gone.

  “Good day, Governor, happy to see you I am,” Jean-Jacques Beezah said, looking up. His bare chest and shoulders were wrapped in ban dages. One of his shiny revolvers lay on his bed. Beside them were the two stones.

  Mawhu saw Lockhart advance and slipped from Beezah’s lap to greet him, carrying its right-front, splinted leg away from the floor and moving on three.

  “Didn’t figure to see you up, my friend,” Lockhart said, walking toward the bed. At the stove in the back, a stock tender was fixing coffee. He was glad to see Beezah’s presence wasn’t totally keeping the other employees away. Beezah’s bloody clothes were gone.

  “Looks like you’re heading out.” Beezah held out his hand. “Thanks for all you’ve done for me. Deep in your debt I am.”

  “You would’ve done the same for me.”

  “Not the same. I am a black man.”

  “Hadn’t noticed.” Lockhart grinned.

  At his feet, Mawhu curled around his leg, seeking attention.

  Lockhart leaned over and scratched the cat behind her ears. She licked his hand.

  “Thank you, little panther.”

  Beezah returned the smile and reached down to grasp the red pebble Lockhart had given him. “Here. You should have this with you. I have a feeling it will be good to have it close to you. Headed north, are you not?”

  “I gave it to you.”

  “I know you did. And it brought me strong medicine.” Beezah took Lockhart’s hand and placed the stone in it. “And now, I give it back.” He frowned and looked at Lockhart. “If I could, I would ride with you, Governor.”

  “I know you would—and I’d be happy for the company,” Lockhart said, placing the stone in his vest pocket with his watch. “I’ll see you on my return.”

  “If I am not here, I will leave word. Beezah’s body heals fast. I will be riding guard again. Soon.”

  With that, Lockhart patted him on the shoulder, scratched the cat again between its ears and left.

  Beezah looked down at his cot, remembering something. He searched beneath the turned-back blanket and held up the two cardinal feathers. “I almost forgot. Mawhu wants to return these. They gave her strength when she needed it most.” He paused and cocked his head to the side. “She and I think they are something you should have—for your journey. Someone will ask for them, I think.”

  Lockhart accepted the small feathers and placed them carefully into his shirt pocket. He wanted to ask why Beezah thought someone might ask about them, but didn’t. He nodded and left.

  Beezah’s words followed him. “May the stone songs find you and make you strong.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  In the Little Bighorn valley, a massive encampment of a thousand lodges and eight thousand Indians were settled in the shade of cottonwoods. Along the gentle river, women and children swam and played, while older boys searched for grasshoppers to use for fishing bait. Around shady lodges, other women gathered to gossip and share news. Some older women dug for turnips. Young men played a vigorous game of hoop and pole. Warriors worked on weapons and some were driving the great horse herd to water.

  It was the largest assembly of Sioux and Cheyenne warriors ever known. Even the oldest men and women could not recall such a gathering. Hunkpapa, Miniconjou, Oglala, Sans Arc, Brule, and Northern Cheyenne waited and wondered if Sitting Bull’s prophecy would really happen, if their victory at the Rosebud would prove decisive or merely prolong the wasicun advance. War leaders Crazy Horse and Gall seemed to be in constant motion, like two mountain lions expecting a storm.

  Camped within the honored Oglala circle, Black Fire’s tribe was close to splitting apart. Very close. The fiery warrior Painted Badger and many men with war coups wanted to stay with Crazy Horse, while the tribe’s leader, Black Fire, was counseling the wisdom of moving to the reservation and its sad safety.

  Returning to his lodge after another frustrating tribal council meeting, Stone-Dreamer grabbed his chest in shock. He cried aloud, bringing warriors running from all directions of the camp to aid their spiritual leader. Thanking his friends for their prompt response, he assured them he was well, but shocked them with his news.

  “My son, you call his name Rides-With-Spirits, just came to me and my heart embraced him. He believes the blue chargers are coming. To find us. He is worried about our safety.”

  His face showing the strain of the tribe’s arguing, Black Fire was the only one to find words. “Stone-Dreamer, does this mean he is coming back? What does he think we should do? Does he bring word from the Grandfathers?
Are we safe here?”

  “I must wait for the stones to tell me. I must build a wanagi glepi. There is much I must prepare.” Stone-Dreamer waved his arms in nervous anticipation.

