by Cotton Smith
Gritting his teeth to hold back the frustration, Stone-Dreamer told his fellow tribesmen the spirits of long-dead warriors, Red Horse, Counts Rain and Grizzly Head, and the ancient medicine man, Eyes-of-the-Wind, had found him in the night and told him Lockhart was coming to help. Tears nudged their way into the corners of his old eyes.
“Your questions to me I understand, even though they hurt my heart.” The old shaman spoke carefully, staring only at the pole he had built for Lockhart.
From the shadows came Morning Bird. She broke away from her distraught mother and ran to stand near the old shaman. “Listen to Stone-Dreamer! This is not the time for counting coup. This is the time for protecting our children, our weak. We must leave now. We must wait for Rides-With-Spirits.”
Shrill laughter was the only response from Painted Badger and his warriors.
Waving his men into silence, Painted Badger declared, “Are the Oglala reduced now to listening to a mere woman weep? Is that who we are?”
Her eyes burning brightly, she turned away and walked slowly to Stone-Dreamer. “We need you to help us, oh great one who sees things we cannot. There are things we do not understand. There are concerns we cannot let pass.”
Nodding, Stone-Dreamer’s voice gained new strength from her support. “Listen—and listen well. I ask you to do these things out of respect for me. From the caring within you for me. Do this one time. For me, if not for yourselves. Do not doubt Rides-With-Spirits is one of us.” He paused and looked around at the intense faces. “Remember he went to free his marriage brother, Touches-Horses, last summer. Where were you then, Painted Badger? Never forget it. Never doubt it. Many things I am given to see that you cannot see. That is the wish of Wakantanka. It is not my wish. It carries a heavy responsibility. The stones have told me he is coming. The stones have told me we must leave the greasy grass and wait for him.” He inhaled and crossed his arms. “Know this, I do not expect to be asked more. Know this, I do not expect to be doubted. Know this, my words are truth.”
“Aiiee! The old man does not understand what he is hearing. Singing rocks bring only the sounds of war,” Painted Badger snorted and ran two fingers across the bridge of his nose to indicate war paint. “There has been enough talk. I stand with Crazy Horse. He is Inyan, the Rock. All true warriors will ride with him. We cannot wait any longer for Wanagi Yanka. We are warriors, not sheep to go into the wasicun’s pasture.”
As he turned to walk away, a well-known figure came riding hard toward them. It was Crazy Horse on his yellow pinto, painted with hailstone marks on its chest and a lone hawk feather in its mane. He was waving his Winchester over his head and yelling that the blue chargers were coming. Scouts had seen them. They were nearing the Hunkpapa circle beside the river. Behind him, warriors were scrambling for weapons or racing for the horse herd. Terrified women and children were running for their lodges.
Clothed only in breechclout and moccasins, his face and body were painted yellow and accented with white dots of hail. A white lightning streak down the side of his face. His stone wotawe medicine amulet was secured under his left arm; the red-backed hawk body on his head, its stiff head and wings fluttering in his unbound hair. Around his neck bounced his familiar eagle-wing-bone whistle hanging from a leather thong. At his waist was a cartridge belt holding a stone-headed war club.
He reined up and his horse reared its own challenge. “Come! Die with me! It is a good day to die! Cowards to the rear! Hokayhe!”
Painted Badger yelled his support, but added they had few bullets.
“Be strong, my friends!” Crazy Horse replied with magical confidence. “Make them shoot three times fast, so their guns will stick and you can knock them down with your clubs!”
With that, he raced for the river and the advancing troopers. Joining him was another great Oglala warrior, Big Road, his face and body painted with his war medicine. The warriors in Black Fire’s camp—including Black Fire himself and all shirtwearers, save one, an old man—dispersed to ready themselves for battle; women began packing to move their lodges to safety.
Stone-Dreamer turned away so none could see the tears in the corners of his eyes. He remembered Sitting Bull’s prophecy that soldiers would fall into their camp. If only his son, Vin Lockhart, had been here to talk sense to his friends before this. Now it was too late; he stared at the wanagi glepi.
