by Shirl Henke
“Kit Fox was right. You do possess no more honor than a coyote, Pony Whipper,” she hissed in Cheyenne.
The blade dug in a bit more but he said nothing, only laughed as he began to force her down to the frozen earth. She tried desperately to think. How could she get free of the knife long enough for a good blood-curdling scream and a chance to seize a weapon of some sort? Such would be no easy matter for he wasted no time, pushing her roughly onto her robe, which had fallen to the ground. He came down on top of her, his face a lust-crazed mask, twisted in hatred. Stephanie lay passively beneath him as he knelt straddling her, the knife still at her throat. He began to tear at his breechclout.
It would all be done in another moment. Twisting her head to one side, she jackknifed upward, raising her right knee to smash it into his crotch, but the blow only grazed his inner thigh. At once he grunted in outrage and raised the handle of the knife, smashing it into the side of her head. Everything went red, then black in front of her eyes, but she screamed before another blow knocked her unconscious.
Pony Whipper had made a tactical blunder. He had started his attack before his real enemy was out of earshot. Chase heard the sounds of scuffling before Stephanie's cry. A red haze enveloped him when he burst into the clearing and saw Pony Whipper with Stephanie pinned naked beneath him. Seeing the knife in his enemy's hand, Chase moved silently across the distance separating them and lunged at Pony Whipper, knocking him away from Stephanie's unconscious body. The two men rolled in the snow, both struggling for control of Pony Whipper’s blade.
The Crazy Dog came up on top, pressing the knife down toward Chase's chest as he snarled, “And now you die with the thought that I shall use your pale skinny woman until she begs for death. Then I shall answer her pleas. It will take her a long time to die.” His hand quivered as he pressed down with renewed force.
“You boast of what you will never accomplish,” Chase rasped, as sweat beaded his brow in spite of the cold night air. His foe, too, was slick with perspiration as the deadly wrestling contest continued.
For a moment it seemed as if Chase's arm would give way and the knife plunge into his heart but at the last second, when all Pony Whipper’s consciousness was focused on driving home his weapon, Chase brought up his leg and slammed it into his foe's side. They rolled again, kicking and thrashing. Pony Whipper tried to smash Chase's head into a large outcropping of rock but failed.
At length they reached the edge of the water. The heat of the springs kept the snow at bay and the ground was moss covered and slick. The slightly sulfurous smell of the water mingled with the metallic odor of blood as both men bled freely from superficial nicks received wrestling over the blade. As blood and sweat poured down Pony Whipper’s arm, Chase's grip slipped, freeing the Crazy Dog's knife. Pony Whipper jumped up with a grunt of triumph and plunged it down, but Chase rolled to the side.
The blade sank deep into the soft earth. Before Pony Whipper could free it and raise it again, Chase rolled up on his knees and drove his fist into his adversary's ribs, knocking the wind from him. Pony Whipper emitted a loud grunt but held tightly to his knife. Chase struck again, this time a powerful blow to Pony Whipper’s jaw. The crack of bone splintered sickeningly as the big Crazy Dog's head snapped backward.
Yet he still clutched the knife even as his body was spun completely around. He landed facedown in the shallow water with a loud splash and remained motionless. Then a slow seepage of red began to darken the bubbling surface. Crawling on his knees, winded and gulping air, Chase struggled to turn Pony Whipper’s body over. The knife blade was lodged firmly in his chest. Pony Whipper had died by his own hand, on the point of his blade.
Chase released him and rose, with Stephanie's name on his lips. Then he saw Plenty Horses at the edge of the trees, obviously winded from his run from camp. Without a word, Chase strode over to his wife and covered her bare body with the robe, cradling her in his arms as he examined the wound on her head.
“Stevie?”
She stirred and her eyes blinked. Then she moaned and reached up to him, holding tightly to his arm.
Plenty Horses approached them. “I followed Pony Whipper when I learned from Strikes Back that he boasted he would rid our people of the white witch. They were up late smoking and telling tales with the other members of our society when he said this thing. No one else believed him...or cared if he did it,” Plenty Horses added reluctantly.
