So Wide the Sky

by Elizabeth Grayson

He reached across and sought her hand. His was warm, rough and sure against hers. "Don't be afraid. What is it you want?"

  "I want to mother Meggie, to be with Drew, but it's so hard sometimes."

  She felt his fingers tighten on her own. "And what will make that better?"

  He was like a guardian spirit, a strong, steady presence protecting her while she sought a vision for herself.

  "Getting away like this," she said. "Being able to breathe." She squeezed his hand by way of thanks. "And having you to talk to."

  He didn't say anything more. He didn't have to. Just his being there made the difference.

  They sat together for a little while longer, watching the moon play hide-and-seek behind a cloud, listening to the river whisper past. When she was ready, he walked her back.

  With Hunter beside her it wasn't so bad when the fort closed around her again—the rows of buildings, the smells of people, the stillness of the night that wasn't quite silence. The oppressive weight had lifted, and Cassandra felt able to live this life again.

  She parted from Hunter without saying good-bye. She stood for a moment after he'd melted away, drew one last breath, and went inside.

  She moved like a wraith through the silent house, slipped into the bedroom and removed her clothes. Drew murmured something in his sleep that made her turn and look at him. He was going away tomorrow, and all at once, she didn't want them to part in anger.

  "Drew," she whispered, sliding into the bed. "Drew?"

  She reached to stroke his cheek. He came awake with a jerk, catching her wrist in a crushing grip.

  It took a moment for him to realize who she was, a moment more for his hands and lips to find her. He drew her close against his side, and they were lost to the sweet, indefinable alchemy that had claimed and enchanted them long ago.

  * * *

  Hunter saw the three of them coming toward him down officers' row. Drew had Cassie's fingers folded possessively in one gauntleted hand and was balancing Meggie on his opposite hip. The little girl's arms were wrapped tightly around her papa's neck, and even in the hazy half-light of dawn, Hunter could see that when she looked at her husband, Cass all but glowed.

  He stood as if he'd been turned to stone, his heart drumming in his ears and his chest on fire. He had been with Cass the night before. He knew what she'd been feeling. Only one thing could have changed all that—making love to her husband.

  Fierce, irrational jealousy ripped through Hunter like a flood tide. He had no right to feel the way he did. He should be pleased that Cass had made peace with Drew. He'd encouraged her to do that. But nothing could make him glad he'd sent Cass into another man's bed.

  "I wasn't sure about those two when they married up," Lieutenant Anderson volunteered, coming up to where Hunter was tying his war club to the back of his saddle, "but things seem to have worked out well enough."

  Hunter fumbled for words. No one must guess how he felt about the captain's wife.

  "Looks like," he finally managed to mumble, and turned back to where preparations for leaving were well under way.

  Two parties were forming up this morning. The one headed for Fort Laramie consisted of Man-Afraid-of-His-Horse and his two companions, Captain Reynolds, Sergeant O'Hearn, and a dozen troopers. The second party was the surprise the major had devised for the fort's distinguished visitor.

  McGarrity made his way down the steps of the headquarters building toward where Man-Afraid-of-His-Horse stood waiting to mount his pony. Hunter joined them to translate.

  "As a token of our friendship," McGarrity began, gesturing to the wagon of supplies, "we have decided to send a gift to the people in the Powder River camps, a few of the things we thought you'd need if the hunting has been less than satisfactory."

  The Sioux chief eyed the wagon. "That is generous, very generous."

  "Lieutenant Anderson and Mr. Jalbert will accompany the wagon," McGarrity went on. "I'm also sending a few extra soldiers to see that—"

  Man-Afraid-of-His-Horse shook his head so vigorously his feathers danced. "You must send no troopers with the wagon. Only the young lieutenant, Lone Hunter, and two drivers may go into the camps."

  "That doesn't seem to be nearly enough men to ensure—"

  "More soldiers will be more trouble," the chief insisted.

  McGarrity seemed unconvinced.

  Man-Afraid-of-His-Horse turned and untied a tall crook-shaped staff from his saddle. "This will keep these four men safe."

  Hunter eyed the standard with appreciation. It was wondrously ornate. The shaft was wrapped with narrow strips of fur and banded with copper and brass. The crooked head fluttered with eagle feathers. Tiny silver bells jangled in the breeze.

