Ashes of Heaven (The Plainsmen Series)

by Terry C. Johnston

  Off the hillside where he had been riding just below the crest, the half-breed pointed the horse toward the Tongue itself. Down into the bottomland where the cottonwoods grew tall and thick, surrounded by a profusion of willow and alder, chokecherry and sarvisberry—enough cover for a dark-skinned man slipping up on a soldier post. He might just make it before dark.

  When the voice called out behind him, Johnny froze.

  “Stop right there!” it cried with shrill alarm. “Sergeant!”

  Bruguier yanked back on the reins and raised his empty left hand encased in the horsehide glove.

  “What is it?” a second voice boomed from the brush ahead.

  The scared soldier was stepping out of the trees, coming up behind Bruguier, his long rifle pointed squarely at the half-breed’s back.

  “Injun!”

  The second man’s voice was close now. “Only one, eh?”

  “I’m Bruguier,” Johnny announced to the man ahead of him, turning around in the saddle. A handful of soldiers came up to stand behind the sergeant who dropped the butt of his Springfield to the snow and draped his wrists across the muzzle.

  “That’s right,” the older man declared with a grin. “This here’s the general’s scout.”

  “That’s the one did the talkin’ for that ol’ red-belly Sittin’ Bull back to last fall,” announced another.

  “I reckon he’s seen the error of his ways,” the second man replied as he stepped forward to get himself a good look at Bruguier. “Thought you rode off with that old Cheyenne woman more’n two weeks back.”

  “She’s a day behind me,” Johnny said, licking his swollen lower lip, less nervous now that they knew who he was.

  Another man stepped up to the side of Bruguier’s horse. “We heard you found the camp of them hostiles. Escort boys told us when they come back.”

  With a nod, Johnny said, “I’m bringing in a bunch of them warriors to surrender.”

  “They’re gonna give up?” a soldier shrieked.

  “I need to ride on in to tell the general all ’bout it,” the half-breed explained. “They’ll likely make it here by this time tomorrow.”

  “By gonies, boys!” the second man bellowed loud enough to roust some crows from nearby branches into noisy flight. “That’s good news this here scout’s bringing the general! This here war’s over for us!”

  The older soldier stepped right up to the half-breed’s horse, yanked off a mitten and held the hand up to Johnny. They shook. “You done good by the general, scout.”

  Bruguier gave his horse a nudge as he pulled his gauntlet mitten back over his right hand, more anxious than ever to reach the fort. Having stumbled across this wood-cutting detail, and with the woodsmoke growing strong in his nostrils—the very taste of it scratching the back of his throat—Johnny didn’t figure it would take him long at all to reach that clearing where the log huts and humble canvas tents stood against this winter’s unrelenting onslaught.

  Among those poor shanties looming ahead, soldiers in their long buffalo coats and muskrat caps spotted him, turning and slapping the next man until it seemed nearly the whole post was turning out to watch the half-breed bring that worn-out, broken-down army horse back to the fort. While many of them whispered among themselves as he plodded by, it wasn’t until he neared the commander’s office that a soldier actually raised his voice.

  “Scout’s coming in, General!” the man hollered as he took off in an ungainly lope across the trampled crust of snow ahead of Bruguier. “Tell the general his scout’s coming in!”

  “By damn, if he ain’t still alive!” shouted one of the two men standing on either side of the low door to Miles’s office.

  The second guard turned and pounded the loose-fitting plank door with the side of his balled-up mitten as Johnny gently drew back on the reins and stopped his weary horse. “General Miles, sir! Your half-breed’s back from the hostiles, sir!”

  No sooner had he unwrapped himself from the half-robe tucked around his legs and dropped to the ground, worrying how his stiff, frozen knees would hold him up, than the noisy plank door flew open. The door was drawn back with a scrape across its jamb by Miles himself, who nearly filled the opening.

  “Bruguier!” he roared as he stepped into the fading light. That exuberant voice, the shaggy mane, as well as the full, unkempt beard, reminded Johnny of a great black bear. “By the stars—it is you!”