“The Crazy Dogs despise me for my white blood. Killing my wife would be revenge because I am allowed to lead raids and sit in the councils of the elders.”
“I see the evidence of the dishonorable thing Pony Whipper tried to do and I witnessed the way he died. You will not suffer banishment for his death.”
“I thank you for that, Plenty Horses,” Chase replied gravely, knowing that testifying for a half-blood against a member of his own warrior society was an act of great courage.
Plenty Horses smiled. ‘‘It is the least I can do for both my sisters. Kit Fox told me of how Pony Whipper was brought down by our foster sister when he attempted to dishonor her.”
As Stephanie stirred in his arms, Chase looked down on her tenderly. “She has great courage but it earned her Pony Whipper’s deadly enmity,” he said, stroking her cheek. “Warrior Woman,” he crooned with a smile.
* * * *
The rest of the winter passed in relative peace. Secure in their mountain hideaway, Elk Bull's band hunted deer and small game and prepared their weapons for the day the pass would clear and they could once again venture out onto the open plains. True to his word, Plenty Horses had borne witness to the shameful attack Pony Whipper had made on the White Wolf's wife. Since the Crazy Dog had died by his own knife, the usual sentence of banishment had not been leveled against Chase. For a brief while, he and Stephanie, along with Smooth Stone and Tiny Dancer, lived as a family, laughing, loving and sharing in the life of the village.
But all too soon the first warm winds of spring arrived and Stephanie knew her love would once again ride off to war against the white man. As soon as it was possible for a lone horseman to slip through the pass and ride clear of the Bighorns, Chase donned his tame Indian clothes and prepared to depart, leaving Stephanie to cry silent acid tears in their lodge.
“Please don't do this, Chase,” she had implored. “We've been happy here with the children—safe. You could be killed out there.”
“Or I could kill some of them. That will always bother you, won't it?” he replied angrily, strapping a dirty bedroll on the back of the dun's saddle. “Who knows, I might even get it right and finish Phillips this time.”
Stephanie felt his words like a blow. “I said I would divorce him,” she replied coldly. “You need not murder him to keep him from reclaiming me if he even wanted me.”
“He wants your money. He'd kill you to get it.” He dropped his hands to his sides and stood, looking at her, not wanting to leave it this way between them. If I had an ounce of sense, I'd take her out with me and leave her safe with de Boef
She almost told him Hugh already had her money but she still possessed some shred of pride. No matter how they quarreled over his vendetta against the whites, he still loved her. She could not bear to see that love turn to pity. If they had to part—and she forced herself to admit it could happen—she would walk away with her head held high, leaving him to regret that he had chosen revenge over love. She would never attempt to hold him because he felt sorry for a penniless and abandoned army wife.
Grabbing the saddle horn, Chase swung effortlessly up on the dun. As he settled into the unaccustomed saddle he almost kicked the horse into a trot, but some irresistible impulse made him pause an instant as his eyes locked with hers. She stood defiantly, dressed in an old doeskin tunic with her hair plaited down her back. Working outdoors in the clear winter sunlight had given her face a golden tint and tiny amber freckles dusted her nose and cheekbones. She was so lovely it made his breath catch in his throat. Without thinking, he reached down and sc
ooped her up in a fierce embrace, pressing her against his side with one arm while the other tilted her stubborn chin up so his lips could claim hers in a fierce kiss.
At first Stephanie pressed her palms angrily against his shoulders, feeling the steely bulge of muscles beneath the greasy shirt. His beard rasped on her delicate skin as long shaggy black hair danced across her face. He smelled of horse and old leather and she could not have loved him more. When his tongue rimmed the seam of her lips demanding entry, she opened to his kiss, raising her fingertips to skim across his unshaven face. Then she buried her fists in his hair, pulling him closer yet.
The children watched solemnly from the door of the lodge, overhearing the tense exchange before the White Wolf swept Eyes Like Sun into his arms. Neither understood the reasons for the infrequent fights their adoptive parents had, but when she wrapped her arms about his neck and returned his kiss, they smiled at one another. Things would be as they had been before once the White Wolf returned from his mysterious mission in the white world.
