by Cotton Smith
He chuckled and muttered to himself that a cup of coffee would taste good. The Cheyenne already knew where he was, so a small fire made no difference. It might even bother them, wondering why this strange fighter would signal his presence. A quick gathering of sticks and twigs soon produced an almost smokeless fire a few feet from the log protecting the dun’s belly and legs. The fire would also serve as an added deterrent to four-legged predators. After removing the pot and cup from his noise-rope, the coffee was soon boiling over a circle of red and orange coals. He avoided staring at the comforting heat, knowing it would take away his night vision momentarily.
Sugar made the hot brew taste even better. Sipping the coffee brought thoughts of Crawfish and Sean. They would be sleeping right now. Snug and safe. Would he see them again? Would his dream of building a horse ranch become theirs? Crawfish was an excellent mentor for the Irish boy, if only the lad was smart enough to realize it. He thought he was; he hoped he was. A short prayer spilled from his parched lips about Sean becoming a good man. Thoughts of the horse ranch brought images of Touches-Horses, Stone-Dreamer and, lastly, Morning Bird. Was this the way his journey would end? In the middle of some nameless land facing Cheyenne? Even if he survived, there was no assurance he would find his friends. Ever. What did he expect to see at the Rosebud?
Shaking off the negative thoughts, he drank the rest of his coffee and swore not to let them return. Mattie Bacon tried to enter his mind instead, but he wouldn’t let her either. Lockhart was certain, even in this time of melancholy and reflection, that she was not the woman he wanted to spend his life with, assuming there would be one. Was Morning Bird? He touched his shirt pocket and the cardinal feathers there. They brought him comfort; they brought him Morning Bird. She came easily to his mind and stayed there.
After savoring the coffee and images of Morning Bird, he pulled the pot from the coals and emptied the black remainder. The cup was returned to his noise-rope, right next to a fork. He gathered all of the just-emptied cartridge shells and placed them in the cooled coffeepot. The rattle was perfect. The noise-rope was looped through the pot handle and returned to its position across the ground.
Two short branches were added to the coals to keep it going without creating large flames. He wasn’t worried about the glow being seen; it would be. Rather, he didn’t want flames to get out of hand and create another problem. His mind went dark and he tried to concentrate on his preparations. Had he done everything he could?
No. He hadn’t tried his hand with a bow and arrow. Years had passed since he used the weapon, but its silence could be an important advantage. Pulling three arrows from the quiver, he faced the trees behind him and placed an arrow into firing position, with the other two held vertically against the bow. His right arm screamed when he pulled the bow string and its attached arrow toward his face. He took a deep breath and eased the string back to its static position, waited for a few seconds and tried it again. The pain was acceptable and he aimed and fired. The arrow hissed past the base of the targeted tree. He grimaced and tried again. This time the arrow struck. So did the third.
Satisfied, he retrieved the two arrows that hit the tree, and returned to the dun to check on the animal. The horse was sleeping and its body temperature was normal, he thought.
Finally, the sky told him it was nearing false dawn. Stars had disappeared and the moon was losing its shine. Even the sounds of the land were changing. It might mean the Cheyenne had returned and were working their way toward him. It was safer to assume that as he returned to the tree. The dun seemed to be resting now; he hoped that was a good sign.
He grabbed his rifle and canteen and headed toward the trees. A vigorous start got him to the lowest major branch of the previously selected tree and he managed to pull himself into place on top of it. His shirt was again soaked with sweat and he was weak all over. A glance toward the fake camp told him he must get higher. At least another ten feet. Probably where his rope hung.
Using the closest branches as steps, he worked higher. As he tried to put his left boot on a slightly higher branch, his right leg buckled. Only a fierce grab at a branch kept him from falling. He stood in place, heaving for breath that wouldn’t come fast enough. Should he make do with where he was? It was certainly much better than his original plan to wait on the ground.
