by Cotton Smith
He wasn’t going to die. Neither was the dun.
Remembering the returned sacred tunkan once more, he reached into his pocket and withdrew the small pebble. A memory oozed into his mind. It was a story told to him by his brother-in-law as Lockhart was being tended by tribesmen after the great remembered fight. Touches-Horses said that Stone-Dreamer made a proclamation before the assembled warriors. The holy man’s voice grew louder, his shoulders thrust backward in an authoritative pose.
“Around us, always something moves. Always. It only takes to listen. The most ancient of living things, stone, is always moving—but most men cannot see this moving. It is the will of the Grandfathers. The most ancient of living things, stone, is always singing—but most men cannot hear this singing. It is the will of the Grandfathers. The most ancient of things, stone, is always powerful—but most men cannot use this power. It is the will of the Grandfathers.”
Touches-Horses said that the many-couped warrior Bear-Heart nudged his pony alongside Black Fire’s horse. Neither spoke, only exchanging eye words. From behind them, Stone-Dreamer continued his pronouncements.
“Today, into battle, Panther-Strikes carried a sacred tunkan. The stone of Eyes-of-the-Wind,” he had proclaimed in a trembling voice. “Eyes-of-the-Wind was pleased to be called into battle by my son. It had been too long. He brought many of our ancestors to ride with Panther-Strikes.”
The memory wisp disappeared and Lockhart studied the small stone in his opened hand. The stone was credited with curing people, finding lost things, and giving counsel to scouts through the holy man. Had it been part of his victory years before? Had it kept him from being seriously wounded now? Or had Morning Bird’s feathers been a factor? Mumbling a prayer of sorts, he placed the stone gently on the dun’s neck. Since the horse was breathing a little easier Lockhart decided to remove the saddle and complete wiping down the animal’s body with his wet scarf. He positioned the saddle on its side where he would shoot from, then gave the horse a few drops of water to drink. The horse was too hot for much; it would only bring on colic. From his saddlebags, he took a shirt, tore it into sections, soaked them with water and wrapped the horse’s legs as best he could, tying them on with rawhide thong, also from his gear.
After satisfying himself that the dun was resting as well as possible, he forced himself to stand and began his preparations for the night. He took his time, but kept his stiffened leg and arm moving. First, he went to the area where the three fleeing warriors had been shot, including the one lying against the bean sack, and dragged each dead warrior to a spot fifty yards away, leaving them in a circle. Their arms were outstretched so their hands touched, creating a visual interlocking. The fourth escaping Indian was too far away for him to go after and drag back. To make certain of his state, Lockhart fired four times into the unmoving shape.
A lance was jammed into the ground in the center of the human circle. He stripped the bodies of guns—a Springfield, a Winchester, and a long-barreled Colt—and bullets and returned them to his camp. He wouldn’t worry about the two warriors killed early in their attack; they were farther away. Too far to walk and drag.
As he started to check on the downed warriors in his initial counterattack, a thought hit him. Taking scalps was something they would respect. Especially if he hung them from a lance in the middle of his camp. A challenge that might make them tentative, make them wonder what sort of man would do something like that, maybe even wonder if he was really a man after all. He returned to the circle, ripped off the scalps and tied them to the lance with ribbons hanging from it. The task was gruesome. Bloody. Nauseating. But he knew it was the smart thing to do. Most Indians were superstitious. His sawed-off shotgun would have been a weapon they most likely hadn’t seen. For once, he wished the story of spirits riding with him had been told in wider circles than just his small band.
Pulling the lance from the ground, he left a large rock in its place and carried the weapon with him to the earlier battles near the incline. The rock was a powerful symbol. Powerful. So was a circle. As an afterthought, he picked up a bow and pulled a quiver of arrows free from the body of one of the downed warriors. He slipped the quiver over his shoulder, alongside the quivered hand-shotgun, held the lance and bow in his right hand; they were lighter than the rifle in his left and, thus, easier on his wounded arm.