  He grabbed the half-breed’s hand and squeezed it, immediately tugging Johnny toward the door. “C’mon, c’mon! We’re going to warm you up inside by the stove and then you’re going to tell me about your journey.”

  Miles suddenly stopped there at the low threshold and turned to look across the snowy quadrangle. “Where are the rest? Did you bring anyone else? Where’s the old woman? Did she elect to stay on with her village?”

  “You got any coffee, General?” Johnny asked the instant Miles paused to take a breath in that rapid-fire hailstorm of questioning.

  “Of course! Of course!” the colonel roared, turning again to one of the soldiers who were pressing close. “Have the officer of the day get us some fresh coffee over here. And dig around for some tins of fruit too. Let’s get this man’s belly filled so he can start wagging his tongue for me!”

  * * *

  The morning after Big Leggings left to hurry north for the soldier fort, White Bull and the other warrior chiefs did not spur their people to break camp before dawn. Already they had traveled long, difficult days through the deep snow to reach this camping spot beside the Buffalo Tongue River, less than a day south of the Elk River post. White Bull felt the hidden scars from this war: the way the cold and hunger had carved deep into the hearts of his Ohmeseheso.

  A holy man was he, cursed with seeing that which other men would never see.

  White Bull’s people had only what dried meat they had when the encampment broke up and dispersed to the winds. In that burnt-out country west of the Buffalo Tongue, they found little game while they limped west after the snowy fight at Belly Butte. Coming here from that country of the Little Sheep River near the White Mountains, again little game was found.

  The holy man prayed the Bear Coat would be true to his word, prayed he would offer food for hungry bellies, blankets for shivering children, an opportunity for the old ones to rest without fleeing. White Bull wordlessly spoke his prayer throughout that short winter day, even after the Shahiyela made camp for the night and the severe cold settled low in the river valley, clinging to the cottonwood and the brush and laying close in among the lodges.

  By the time a sulky sun had climbed close to midsky the following day, White Bull figured he and the other leaders had to be drawing near to soldier fort.

  Fearing that the soldiers or their Crow People scouts would again shoot at the sight of the Shahiyela warriors, White Bull, Two Moon, and the other chiefs decided that no more than a delegation of headmen should ride in to talk with the Bear Coat.

  “We must all go to see if the soldier chief talks well,” White Thunder said.

  “No, some of you must stay behind,” White Bull argued. “If we are made prisoners by the Bear Coat, or if the soldiers’ scouts lay in wait to ambush us again just as they did before,* then we need a few strong chiefs to quickly lead our people out of danger. Chiefs who will watch over and protect them until the Ohmeseheso can decide what to do when there is no one left to trust.”

  “What are you saying?” asked Sleeping Rabbit. “Are you really suggesting that some of our leaders stay behind?”

  “Yes,” White Bull answered. “If our chiefs are murdered by soldiers or soldier scouts … then we must be sure some of our leaders survive to lead the People.”

  “Who is to stay?” Medicine Bear asked.

  White Bull turned to look at the man. “You will stay. You will watch over these people. I trust no one more than I trust you, my friend. I will count on you to hurry this village away if we do not return.”

  “I will go north with you,”
announced Hump, leader of the few lodges of Mnikowoju who had resolutely stayed on with the Shahiyela when the rest of the Lakota departed with Crazy Horse. Behind this leader, also known as High Backbone, stood several of the warriors of his clan. “Because I am the only Lakota chief here, I owe it to my people to talk with the Bear Coat myself, to see if his words ring true.”

  “Good,” White Bull answered. “And if we are murdered by the Crow People, or if the soldiers take us prisoner, then you must have your people flee with Medicine Bear.”

  “Agreed,” Hump replied. “We have chosen to take the same path in reaching this place. My people will stay on that path the Shahiyela have chosen.”

  As the only two Council Chiefs still among them, Crazy Head and Old Wolf rode at the head of the procession that left the village behind that morning. Following them were the older, honored warriors: Little Creek and Iron Shirt, Black Bear and Crazy Mule. Behind them rode Two Moon and White Bull, both of them riding on either side of Old Wool Woman. Joining them were White Thunder and Sleeping Rabbit, the great Shahiyela physician. Protecting the rear of the delegation were Hump, his brother Horse Road, and several of their Lakota kinsmen.