Someone told him to climb again and he did. A dark shape swooped down at him. He jerked instinctively, but held on. Flapping its wings, the owl disappeared into the blackness. Some of his tribesmen thought the owl was the soul of a dead warrior and was to be avoided; Stone-Dreamer didn’t believe that. The holy man told him that this special bird always joined his friends from the other world during the night. Together they would rule the land until the morning bird brought the sun.
Finally, he rested on top of the roped branch and looked down. He could see almost to the first ridge. It was perfect. The branches provided a clear opening, with no low hanging leaves to bother an arrow. Looking down, he was pleased to find that he would be able to see someone even if he were standing next to the tree itself. After a few minutes to resecure his breath and assure him that the dun was still safe, he began pulling on the end of the rope holding his things.
It took longer than he expected to lift the attached weapons, canteens and supply sack around and through the maze of branches, but gradually he had them again in his control. He tied the supply sack to a close branch, then the canteens to another. The rifles were laid out across several branches with the bow and quiver on top of them. Slowly, he cocked his Winchester, letting the guttural “click-click” sputter through the trees, and placed it next to the other guns. His legs straddled a sturdy limb; fingers of pain danced along his right leg and his right arm, but he ignored them.
Looping the recoiled rope over a thigh-thick limb behind him, he let the ends drop and dangle against the trunk about eight feet from the ground. If the Indians began shooting from his camp, the tree position would quickly be untenable. He would use the rope to slide down the tree from the back side and, hopefully, find new cover. Hopefully. Finally, he checked his shirt pocket and decided the feathers had made it through the climb in good condition.
Next, his gaze took in the rocks resting in the dry stream bed and they brought the wise shaman, Stone-Dreamer, easily to his mind. If they were together now, he would be telling Lockhart to feel the spirit song coming from these Inyan, the true Grandfathers, the only life-forces to endure through the ages. Inyan, the Rock, was one of the Wankan akanta—superior wankan—along with Wi, the Sun; Skan, the Sky; and Maka, the Earth.
There, the old holy man would say, hear their singing? It is all around us. It is a song without beginning or end. It is a song of forever. It is the force of creation. I will sing the stone songs and let them know we understand. He would begin singing some stone song that only he knew. Lockhart gazed at the harsh rock ridges below. He smiled. He could see the conversation. It was like many they had, but that was years ago. Now Lockhart was a wasicun—and rocks were simply something to ride around or over. Or worry that enemies hid behind.
In the distance, he heard the unmistakable cry of a mountain lion. The distinctive roar sounded as distant as the haze of the mountain range in the skyline. Yet as close as his heart. A strange sensation followed. Was his long-forgotten vision guide telling him that he was still with him, that he was responding to his plea? Was he warning of the Cheyenne coming? He took the bow in his hand and withdrew six arrows from the quiver; one was quickly readied.
Shadows near his fake camp were the answer to the last question. Warriors were crawling toward it, ever careful, ever quiet. He counted four. No, six. They were spread out and coming from the front and both sides. He squinted to study the far hillside. There on a painted horse was a lone tribesman. He guessed it was the war party’s leader. His gaze shifted to the base of the trees and the stream bed. Another three warriors were slipping across the shallow ditch toward his camp from the rear. Lockhart examined the trees below an
d near him one last time to assure no warriors remained there. He thought there were eighteen in the original war party, but he wanted to be certain they hadn’t picked up some additional help from their camp, if there was one.
He shifted his weight and brought the bow to a firing position. Firing accurately was more important than swiftness. That was the advantage of a soundless arrow. No telltale boom or flame. He aimed at the closest warrior, a war club in his hand, ascending the stream bed. Reminding himself to aim low because of his higher position, Lockhart drew the bow string and arrow to a familiar place against his right cheek, took a breath and held it, aimed and released.