  Man-Afraid-of-His-Horse offered the staff directly to Hunter. "This will grant you safe passage among my people," the old chief said. "Everyone in the northern camps will recognize that it is mine. They will see it, and it will be as if I ride with you. Tie a white handkerchief to the top to show you come in peace, and my people will offer you the same hospitality I would offer you if I were there."

  Hunter was astonished that Man-Afraid-of-His-Horse was entrusting him with what was one of a brave's most prized possessions. He inclined his head and accepted the standard with the humility such an honor deserved.

  "I thank you for giving something of such value and power to me," he said. "I will take care of this and see that it is returned to you when my visit to your people is over."

  The Sioux chief smiled. "I offer this for both our sakes. Do as I tell you, and all will go well."

  McGarrity waited for Hunter to explain, and when he was done, added his thanks for ensuring his men safe passage.

  Once the extra troopers were dismissed, the mounting up began in earnest. The Indians sprang onto their horses. Anderson walked up beside the wagon to give a few last-minute instructions to the drivers.

  Drew Reynolds mounted up, lingering at the head of his party while Cass and Meggie said good-bye.

  Hunter tried very hard not to watch them, but couldn't seem to help himself.

  Cass lifted Meggie up to her father for a final hug.

  "You be good for Cassie," he admonished her.

  "I will, Papa," the little girl promised.

  "You be careful, Drew," Cass murmured, handing him a lumpy bundle of food to eat along the way.

  Hunter would have sold his soul to have her bring him a rumpled bandanna of corn cake and biscuits.

  "I'll be as safe on the way to Fort Laramie as I'd be in a featherbed," Drew assured her, and reached down to stroke the thick, glossy strands of her honey-brown hair.

  Even from this distance Hunter could see that Reynolds's eyes were warm and his touch gentle. That simple gesture made Hunter's throat rasp and his chest burn as if he'd been breathing trail dust for a week. Cursing his own stupidity, he turned away.

  Up ahead, Lieutenant Anderson was swinging into the saddle. Hunter followed suit, taking special care with the standard Man-Afraid-of-His-Horse had given him. His roan danced a little with an impatience Hunter understood all too well. He couldn't wait to leave the fort.

  In a cacophony of thumping hooves, creaking leather, and squeaking wheels, both parties pulled away. Reynolds's headed east toward Fort Laramie. Anderson's turned north toward the Powder River country. Hunter followed the wagon toward the bridge, but instead of just riding away, he made the mistake of looking back.

  At the base of the headquarters steps Cass and Meggie stood waving and waving as if the captain might actually take a moment from his duties and wave back.

  Chapter 13

  "There, Lieutenant Anderson," Hunter said, pulling his horse to a halt at the top of the rise, "is the Powder River basin. Depending on who you believe, there are between five hundred and a thousand Sioux, Cheyenne, and Arapaho warriors waiting out there for a chance at us."

  Beside him, the young lieutenant stared openmouthed.

  Spread out across a shallow gold-and-green valley was the first o
f three Indian encampments. This one, Man-Afraid-of-His-Horse's compound, was neat, well kept, and comprised of nearly a hundred lodges laid out along the banks of a rippling creek. Smoke streamed upward from dozens of campfires. Vast herds of Indian ponies grazed on the thick, deep grass that carpeted the rising land beyond the camp.

  It was an impressive sight, yet instead of reading the signs and evaluating the village, Hunter found himself seeking out shapes and colors and configurations he remembered from when he was young. He found himself recalling the smell of sage sprinkled into a campfire, the tepees glowing in the dusk, and the pulse of distant drums.

  His heartbeat quickened as if he were coming home, but Lone Hunter was well aware that no Arikara was welcome among the Sioux, nor any army scout.

  Mastering a surge of feeling he refused to name, Hunter reached for his handkerchief and tied it to the top of the feathered standard Man-Afraid-of-His-Horse had given him. He raised the staff until the crisp, white cloth fluttered in the breeze.

  The heat of the sun lay heavy across his shoulders, the sky shone flax-flower blue, and the wind tasted sweet. It is a very good day to die, he thought, and motioned the others to follow him.