  This delegation drove their weary ponies as fast as they could through the crusty snow, halting only once at midmorning to water the horses and let them blow. After that short rest, the riders hurried on, anxious to learn if they could come to trust the Bear Coat as Old Wool Woman had … or to know at last if this was nothing more than a ve-ho-e trap using the old woman to lure the chiefs into the snare.

  If so, White Bull kept assuring himself, at least a few of the People would survive. Medicine Bear and the other leaders would hurry them south, away from the soldier chief’s deadly trap. The men could hunt, the women could tan the robes, and their children could grow to become warriors and mothers, knowing the soldiers would eventually come looking for them.

  If not that winter, then perhaps in the spring.

  If the Bear Coat’s word was nothing more than a breath of foul wind, then Medicine Bear and the others left behind in the village would stand little chance of surviving another winter, even if they fled into the fastness of the mountains. Three Finger Kenzie had shown them that. Even in the mountains the Ohmeseheso were not safe.

  Their survival rested less and less on how resolutely White Bull’s people made war against the soldiers, but more and more on how bravely his people could make peace with these strangers who had come to take everything that belonged to them. The land. The rivers and streams. The buffalo.

  So many lives lost and still the Northern People hadn’t turned the soldiers back. The time had come to talk of surrendering with honor to the soldier chief. Time to make a courageous peace before there were no more Ohmeseheso to carry on the names and the old stories and the glory tales of long-ago battles, before no one was left to tell the little ones about the days when the buffalo ran free across the hills and the prairie, when the People rode free with those buffalo.

  Before the coming of the ve-ho-e and his soldiers.

  White Bull reminded his heart he had to believe that the Bear Coat would be a man of honor.

  If not, the glory days of the Ohmeseheso truly were like ashes on the wind.

  Chapter 15

  Late in the Big Hoop-and-Stick Game Moon

  1877

  Old Wool Woman could sense the danger felt by the men around her. Strong in her nostrils, so palpable she could smell it on the wind, it was almost as strong this day as it was when they fought Three Finger Kenzie in the Red Fork Canyon.

  These were brave men, she thought as she gazed around at them this cold, clear afternoon. While she alone seemed convinced that all would be good with their going to the Elk River fort, she clearly realized that these Ohmeseheso and Lakota chiefs and warriors around her had nowhere near the confidence she had in the Bear Coat’s intentions.

  Yes, these were the bravest of her people, she reminded herself. The others, even great chiefs like Little Wolf and Morning Star, were nowhere near as brave as these men. Those who led the way south to the White River Agency were taking what they believed to be the easiest path—perhaps to slip into the reservation without alerting the soldiers or the ve-ho-e agent. Sly those leaders would try to be.

  And those few who had refused to go either north or south but instead rode away with some of the Crazy Horse warrior bands—they simply didn’t have the courage it took to make the toughest decisions regarding the future of the Ohmeseheso.

  But these who rode behind Crazy Head and Old Wolf toward the Elk River post were the bravest of any simply because they dared take a chance on peace for the good of their people. Easy it was to run away until they were surrounded like the white man’s spotted buffalo. Easier to keep on fighting until there were no more Shahiyela left. Easiest to close one’s eyes and keep on starving until hunger claimed every last one of your relations.

  She sat up a little straighter and took a deep breath of the cold air, thankful the sun had appeared today after so many gray days in a row, strung together like knots on a rope—

  Magpies burst into flight, rising from the trees to her right, up ahead along the west bank of the river. Startled by the sudden movement, some of the ponies shied as the shadows flitted low overhead. Great jets of steam issued from the horses’ round, flaring nostrils, as the men brought them under control.

  Then Old Wool Woman saw two riders appear out of the cottonwoods ahead.