A groan snapped from the warrior’s mouth as the arrow drove deeply into his lower back. The two closest tribesmen glanced in his direction, angered that he had made a noise. Lockhart’s second arrow was already on its way, catching the second warrior half-turned toward the first. A wordless cry came as he went to his knees, grabbing at the shaft protruding from his stomach. None of the warriors coming from the other directions were aware of their fellow warriors’ distress.
Holding his tomahawk in a readied position in front of him, the remaining warrior looked anxiously around for a sign of their attacker. He moved to his left just as Lockhart’s arrow was released and it struck the side of the stream bed where the dog soldier had been. The warrior, his face cut in diagonal stripes of dark and light color, saw Lockhart as his next arrow was on the way. The shaft tore into the Indian’s throat and he fell back into the stream bed, gurgling.
At the fake camp, a warrior with a fully painted face accented with a white circle on each cheek jumped over the short wall of food sacks and slammed his tomahawk into Lockhart’s hat. Another warrior in a kepi hat with an eagle feather drove his knife into the rolled-up blanket. The first warrior shot with an arrow staggered into the camp, intent on getting revenge. He shoved the kepi-hatted warrior away and struck savagely with his war club. The pushed-aside warrior stepped away, puzzled by the shaft protruding from the other warrior’s back and turned to the others waiting around the encampment. All looked worried in the grayness. One had discovered the two downed warriors in the creek bed. Downed with arrows! Cheyenne arrows!
Where had the mysterious wasicun with the strange gun gone? Where had the arrows come from? Was this strange evil medicine at work?
Only one of the standing warriors carried a rifle; another held a bow. The rest were armed with hand weapons. Lockhart could see a pistol butt protruding from the breechclout of a tall warrior wearing a sleeveless army jacket and a rumpled cavalry, broad-brimmed hat on his head.
Lockhart’s right arm was numb and his wounded leg was throbbing and bleeding again. He ignored both and decided to keep firing arrows. His silent projectile took down one more standing beside the camp wall; second and third arrows missed altogether.
When the painted-face warrior turned to look up the trees, Lockhart switched to his Winchester and fired at the unnoticed pile of gunpower and slugs.
The explosion rocked the small encampment, sending lead a short distance in all directions. Warriors yelled and dove for cover on the outside of the low walls. The painted-face warrior staggered and fell across the sacks. The arrow-wounded warrior lay still; his face, a crimson mess.
Lockhart emptied his Winchester at the scattering Indians, laid it across the branches in front of him and grabbed the second long gun. Three warriors were running toward their waiting war-party leader. His trailing shots clipped the slowest runner’s feet. A fresh morning was creeping across the land, chasing their retreat with light. It was also making his position more visible, he thought, and decided to move.
Pistol shots roared through the trees, tearing through leaves and ripping branches. The tall warrior in a sleeveless army jacket and cavalry hat was firing at him from behind his own saddle.
Hurrying, Lockhart turned to fire back. A bullet slammed into his lower right leg. Jerking in reaction to the pain, he lost his balance and fell backward, past the tree trunk and between the branches behind him.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
His rifle flew from his hands as he toppled into the air. His empty Winchester, the other Indian rifle and the bow and quiver crashed through the branches toward the ground. Vin Lockhart grabbed for the nearest branch and it broke off in his left hand.
Thick foliage jabbed at his face and body as he fell through the leafy maze. An upright branch cut his back. One of his pistols was pulled from his waistband by the rush of entangling leaves and branches and he couldn’t do anything about it as he fell six feet in a breath.
His outstretched hands grabbed again for anything that would stop his fall and caught hold of branches on either side of his body. Immediate cracking told him his hold was tenuous. His feet could feel no limb immediately beneath him. The straps of his canteen and shotgun quiver were hung up on a twisted branch just above his right shoulder; he ignored their pinning for the moment. His greater concerns were the remaining Indians and the need for a strong limb.