His eyes ever-checked the horizon where the Indians had fled, but he didn’t expect their return. Not yet. They would need to talk it over, decide if their medicine was powerful enough today. Or if it needed time to return. Still, it was always wise to assume Indian behavior was unpredictable. They might not listen to their medicine man.
After dropping the lance, bow and arrows inside his camp, he headed for the next group of dead warriors, the ones he had attacked at the incline. Two were dead, but the cavalry-jacketed warrior had dragged himself a few hundred feet away and was attempting to stand. Lockhart hated to do it, but to leave him alive was foolhardy. Rifle shots ended the warrior’s struggle. Their bodies were far enough away that he chose to leave them there, dragging them into a circle like the other and adding their scalps to his lance. He used thong from their moccasins to hold the wet chunks of hair in place. A rock was placed in the center of the circle like the first.
As before, he secured the guns and ammunition from both sets of downed warriors and returned to his camp, cradling the lance, his own rifle, a Henry and a Springfield in his arms. A Merwin open-top revolver was shoved into his waistband. He also brought the war bonnet, piling it on top of his carried guns.
Back at his makeshift camp, he began work on a breastwork of sorts, or what he could create. His propped-up saddle would be the foremost point, aimed at the horizon where the war party had fled. Next, he moved the sacks of beans, coffee, salt, and sugar to provide a second short wall to his left; the dead pack horse would serve as the wall to his right. The dun lay to the back of his protection at the moment. That left the worn-out horse vulnerable to stray bullets; he didn’t think the Indians would deliberately shoot the animal as long as it looked dead.
A quick review of what he had constructed stopped him. If the Cheyenne came at him from all directions—and that was likely—they could be almost on top of him before he would be able to see them and respond.
He needed a position of height, a way to look down upon their movements and then fire. His gaze took in the cottonwoods behind him.
Yes, he must wait for them there. It would give him an excellent field of fire. Even if they tried to hide at the base of the trees themselves. Could he climb a tree with his weakened leg and arm? He must, if he wanted to live.
First, he must move his “walls” away from the dun—and the dead pack horse. That would reduce the likelihood of stray bullets hitting the dun. He expected the Cheyenne to come at him; this time, with silent weapons—knives and clubs. Get close before showing themselves. After moving his saddle and sacks farther away from the animals, he dragged one large, fallen branch into place as a rear protection. The camp must look right, must look protected.
After drinking more water and resting, he resumed his task and finally pushed and shoved a log alongside the dun’s prone legs. That would provide some protection from the outside. A second log was added close to the animal’s back. Satisfied with the protection the logs would provide, he returned to readying the camp.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Twenty feet north of his saddle, he placed the lance with its bounty of fresh scalps and placed the war bonnet on top of the shaft. It gave an eerie appearance of an invitation to the Cheyenne to advance if they dared. He didn’t expect it to stop them, but if he could hold them off once, it might be enough. If not, he would die and no one would know it for a long time. Next came the appearance of a man lying down. His rolled blanket became the body and legs. His hat propped on a stick would look like a head in the darkness. After breaking the firing pins of the Springfields, he placed one as if it were ready to fire, on top of his saddle. The second
gun was laid next to the fake body.
Preparation of a special surprise for attackers was next. In the center of his camp, he began separating bullets from shells and pouring the gunpowder into a pile. First, he used the Indian cartridges, then a full box of his own. On top of the mound of explosive powder, he placed a small rock. It would help him see the target. Within the pile, he pushed all of the separated slugs. He loaded the two Indian carbines and the two pistols from a second box. To each rifle, including his own, he tied a piece of rope to act as a shoulder sling; the pistols would be returned to his waistband when he was ready to climb.
It was time to decide on food. Added to his store purchases were foods from trail scavenging. An old habit resumed. They were composed of a handful of Indian potato roots, cattails for food and medicine, and a few bee plants to eat. He selected all of the jerky, two apples, and a can of peaches and tied them into his sole remaining packed shirt, along with the boxes of ammunition, and left the rest. One of his cigars was shoved into his shirt pocket, next to the cardinal feathers. After applying ample smears of Crawfish’s medicine on his leg and arm, he placed the jar inside the shirt as well.