* * * *
Chase did not return until the snows had almost melted and May was perfumed with fresh pine and wildflowers. The mountains were warmed by sunlight. The small band of Elk Bull grew restless and eager to rejoin their Cheyenne brothers and Lakota cousins in the great summer hunts. But the news the White Wolf bore made them wary.
While they remained hidden securely in their valley this past March, General Crook had led his Blue Coats on a desperate winter campaign out of Fort Fetterman, riding up along the twisting path of the Tongue River, only two days from their stronghold. Fortunately Crook had been deterred by the fury of late winter blizzards and did not venture into the mountains, but now Long Hair, the feared and hated George Armstrong Custer, headed a great invasion force out of Fort Lincoln in Dakota Territory. Along with General Terry and Colonel Gibbons, he was ordered by the White Father in Washington to round up all the Indians along the Upper Yellowstone. That great river and its numerous tributaries comprised the hunting grounds guaranteed to the Horse Indians by the Treaty of Fort Laramie back in 1868 “for as long as the buffalo should run.”
Of course, the army, along with the railroad, the miners and the buffalo hunters, were making sure that would not be long by decimating the great herds with systematic ruthlessness. Nevertheless, the time was ripe for another hunt and tens of thousands of the great shaggy beasts still populated the vast open reaches of the river valleys. Elk Bull's warriors were eager to race across the plains in pursuit of them. That night the leaders sat in council to hear all the White Wolf had learned.
“If we leave the mountains, I think it would be best to join Sitting Bull's Lakota to the northeast in the Powder River country,” Chase said. “The Hunkpapa have drawn thousands to them—all the other tribes of the Teton Nation—Oglala, Sans Arc, Blackfoot, Brule, Miniconjou. And also our cousins the Arapaho and many other bands of Cheyenne.”
‘‘All are angry because the White Father has said it is all right for his settlers to seize our Sacred Hills and drive peaceful hunters from the land pledged to us in treaty,” Stands Tall stated, wanting everyone in the council to understand the extent of the danger they would face when they left the sanctuary of the mountains.
“Why do they not put all the Indians on wheels? Then they could move us about as they please,” Elk Bull said sourly to a chorus of angry agreement.
Chase briefly explained about the army units which would shortly be placed in the field against the various tribes. He ached to join the war parties already making their medicine to attack the hated Blue Coats, especially Custer. Nothing would have given him greater pleasure than to kill the fabled Long Hair—except to kill Hugh Phillips, the butcher of Wyoming Territory. But he could do neither, he reminded himself, for this band depended on him for its safety. He had a family now. First he must think of Stephanie, Smooth Stone and Tiny Dancer.
“We have supplied our Lakota brothers with many good Henry and Winchester rifles. Now they are nearly five thousand strong and growing every week as more people come to join them for the hunt. By summer they will number twice that. The Long Hair and other soldiers will chase the war parties but even Custer would not be so foolish as to attack the main encampment. If you choose to go, it is to that place I say we should travel. I will offer more presents to Sitting Bull from my stockpile of repeating rifles.”
Discussion ensued as each warrior with martial experience spoke his piece, as was the Cheyenne way. Finally a consensus was reached. They would join the summer camp of Sitting Bull. The great Lakota leader had never bowed to government dictates nor taken agency handouts. He steadfastly eschewed any contact with the whites, leading his people to live by the buffalo hunt on the open plains as they had for hundreds of years.
That night it was moonrise before Chase returned to their lodge. Smooth Stone and Tiny Dancer had been allowed to remain awake to greet their foster father. Stephanie stirred a steaming pot of stew, fragrant with chunks of mountain sheep and wild onions. During her years in the West she had become a competent cook, learning from the strikers on the army posts. Now she had mastered cooking over an open campfire under even more primitive conditions.