Two warriors were shooting at him now; one was limping toward the trees, firing as he advanced. The limping dog soldier’s leg was cut by bullets sprayed from the powder explosion. Another bullet snapped through the tree where Lockhart had been shooting. The two Indians were unsure of where he was, but that would change as soon as the advancing warrior reached the tree. At the creek bed, a warrior managed to get to his feet and was hobbling away, holding both hands against his bleeding stomach.
Lockhart reached for the escape rope with his left hand, continuing to hold onto a breaking branch with his right. A piercing ache flushed through his right arm and he let go of the branch as his left arm took control of the two hanging cords. His right leg was throbbing from the fresh wound. The double-thick lariat burned in his fist as his weight pulled him slowly downward, but he wasn’t falling. The canteen and quiver straps popped free and returned to his shoulder, but stopping his downward slide was his only concern as his legs sought firmness below and found none. Gritting his teeth and continuing to slide, he grasped the rope with his trembling right hand as well. It had little strength, but enough to end his descent for the moment. Long enough to study what was beneath him.
A trio of limbs offered safe haven a few feet more and his descent stopped when his feet found them. His raw hands were nearing the ends of the rope. The sloping land was only eight feet away. His mind was whirling with the adrenaline of pain, fear and lack of sleep. Yet deep within him a cold fire continued to burn. He must attack to live.
Below, the Indian with the leg wound reached the base of the tree and fired wildly into a cluster of branches on the opposite side of where the plainsman now stood. Lockhart’s right hand reached for his holstered revolver, but the pounding ache in his arm and hand wouldn’t allow him to grip the weapon. He switched hands on the rope, hoping the limb at his feet would hold and his right hand would, at least, help him maintain his balance. He kept most of his weight on his left leg, not trusting his right to hold him.
With his freed left hand, he yanked the sawed-off shotgun from its quiver on his right shoulder, cocked the hammers and fired both barrels as the Indian’s face and gun hand appeared eight feet below him. A scream preceeded the warrior’s disappearance.
Silence. A soft groan, then a throaty gasp. Silence once more.
Another bullet slammed into the tree trunk. From the tall warrior behind his saddle, Lockhart thought. Would fleeing warriors find enough courage to return? He had to assume so. Looking around, he decided his position wasn’t a bad one. His feet were solidly positioned on two of the three sizable tree arms at this level. They would hold him.
He wiped blood from his eyes with the back of his left sleeve. A scratch along his forehead had produced the bleeding. He shoved the empty hand-shotgun into his waistband and drew his revolver with his left hand.
Throbbing in his right leg—from both wounds—forced him to stand completely on his left leg for a few minutes, leaning against the tree itself for b
alance. His canteen, hanging from his shoulder next to the shotgun quiver, clanked against the trunk and surprised him. He patted the container out of reflex. Breath came in heaves and not nearly as fast as his body demanded. Slowly, he eased his head to the left side of the trunk, enough to look out with his left eye. There had been no more shots at him.
Nothing was moving near his fake camp. In the distance, two silhouettes bobbed toward the horizon. A shadow changed direction on the far side of the camp, near one of the logs. He leaned farther forward to get a better view. It was an Indian crawling beside the log, headed for the dun; Lockhart guessed it was the one who had fired at him, then saw the hawk shape on his head. Yes. A gleam in the warrior’s hand told Lockhart what he feared. The warrior had realized the dun was not dead and intended to change that into reality with his war knife. Possibly he thought the horse, tied down, was a part of the deadly wasicun’s medicine.
Using an eye-level branch to steady his gun, Lockhart thumbed back the hammer and fired. Three times. The warrior stood and staggered, but didn’t drop the knife. Lockhart emptied the handgun, holstered it and drew the remaining Indian revolver from his waistband. It wasn’t necessary as the Indian crumpled and fell against the log. The war knife slid from his hand. Lockhart fired anyway, twice more.
Silence came again, then a faint roar echoed from the same faraway mountains. Was it the panther again? Was his vision guide signaling victory? Or was his imagination just playing tricks with his weary mind?
This time Lockhart saw no movement, no shadows changing shape.