Not running in fear or to hurriedly pack, a determined Morning Bird stepped beside him. Her eyes were laden with worry, but she had made her decision to stand with the old holy man. Along with her shawl clutched at her waist, she held a tomahawk. In her other hand were two tiny cardinal feathers.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
More than five weeks had passed since Vin Lockhart left Cheyenne and its relative comfort and safety. Like the days preceeding, he rode silently across the changing land with an early summer sun seeking command of the day. Ahead were the black shapes of timber cutting across a dark green ridge. Sunlight glistened from a meandering stream as he passed. In an adjacent meadow, three old buffalo bulls plotted the return to their herd.
His plan was simple: ride to the Rosebud, learn what he could and make another decision as to the direction he should ride. Northwest, if he saw no signs indicating another way. In spite of himself, he couldn’t help but consider the folly of his journey. He had no idea where Black Fire’s band might be, except his memory of their past summer camps and the newspaper stories of Crazy Horse and his warriors. He expected his friends were with the wild, charismatic leader.
He knew that’s where he would have been. Yet he was beginning to feel that Crawfish was right. The Indians had no choice but to go to the reservations. What purpose did it serve to stand and be destroyed? What was served in this action? For there could be no victory, no lasting one. The wasicun way of life left no room for the Indian’s ways, right or wrong. Better to go to the offered island of peace and teach their children things of the spirit that could never be changed. Better to live on an island than to die needlessly.
Would Crazy Horse allow him to enter their camp if he even found it? Would Crazy Horse allow him and his friends to leave? Would Crazy Horse let him speak what was beginning to form in his heart?
For days, he had observed the tracks of unshod ponies crisscrossing the earth. Sure signs of war parties on the move. In response, he carried his Winchester across his saddle. Soon he would switch to riding at night and hiding during the day to make him less visible to roaming eyes. To a knowing man, the land offered places where he could sleep safely and his horses would not be seen. Even before he had discovered the ominous tracks, he had kept a cold camp. A fire, even one without smoke, was too risky.
Glancing up at the sun, he saw it was well past noon; his stomach had been telling him that for an hour. When he reached the shade of the shadowed ridge ahead, he would stop and let his horses rest and graze while he ate something. He rolled his tired shoulders and shifted his weight in the saddle. It would be good to get down.
From the far side of the same welcoming ridge came an electrifying screech and eighteen painted and feathered warriors cleared the outcropping at a mad gallop.
“Heya! Heya!”
Their bold war cries supported the shaking of rifles, bows, lances and war clubs. The Cheyenne dog soldiers were spread out and coming at him in a reckless charge they were known for. All were painted for war and their long hair braided; some wore trooper jackets and slouch hats with their breechclouts and moccasins.
His rifle jumped into his hands and a war pony ran without a rider as he whirled the dun and kicked it into a gallop. His canteen bounced wildly, but was firmly attached to his saddle horn. The pack horse jerked itself into a matching run. He turned in the saddle, firing as fast as he could level new rounds and aim. A warrior wearing a wolf’s head and long pelt screamed and fell.
A lone arrow whizzed by, then another. Six bullets sang past him; one clipped his upper arm and another tore away a piece of his saddle cantle. They weren’t firing
as much as he was; he guessed bullets were at a premium.
Methodically, he shoved new cartridges into his gun and turned to fire again. Several of the warriors were gaining on him. The closest was dressed in a blue cavalry jacket and kepi hat with an eagle feather stuck in its band. Lockhart aimed at the Indian’s chest and fired. Twice, missing both times.
As he levered the gun, he saw the pack horse stumble, lumbering from bullet wounds. An arrow bounced from its flank; another, from the pack itself. The animal tried valiantly to continue, but its rapidly decreasing strength was already slowing the dun and allowing the closest warriors to gain ground. He had no choice. Holding his rifle in his right hand and the reins in his teeth, he yanked free his big knife and severed the lead rope from his saddle horn with one swift slice. Maybe they would stop to explore the contents of the pack as the dying animal staggered and fell.