Some jerky, an apple and water gave him a renewed strength and he refused to give in to the dizziness and pain. Before eating, he presented pieces of jerky and apple to the land in thanks. He opened all of his cans of food, emptying them onto a tin plate. They might not keep but he needed the cans themselves. Sunlight was fading when he finished stretching the remaining lead rope two yards from the log protecting the dun’s belly and parallel to it. Tied in clusters to the ropes were the tin cans, utensils, coffeepot, cup, and his spurs. Anything that would make a noise if disturbed. It would warn him if a wolf or coyote got close and he hadn’t seen the advance.
He returned to one of the unmoved logs near the creek and sat to rest a few minutes and catch his breath; his shirt was sweated through. For several minutes, he stood looking at his surroundings without comprehending what was there. Lockhart didn’t remember falling asleep. His white father put his hand on Lockhart’s shoulder and said he was proud of him. From the doorway of their sod hut, his mother smiled and waved, then held her hand to her mouth to hold back tears. Crawfish joined them outside the house, then Stone-Dreamer and Young Evening. Now they were standing by the tepee with his own warrior’s markings decorating its sides. His white father and mother joined the others. Lockhart yelled at them to come and help him, but they didn’t hear his plea.
Crawfish shook him awake and he came around, gradually understanding it was just a dream. A shiver shot through him when the realization reached him that he had fallen asleep, sitting on the log. Night had taken over the world. All around him were comforting night sounds, except for a wolf howling somewhere. He made his way to the dun. The horse was cooler, so he poured water from one of the canteens slowly along its body, then placed a small amount of water in its half-opened mouth. The dun shivered and Lockhart wiped him down with handfuls of dry grass, then unfolded his remaining blanket and covered the animal with it.
It was doubtful the dun would try to stand for awhile, but Lockhart didn’t want a standing horse to become a target, so he removed the sleeves of his shirt and cut them into strips. The one was quite bloody, but that didn’t matter. He told the dun what he was doing and the importance of lying still as he tied the front legs together, then the back. This time it was in English. His knife became a peg in the ground and he wrapped the reins around it. Tightly. If the animal did try to stand, the tied reins, combined with his bound legs, would act as a restraint.
For the first time, he noticed the sacred stone had slid from the horse’s neck to the ground. He picked it up and held the pebble above his head with his good left arm and began to chant. A chant he had heard Stone-Dreamer use, or what he could recall of it, adapting it to his situation.
“Wakantanhewi kin heyau welo E ya ye yo.
Tunkan sing to me. Sacred stone sing to me. I am listening.
Tunkasila ride to me. Grandfathers ride to me. I am calling.
Wakantanhewi kin heyau welo E ya ye yo.
Tunkan sing to me. Sacred stone sing to me. I am listening.
Tunkasila ride to me. Grandfathers ride to me. I am calling.
I need your help. Send someone to this fight; let him hear the stone singing.
His name, Eyes-of-the-Wind. His name, Eyes-of-the-Wind.
Someone waits for this one coming. Panther-Strikes. Panther-Strikes.
I need your help. Send someone to this fight; let him hear the stone singing.
His name, Eyes-of-the-Wind. His name, Eyes-of-the-Wind.
Someone waits for this one coming. Panther-Strikes. Panther-Strikes.
A stone singing. A spirit coming. A man waiting.
A stone singing. A spirit coming. A man waiting.”
He took the cigar from his pocket, tore it into shreds and tossed tobacco tributes to the four winds, the sky, the earth, and the eagle, the sacred messenger, replaced the stone on the dun’s neck, clasped his hands together and prayed, this time, to the white man’s God.
It was time. A stop at the creek bed gave him mud, which he applied to his face, neck, arms and hands. The darkened skin would make it even more difficult to see him. Laying down the rifles, he gathered the bow and filled quiver, his canteens, the pack of supplies and shoved the two pistols into his waistband. He selected the middle tree and prepared to climb it. With his good left arm, he flung the knotted end of his rope upward toward a thick branch fifteen feet above him. He missed and it slithered back to the ground. On the third try, the rope looped over the branch and he encouraged its descent by flipping the rope until he could reach the balled end.