  “But, holy one, is not your son protected by the spirits of our ancestors? Would they not help us?” Black Fire asked. “Would they not guide us to a place where the blue chargers could not find us—if our gathering here is not safe? What are the stones saying to you? Should we take our lodges to the wasicun’s agency as they tell us?”

  This time, the response came from Touches-Horses, placing his fist over his heart. “I believe Wanagi Yanka will return to help us. To guide us. We have done nothing wrong. We have fought the blue chargers only when they attacked us. I think we should move our camp now and wait for my brother’s arrival.”

  Slamming the tomahawk in his hand high into the air, Painted Badger stood in front of Stone-Dreamer’s lodge and shouted, “I do not believe Wanagi Yanka is coming. I do not believe he is talking to you. He is not coming. He lives in a lodge of lightning and thunder. He cares not for us anymore. He is wasicun once more.” He swung the club again, slashing downward. “We have no choice, except to stay with Crazy Horse—and fight if the blue chargers come. This is our land. Our land! Together with other brave warriors, we can drive the wasicun from here.”

  Walking over to him, Black Fire stood a few feet away with his arms outstretched as if in preparation for prayer. “You know this is not so, Painted Badger. The Grandfathers have told Stone-Dreamer the wasicun will stay here. They will grow in number. Stronger each day. They will build stone houses and cut up Mother Earth into small pieces. To grow corn. To cut down trees for their lodges. To find yellow rock. You know this. You have heard. You have seen.”

  “I am not a coyote to run yelping into the night, afraid of the great wolf. I am an Oglala warrior. I believe in Crazy Horse. Hoka hey! It is a good day to die!”

  Black Fire shook his head and looked around at the gathered tribesmen, “Better that we take care of our women and children. Our worthy elders. Better that we have real courage. The courage to change. The courage to go where they want us to go.”

  Stone-Dreamer nodded, but did not say anything. Painted Badger gathered his warriors and left, snarling insults as he left. Black Fire watched them in silence.

  After a few minutes in his lodge, the old shaman left the village and did not return until the following day. He immediately erected a wanagi glepi, a spirit post, to represent Vin Lockhart. It was placed outside the camp’s circle, to the south. Tied to the carved pole were eagle and owl feathers, panther claws, sacred stones and the magical purring circle of gold, Lockhart’s gift to him, one only a wankan warrior could give. He began chanting a song strange to the tribesmen’s ears; it was repeated seven times in the direction of each wind. Last, to the South Wind—and the direction of death.

  “Father, I remember your promise to me this day. I wear the morning star on my head. Mother Earth is wrapped about my waist.

  “I am coming into your sight. I bring tunyan and wear white elk that you may know me. I will circle the earth wearing the long wing feathers as I fly. The panther, the bear, the wolf, the eagle and the buffalo have brought me to your light. I have heard the words of the chickadee. Together, we ask for guidance. Help us to understand the Winds and their words of warning.”

  He paused, lowered his head and then thrust up his arms in tribute. “Yes, he is coming. Rides-With-Spirits is coming. A sacred stone is singing the news. Grandfathers ride with him. He seeks their help. Tunkan sing the news. Grandfathers ride with him. He is coming. Rides-With-Spirits is coming. Wakatanhewi kin heyau welo E ya ye yo.” The weary holy man finished by hanging small tribute bundles of tobacco on nearby trees.

  As they watched, the warriors with Painted Badger challenged him, saying that the magic of the white man had grown superior to Stone-Dreamer’s. That the wasicun’s yellow rock was more powerful than any singing pebble of his. That the real power of the stone was worn by Crazy Horse himself. That the small rock he wore into battle turned into a power that kept away all bullets, all arrows, all lances. That he could never be killed. That the weight of the stone was why the war leader’s horses often went down in battle.

  If the holy man even heard them as he completed his ritual, he didn’t show it.

  With swelling arrogance, Painted Badger proclaimed their Oglala Grandfathers had left Lockhart’s side forever because he no longer lived among the tribe. He said Stone-Dreamer was an old man who no longer saw what really was there. He was feeble-minded and only saw yesterday’s memories.

  Even Black Fire appeared bothered by their assessment.