He returned the knife to its sheath, the reins to his hand and his attention to the closest three warriors. One had half his body vertically painted in red, carried a feather-tailed shield on his right arm and a revolver in his right fist. The middle warrior, waving a feathered lance, was the one in a cavalry jacket and feathered kepi hat he had fired at before. The warrior’s pockmarked face was streaked in black-and-white bands. The third warrior wore a full war bonnet and aimed a Henry carbine.
As Lockhart turned to fire, the jolt of a bullet nearly made him drop the rifle. His lower right leg flamed with pain and began to bleed. He gathered himself, fired a wild shot and slapped the reins across the dun’s flank to make him run harder. The courageous mount complied and increased the distance between them and the war party.
In the near distance was an isolated rocky incline, as if a giant wedge of earthen pie had been centered within an open valley that itself was half-surrounded by cottonwoods and a small pond. The incline widened into a long, low ridge of buffalo grass. He remembered it from passing earlier. At the crest of the incline was a huge dead tree struck by lightning years before, a silent testament to the power of nature.
Aiming the hard-charging dun up the incline, he tried to ignore the numbing pain and gripped the animal’s side with his wounded leg as best he could. He shoved the rifle back into its sheath, shifted the reins to his right hand and pulled free his hand-shotgun with his left. As they galloped past the tree, he reined the horse hard to the left and looped around the dead obstacle. The dun raggedly adjusted, maintaining its balance, in spite of the abrupt change of direction. Suddenly Lockhart was headed back toward the three surprised warriors. Wrapping the reins around the saddle horn, he drew his revolver and cocked both weapons.
At point-blank range, he blasted the red-painted warrior in the face with the first barrel of his shotgun and the Indian’s shield flew in the air with its feathered tail acting like a whip. The freed revolver spun to the ground. The second barrel tore at the cavalry-jacketed warrior’s neck and shoulder. His revolver barked three times at the third warrior as he cocked his rifle. The war-bonnet-wearing dog soldier cried out as his face disappeared in crimson. His rifle bounced off the horse’s back and fired a bullet toward the horizon.
The next group of warriors were startled by their intended victim suddenly becoming the attacker. Lockhart pushed the empty shotgun into his waistband and shoved new cartridges into the revolver and kicked the dun to keep it running. The long-legged mount was breathing heavily and white foam spewed from its mouth. When the revolver was reloaded, he repeated the process with the hand-shotgun, switching the guns in his waistband.
Bullets flew at him and one burned his left cheek, drawing hot pain. He held his fire until almost in front of the warriors. Both of his guns roared simultaneously and he was past them. One warrior was down and one was unable to raise his right arm. Shoving the empty shotgun into his waistband, he emptied the pistol at the remaining warriors who had stopped to examine his dead pack horse. They screamed and jumped for their ponies, strewing food sacks and tin utensils as they clamored to escape. One Cheyenne spun around and fell on top of the sack of beans.
A dog soldier slid to the far side of his war pony and fired at Lockhart from beneath the horse’s neck with a long-barreled pistol. Lockhart’s return shots dropped the horse, but the unseated warrior was helped onto another warrior’s horse and both galloped away.
Lockhart reined in the heaving dun, knowing he had asked more than he should have, shoved the pistol next to the hand-shotgun, and yanked free the rifle once more. He emptied it at the fleeing warriors. One warrior slumped against his horse’s neck. Then they were out of range and becoming mere sticks against a hot sky.
As suddenly as it had begun, it was over.
The silence of the land swarmed to fill the emptiness once more. He slid from the saddle and fell to his knees as the pain in his leg exploded throughout his body. From a sitting position, he wiped blood and sweat from his face with his shirtsleeve, then remembered his guns were empty.
His hands trembled as he attempted to reload. First, the rifle. Three cartridges fled his fingers and slithered to the ground, then another. Finally, he completed the Winchester’s reloading and the revolver’s, returning it to his holster, added new shells to the sawed-off weapon and slipped it back into the quiver. Attempting to stand once more, he became dizzy and decided against it. For the first time, he realized the reins were laying free on the ground; the dun’s head was down and its legs apart. White foam and sweat lathered its body. Along its wet and heaving chest was a bleeding cut; his flank was burned by bullets. Many horses wouldn’t survive the exhaustion; much less the injuries. His gaze took in the open land in search of an Indian pony left behind. There were none. All had run with the escaping dog soldiers.