To the rope, he secured the straps of two canteens, the slings of the two Indian rifles, the bow and quiver, and the pack of supplies. Around his shoulder, he placed his own rifle sling and the third canteen strap. He figured his strength wouldn’t hold for a second try at climbing and, if something went wrong, he would at least have some water and one long gun. As an afterthought, he pulled open the corner of the shirt pack, withdrew two pieces of jerky, rolled and placed them in his vest pocket. After rebinding the torn shirt, he grabbed both ends of the rope with his hands to begin his climb, ignoring the jolting pain in his right arm.
He stopped. Not because of the pain. He looked back at the dun.
Moving away from the horse now was a greater worry than the Cheyenne returning. Predators could get close so quickly, so silently, that they could be upon the defenseless animal before he could react from the tree.
If the Indians returned, it would be with the dawn. He was certain they wouldn’t attack while it was dark. To die at night meant the warrior’s soul would wander helplessly forever, unable to find the path to the Ghost Road. As Stone-Dreamer had told him, darkness is ignorance and light is knowledge; a reminder of this truth is sent every morning by Wakantanka with the arrival of Anpo wicahpi, Morning Star. Of course, like everything else spiritual, not all Indians believed the same things.
Indeed, he wasn’t certain that the Cheyenne wouldn’t attack at night. Or at least most of them. Still, waiting beside the dun through the night made sense. His presence would keep away wolves and coyotes. An hour before any sign of dawn, he would move to the tree. It was risky, but leaving was more so. If warriors came during the blackness, he would probably die.
He found himself talking to his vision guide, the panther, asking for it to come and help him, to warn him of trouble coming. He shook his head. It had been years since he had sought such supernatural help. It wasn’t that he came to feel it was foolish, rather that he thought the spirit guide wouldn’t appreciate his becoming a wasicun businessman. Or was it that he didn’t think of those times? Until now.
With that, he returned to the dun and sat down beside the horse. He patted its head and neck, and spoke quietly. The horse’s soft whinny was all he could ask for; the animal might not make it, regardless of what he did. Only time would tell. Like a sy
mphony, the night sounds continued to reassure him of their relative safety. Being in a raw land alone—and in the darkness—did not scare him. There was something about the openness that brought renewed energy. He was tired, but not sleepy. The pain in his wounds had subsided as well. Only a throbbing continued. His eyes were accustomed to the darkness now and he scanned the land often for shadows that shouldn’t be there.
He reached into his shirt pocket. His fingers felt the tips of the cardinal feathers and, for an instant, he thought about placing them on the dun. But he liked having Morning Bird so close to him and rationalized that the stone would be all the spiritual medicine needed. Then he took out a piece of jerky and began to chew on it. After a few minutes, he gave the dun a little more water. It made no attempt to rise, either understanding what the restraints meant or not having the strength to do so.
A pair of glowing yellow eyes appeared ten feet away. Then another pair. The dun squealed and tried to stand. Lockhart patted the horse to reassure it of his presence.
“Not to night, kola,” Lockhart said, using the Lakotan word for brother. “You will not harm my horse. Come closer and you die. Tonight, you must find dinner elsewhere.”
His Winchester cocking was thunder in the night. He waited. Just as quickly, the yellow eyes vanished.
Of course, they might return. Later. It was enough to keep him vigilant. He was hopeful they would also stay away from the dead pack horse as well. At least until the dun could walk and they could move to a new location, probably by the pond. It didn’t really matter if they tore into the dead horse; he just didn’t want to see it; the animal had served him well.
The hours passed slowly. One star was joined by a cluster of timid ones; a moon fingernail rested just above the horizon. A breeze tried to sneak through the trees, but rustling leaves gave it away. He forced himself to stand and walk around every fifteen minutes or so to keep his body limber and his mind from deciding on sleep. Rest would have to wait. To sleep now was to lose.