  As they rode nearer, Hunter spotted older boys clustered here and there across the plain guarding the compound's horses. He noticed women washing their clothes and bathing their children in the stream. He saw steam boiling out of the sweat lodge—which meant that the men were here and not off raiding. The camp dogs announced their arrival, and by the time they reached the central campfire, one of the sub-chiefs was there to greet them.

  Hunter swung down from his horse and addressed him. "I am Lone Hunter, Arikara scout for the army, and this is Lieutenant John Anderson. We have been sent by Man-Afraid-of-His-Horse and Major Benjamin McGarrity with supplies from Fort Carr."

  "I am Beaded Blanket," the sub-chief answered. "I see by the standard you carry that it is Man-Afraid-of-His-Horse who grants you passage."

  "Man-Afraid-of-His-Horse spoke of your need for food," Hunter told him, "and we have come to help."

  "And just where is Man-Afraid-of-His-Horse while you are here?" Beaded Blanket asked suspiciously.

  "Man-Afraid-of-His-Horse has gone to Fort Laramie," Hunter answered, "to secure powder and shot for the buffalo hunt."

  A murmur ran through the crowd, and one of the men stepped forward. Judging by his clothes and the feathers in his hair, he was another of the lesser chiefs. "Do you mean there is no ammunition in the wagon?" he demanded.

  "By order of the army chief in Omaha, neither the traders nor the military can give ammunition to the Indians," Hunter explained. "No whites may go against his word."

  Beaded Blanket curled his lip in derision. "Then why has Man-Afraid-of-His-Horse gone to Fort Laramie?"

  "He believes he can convince Colonel Palmer to change the big chief's mind."

  If these men did not believe him, if they thought that Man-Afraid-of-His-Horse had been killed or was being held against his will, he and these soldiers were as good as dead. They would be overpowered, stripped, and beaten, and would die by torture.

  Beaded Blanket drew several of the other men aside to measure the truth of his words.

  Sweat crawled down Hunter's ribs as they waited. His palm itched for the feel of his revolver, yet he did not move. The chiefs talked for what seemed a very long time.

  "We will accept these supplies," Beaded Blanket finally agreed. "We will give you and your men a place to sleep tonight, and you must leave when the sun comes into the sky."

  That didn't leave much time to reconnoiter, Hunter thought. "Man-Afraid-of-His-Horse asked me to oversee the distribution of these supplies between this camp, Red Cloud's camp, and the Cheyenne camp of Buffalo Tongue," Hunter said.

  Beaded Blanket seemed both startled and aggrieved by the request. "But we have always seen to the equal distribution of goods."

  Hunter shook his head as if in confusion. "Man-Afraid-of-His-Horse asked me to see to it myself—and I gave my word."

  Beaded Blanket clearly did not want to go against the peace chief's wishes and sought the counsel of the other warriors in a single glance.

  "Then you alone may ride to the other camps," he decided.

  It was more than Hunter had dared to hope for.

  They spent the next hour dividing up the goods. When they were done, a tall, solemn squaw showed them to a tepee. It was impersonally furnished, without woven rugs and animal skins on the floor, without an embroidered tent liner or colorful parfleches piled between the cots. Still, only Hunter missed the niceties. The others were astonished at how solid and snug the tepee seemed.

  While the lieutenant and his troopers settled in, Hunter set off across the compound. By the shields displayed outside the tepees and the paintings of valorous deeds painted on their sides, he saw that many of the men were seasoned warriors. Still, there were no signs of martial activity. No stockpiles of food and arrows, no evidence of military training, no groups telling tales of glory or discussing tactics.

  After he had walked the camp from end to end, Hunter sought admission to the sweat lodge, knowing that as an emissary of Man-Afraid-of-His-Horse, he would not be refused. Once inside, he made himself as inconspicuous as possible and listened to the men discussing village business. Though warriors from this encampment had probably been involved in the attacks on the Bozeman Trail and in the Fetterman massacre the winter before, their views were much like the ones Man-Afraid-of-His-Horse had expressed at Fort Carr. They wanted to find a way to maintain their way of life and live in peace. Since Red Cloud was the war chief, Hunter expected that the views expressed in his camp would be quite different.