  The impact of their message created not the arousal to fight among the rest of the tribe, but greater fear. Talk of returning to the reservation grew in hushed exchanges throughout their small circle of lodges. Some added their concern that it was time to choose a new leader, that Black Fire was no longer the right man to lead them. Everyone in the camp sneaked fearful looks at the busy holy man’s efforts as they went about their daily tasks, trying to make everything seem normal. Painted Badger and his warriors gathered at his lodge and talked of war, of honors, of driving the wasicun from Lakota lands.

  Only Black Fire watched Stone-Dreamer openly; the savvy leader knew his leadership was being tested, but he realized, in his heart, that they could only be safe if they left the great circle of lodges now and from their new camp, planned their journey to the wasicun’s agency.

  It was that simple. That hard.

  The old man completed his ritual and gave strict instructions to the shirtwearers, the rest of the small tribe’s selected leadership group. They should break camp and head north. The post would be taken with them and placed in the center of the new camp. Each day the women of the camp, except those menstruating, were to hug the post and tend to the fire of sweetgrass, setting at its base. This sacred fire must be kept burning at all times. A new bowl of cherry juice was to be daily set at the foot of the post; the old bowl—from the previous day—must be purified with sage before used again. The leaders saw the agonizing stress Stone-Dreamer felt and reluctantly agreed to consider his orders; most without believing in their value.

  Immediately, four shirtwearers relinquished their responsibilities, siding with Painted Badger and the need to stay and fight. That left only three agreeing with Black Fire. Most of the tribe, however, clung to the holy man’s wishes as their last hope for survival.

  Stone-Dreamer advised they should move to a new camp immediately and there, they were to be vigilant for signs from the Winds about the coming of Rides-With-Spirits. An unexpected breeze from the south would be a favorable one. Such a breeze, soft and gentle, from any direction would be a good indication. Except from the north. Any kind of activity from there would not be favorable. He asked that anyone sensing such a sign come to him.

  “Even the Winds have left us, old man,” Painted Badger said sarcastically. “The only thing left is the wind of our weapons.” He made a swooshing motion with his tomahawk.

  As if the interruption hadn’t occurred, Stone-Dreamer continued his directions. He knew Painted Badger was growing stronger. Yet there was reluctance by many to join him. There was still a chance the tribe would hold together and leave the Little Bighorn valley to wait for Lockhart in a safer place. The old man knew he would come and would advise them well.

  To the tribesmen assembled, he gave further counsel. After they were encamped safely elsewhere, they must watch the night sky. On any given night, the wanagi tacanku, the Ghost Road, could dim. If it does, more ghost warriors were coming to Lockhart’s aid and that was good. But like all warriors’ deaths, the sight of a falling star—particularly a very bright one—would mean he had been killed coming to their aid. If this should happen, they should expect the Thunder-Beings to protest loudly.

  If there was any positive sign, he would give them a new song to sing while he hung seven additional tobacco bundles. If the symbols were bad,
each warrior should look immediately to his own spirit helper for guidance, Stone-Dreamer solemnly advised. At all times, men should avoid strange women in the woods; they may be deer women, taking advantage of the camp’s distractions. Sexual contact would be fatal to the warriors involved.

  Turning back from his conversation with the other warriors, Painted Badger spat, “I thought the Grandfathers were supposed to take care of him.”

  From the gathered tribesmen around him came polite, but pointed, questions: “Won’t the Grandfathers take care of Rides-With-Spirits?” “He is protected by spirits so he needs no help, isn’t that right?” “If the Grandfathers can’t save him, how can he save us?” “How do you know where Wanagi Yanka is?” “When will he come? How will he find us if we move from here?” “How do you know what he is thinking?” “Aren’t you afraid of the wasicun magic?” “Will the wasicun come for us next?” “Should we go to the wasicun’s fenced-in land?” “Aren’t we safe here with Crazy Horse and Sitting Bull?” “How could there be more wasicun than this gathering?”

  A few warriors dared to challenge his words directly: “Wanagi Yanka is a wasicun again, why should he care about us?” “What difference does it make to us if he lives or dies?” “What if we don’t do the things you ask us to do?” “What if the spirits get mad at him for interfering? Will they be angry with us, too?” “We must fight. If Wanagi Yanka wants to help us, let him fight at our side. Let him join with Crazy Horse and fight the blue chargers.” “Maybe the spirits have decided to let Wanagi Yanka be just a warrior again, like us, and he will die. Maybe he will even lead the blue chargers to us. He is a wasicun and they may promise him much yellow stone.”