  Old Wolf threw up his arm, halting them. The rest of the delegation clattered up on either side of him and Crazy Head, arrayed in one broad flank should trouble prove unavoidable, should treachery raise its ugly head as it had for Packs the Drum and four others the last time peace-makers came to this place.

  On either side of her American horse streamed in Hump’s Lakota warriors, hurrying to fill the gaps on that line of courageous men, to take their places on the solid phalanx that arrayed itself in front of the enemy.

  “It’s the half-breed called White!” shouted White Bull.

  “Is it a soldier with him?” Sleeping Rabbit asked.

  With a flat hand shading his eyes, White Thunder answered, “I cannot tell for sure—but he does not ride like an Indian.”

  Old Wool Woman shaded her eyes as well and gazed at the distant riders who had frightened the magpies into flight. Bruguier pushed back the front brim of his hat to expose more of his face, then raised the arm high in greeting. He called out her name in Lakota.

  “Big Leggings!” she cried, with the relief of a mother welcoming her son who had gone off to face much danger. Old Wool Woman urged her big horse between the ponies ridden by Two Moon and Crazy Mule, then halted in front of that wide line of men, waiting for the half-breed and his companion.

  “The rest of the village stayed behind?” Bruguier asked when he had come to a halt before her.

  “Yes,” she answered in Lakota. “Have you been to the fort and seen the Bear Coat?”

  “Yes, yes,” he answered, flush with renewed excitement. “The soldier chief wants you all to come talk with him. It will be safe. No soldiers will harm you.”

  “Are we far?” White Bull asked Old Wool Woman, who translated.

  “No, not far,” the half-breed assured them. “Tell the chiefs and these warriors that the Bear Coat wants them to dress up in their finest war clothes before they reach the fort.”

  “War clothes?” Iron Shirt asked after Old Wool Woman translated.

  Crazy Mule demanded, “Why would we wear our war clothes if we are going in to talk of peace?”

  “Big Leggings says the white man wants us to wear the clothes for a grand show,” she explained. “The Bear Coat told the half-breed that he will put his soldiers in two lines when we get to the fort. We will ride between the lines of soldiers. The soldier chief will come out to shake hands with some of you then.”

  “Be sure to tell the chiefs they must choose a few of their number to ride forward and shake hands with the Bear Coat,” Bruguier
reminded her.

  As soon as Old Wool Woman explained the request to the others, there arose some nervous mumbling about that demand: fresh in their memories were the five ambushed by the Crow People scouts. She could tell the men around her were growing more fearful of a trap.

  “There is nothing to fear from the soldier chief,” she tried to assure them. “Those who volunteer will ride forward to meet the Bear Coat in the middle and shake hands.”

  Turning back to look at the half-breed, Old Wool Woman watched something gray cross his face.

  “I believe I should tell you something important,” Bruguier disclosed. “The soldier chief owns two horses. If he rides out to meet you on the white one, it means he will talk of peace. But if the Bear Coat comes out to meet you on the roan—that is his war horse.”

  For a moment she didn’t know how to explain that to the others, these Shahiyela leaders who were looking at her, waiting for her to translate the half-breed’s words. Would this bit of news ruin every hope she had been nursing for so long? Had she come this close to the Elk River fort with these men the Bear Coat sent her to bring back, only to learn that the Bear Coat might yet be a man who held war in his heart? Had she been deceived? Had she been made a fool?

  Her lips quivered slightly as she reluctantly translated.

  “The Bear Coat will ride his war horse to take us prisoner!” Iron Shirt shrieked in dismay and anger.

  “He called us here in peace,” White Thunder bellowed, “but once we are close enough that we can’t turn back, he speaks to us of war!”

  “Big Leggings!” Old Wool Woman shouted in the midst of the growing uproar. “Is this talk of the two horses true?”

  “The Bear Coat has two horses,” Bruguier affirmed. “I have seen them with my own eyes so I wanted these chiefs to know. The soldier chief rode the roan when he went after Sitting Bull’s village last autumn. Again when he came down the Tongue after the Crazy Horse village”

  “But did the Bear Coat say you were to tell us about his horses?”