  Clean from his visit to the sweat lodge and a swim in the stream, Hunter returned to the tepee and found that the four of them had been invited to Beaded Blanket's lodge for the evening meal. They arrived at the appointed hour with their bowls and spoons. Following Hunter's lead, Lieutenant Anderson and his men entered the tepee, greeted their host, and seated themselves to the right of the door.

  Beaded Blanket's wife served each of them strips of roasted antelope, a spicy stew, corn bread, boiled greens, and pemmican. The soldiers comported themselves like gentlemen, finishing every bite of their dinner and waiting politely for their host to light his pipe.

  They smoked with him and spoke of inconsequential things. One of the troopers had a fine tenor voice, and Hunter suggested he sing since most Indians enjoyed the complex melodies of the white man's music.

  When he and the others had offered their thanks and rose to go, Beaded Blanket spoke to Hunter softly. "You will be ready when the sun comes up. The camps are near at hand, but it will take most of the day to distribute the goods."

  Hunter was the only one of the four who slept soundly that night, and he was waiting at the wagon when Beaded Blanket and the others gathered just after dawn.

  At Buffalo Tongue's Cheyenne village the chief accepted the goods with equanimity, but in Red Cloud's camp the warriors greeted the army's generosity with skepticism. Though he had very little chance to look around, Hunter saw that older men were painting their war shields and making arrows. The younger ones were practicing their fighting skills. Goods and weapons, which as far as Hunter could see included powder and shot, were stockpiled in tents on the north side of the camp. Hunter would have bet half of next year's pay that most of those supplies had come through licensed traders. But which ones? Hunter wondered. Who was making his fortune selling contraband?

  Hunter had barely returned to Beaded Blanket's camp when Lieutenant Anderson came to him with something that verified his suspicions—a small tin can that had held condensed milk.

  "They wouldn't have gotten that through the usual sources, would they, Mr. Jalbert?" the young lieutenant asked him, an edge of excitement to his voice. "It would have had to come from illegal trade."

  "I suppose it would," Hunter answered, working at the label with his knife. "There seems to be some kind of stamp down in the
corner. Maybe that will tell us where this milk came from."

  And who's been trading illegally with the Sioux and Cheyenne.

  Though the can had been used to mix the thick, viscous glue that the Indians boiled from buffalo hooves, Hunter managed to get the label off intact.

  "I'll take this to Major McGarrity, and maybe with the information we get from it he can cut off the flow of contraband.

  "Now, have whoever took this put it back. We don't want the Sioux to think we stole it."

  * * *

  Fort Laramie was very much as Drew remembered. Built on a rise at the junction of the Laramie and the North Platte Rivers, the installation was comprised of a dozen clapboard buildings organized around a rectangular parade ground. A dozen more buildings—mostly stables, storage sheds, and craftsmen's shops—lay off to the north. The post hospital where Laura had died was off that way, too, as was the cemetery where she was buried. As they rode past, Drew glanced toward her grave and promised himself he'd come back to pay his respects. As much as it rankled him, Man-Afraid-of-His-Horse took priority. He had to be taken directly to Colonel Palmer.

  They pulled their horses to a stop outside the graceful two-storied building known affectionately as Old Bedlam, where the commander kept an office on the first floor. As they dismounted, one of the colonel's staff officers sauntered out to greet them.

  "Good afternoon, Lieutenant," Drew said, smartly answering the man's salute in spite of being stiff and saddle weary. "I'm Captain Drew Reynolds, and I'm acting as escort to Man-Afraid-of-His-Horse on orders from Major McGarrity at Fort Carr. Man-Afraid-of-His-Horse wishes to confer with Colonel Palmer at his earliest convenience."

  "Indeed?" the lieutenant asked with a lift of his brows. "And just what business does this redskin wish to discuss?"

  "I believe that is between the colonel and Man-Afraid-of-His-Horse," Drew answered.

  The lieutenant gave a self-important sniff. "Colonel Palmer has very little time to chat with hostiles."

  Drew had dealt with more than his share of supercilious staff officers during the war and skewered the man with a single glance. "You don't have any idea who this man is, do you, Lieutenant?"