Without much thought, he turned to his own wounds. A look at his right leg revealed the bullet had cut along his calf. Painful but not serious, unless it got infected. However, he had lost a lot of blood, judging by his reddened pant leg. The same with his arm. His cheek was crusted over, merely a burn.
He had been very lucky and couldn’t help thinking of the tunkan in his vest pocket. Patting his pocket, the hardness of the small stone was, somehow, reassuring. He peeked at the feathers in his shirt pocket and was reassured they had not been bent or torn. From his sitting position, he looked around. The land was flat and open, except for a sometime creek and several trees, behind him about twenty yards. The shallow ditch contained water when rainfall was sufficient. Right now, it was a long streak of mud. Three cottonwoods that had remained to watch were stout and tall; another had fallen. Pieces of a fifth tree were close by.
His concentration slid into a world of nothingness, guided there by pain and shock. He wasn’t certain how long he sat without knowing. It was late afternoon when he realized his situation was precarious. The dun was down and lying on its side, probably dying. His clouded mind tried to contemplate his options. They were few. He had no horse and his leg wouldn’t allow extensive walking. Fort Fetterman was, maybe, a week’s ride to the south. No settlement of any kind was nearer. Unless it was an Indian camp.
Obviously, the Indians had been victorious in some kind of fight with soldiers, hence the wearing of trophies by some in the war party. The Cheyenne were also better armed than he expected. A few Winchesters and Henrys were mixed with Springfields, bows and arrows, several revolvers, and lances. He had been fortunate that they were short on bullets and shooting ability. Not on boldness, however.
A soft whinny broke his concentration. The dun raised its head, shivered and attempted to stand, but couldn’t.
Forgetting himself, Lockhart limped to the horse, stroked its nose and told it to stay down. It surprised him that his words were Lakotan. Soft. Soothing. Like Touches-Horses would have done. He yanked free one of his canteens from the saddle, untied his kerchief and soaked it with the water. Slowly he began wiping away the blood, sweat and foam from the animal’s chest, neck and head. Another whinny thanked him. From his saddlebags, he secured a jar of salve, one of Crawfish’s discoveries, and
lathered it on the horse’s wounds.
Out of the corner of his eye, he caught movement by one of the nearest downed warriors. It was the dog soldier who had fallen against the sack of beans. Lockhart’s revolver jumped into his hands and he fired six times into him. Farther away, the warrior with the broken arm fired at him. The bullet hissed several feet from his shoulder. Lockhart grabbed his rifle and fired into the wounded Indian and the other body a few feet away. He reloaded both weapons, more surely this time, and returned to treating the dun. Focusing on caring for his horse kept him from anxious feelings about his situation. He returned his sawed-off shotgun to its quiver; his pistol, to its holster and held his rifle.
Pain jumped through his arm and he realized it was bleeding again. For an instant, he was back with his Indian friends, dying from the wounds suffered in his lone attack on the Shoshoni war party that had killed his wife and others in their camp.
In his heart, he knew his decision was made. He must remain close to the dun for it to have any chance of recovery. The horse’s regained strength was his only real chance for survival. How long would that take? Two days? A week? Two weeks? Never? It depended, of course, on the individual animal.
During the night, wolves or coyotes would seek fresh meat. The Cheyenne would likely return. First, to get their dead. Second, to get revenge. If they returned, it might be with additional tribesmen. If so, he would deal with it. They could find him if he tried to hide. They might be worried that he didn’t, that he remained where they left him.
Yes. He would stay right here. Right here. Right where the Cheyenne could find him easily. He had plenty of food and water. The pond where he had filled all three canteens and watered his horses wasn’t far away either. Too far to attempt walking the dun. At least for a day or two. The animal couldn’t stand. His saddle would give him some cover to shoot behind, if necessary. So could some of the fallen timber. And even sacks of food. A long drink from his canteen helped; one thing he couldn’t afford now was to let his wounds sap his resolve. To do that was to die.