The sudden draft of cool air as he opened the tent flap alerted Stephanie to Chase's entry. He stood in the flickering firelight, so tall and dangerous looking, still dressed in the guise of half-breed drifter, hair unbound, beard bristling and clothes greasy and rumpled. An arsenal of weapons surrounded him, Winchester in his right hand, Navy Colt on one hip and a wicked Bowie knife on the other. A beaded Osage necklace hung around his neck where the open lacings of the worn buckskin shirt revealed a thick patch of black hair but concealed the telltale Sun Dance scars.
Stephanie knew they were there. How often in the nights they'd shared had she stroked them and touched her mouth to the ridged scars, signs of his savagery. She stood up, moistening her lips nervously. She had allowed them to part in anger, then worried herself sick that he would die alone in some dirty army outpost or wild frontier boomtown. The urge to throw herself into his arms and hold him almost overpowered her, yet she forced herself to wait, to gauge his feelings for her now that he had moved among his white enemies.
When Chase stepped inside the lodge, the sleepy-eyed children's faces lit up as they launched themselves at him, circling the fire pit to run into his arms. He knelt, hugging them both; then lifted one in each arm. All the while his eyes never left Stephanie's. She stood rooted to the ground, nervously clutching a bone spoon in her hand. He had felt her visual inspection of him the instant she became aware of his presence. He looked dirty and mean, contaminated by the dregs of white society with whom he had consorted. He'd ridden hard after leaving Bismarck, eager to return to her. Was she repelled by the stink of his unwashed clothes and body?
“You look very domestic, Stevie. That stew smells wonderful,” he said. I missed you so much I couldn't think of anything else.
“You must be hungry.” She knelt down by the bubbling pot and began to dish up a bowl for him as Smooth Stone and Tiny Dancer chattered about what they had done while he was gone, interspersed with questions about what he had seen on his long journey.
When he squatted down by the fire and accepted the food their fingers brushed. He felt scorched by the light touch and heard her sharp intake of breath. She looked away, chewing on her lip, and began to fuss with her cooking utensils. So, she was not put off by his rough looking appearance. Then the insidious thought occurred—at least as Asa Grant he looked part white, but here in camp he looked wholly Cheyenne. There was no use pursuing that thought. He began to wolf down the savory stew.
“What did the council decide?” she asked at length after instructing the children to return to their pallets and go to sleep.
“We begin packing up to leave the mountains at first light.”
“You don't think it's safe, do you?”
He shrugged. “What place is safe anymore? We're being hunted down and exterminated just like the buf
falo.”
“But if we stayed here, the army could never find us.”
“That's not an option. My people are horsemen used to living freely on the plains. We can't live indefinitely on deer and smaller game. We need the buffalo for its hides, bones and sinews as well as its meat. And we need to mix with other bands. You know about our laws against marriage within the same clans. We've always been part of a great nation among other allied nations.”
Stephanie had learned from Red Bead, Kit Fox and others about the complex clan system of the Cheyenne, as well as the interrelated tribal councils of the whole nation that met each summer during the great hunts. The Cheyenne, like their Arapaho and Lakota brethren, were a corporate society. “Where are we going?”
“To join Sitting Bull. If there's safety in numbers, the Cheyenne should survive surrounded by seven or eight thousand Lakota and their allies.”
She noticed he said “the Cheyenne.” Did that mean she was not going with them? Was he going to take her back to civilization? “Chase...” Her words faded away as he raised his head and studied her with glittering black eyes. “I—I'd best begin gathering our belongings for the long trip,” she said, refusing to even think of the plea she had been unable to voice.
He set aside his empty stew bowl and walked over to the. storage packs, extracting clean soft buckskin clothing. Then he turned to her and extended his hand across the glowing coals of the fire. “Before you start packing, there are a few wifely duties that I require, Stevie...beginning with a bath,” he said, grinning wolfishly.
Remembering all the times they had made love in the steamy waters, she felt her belly clench and a deep tingling ache build between her thighs. Her cheeks flamed and her breath caught. Am I so obvious? Trembling, she clasped his hand and he pulled her into his arms. Together they glanced down at Smooth Stone and Tiny Dancer, now sound asleep beneath their robes, then slipped silently from the lodge into the warm spring night, headed to the beckoning seclusion of the hot springs.