The Endless Sky (Cheyenne Series)

by Shirl Henke

  “Many are coming from the east,” Blue Eagle said.

  “We have already driven back those who attacked our camp. They run like scalded dogs,” Plenty Horses added scornfully.

  “They probably did not expect so many of us, or that we would be so well armed,” Chase replied, running his hand along the barrel of his Winchester. “I go to speak with Crazy Horse, but we must know if the Long Hair has split his command again and plans to attack from the west.”

  “The Long Hair!” Plenty Horses said excitedly. “What an honor to count coup on that one.”

  “Is it truly him?” Blue Eagle asked, looking across the bench land worriedly to where Kit Fox and the other women were waiting.

  “I cannot be certain, but this is the way he fights. There may be others with him—General Terry, perhaps even Crook.”

  “The Lakota defeated Crook on the Rosebud,” Plenty Horses scoffed.

  “I will search to the southwest,” Blue Eagle replied, looking at his brother-in-law.

  “I will ride to the northwest,” Plenty Horses replied although it was clear he itched to join the fight which had just begun in earnest across the river.

  Chase nodded in satisfaction. “If you see soldiers, ride at once to Crazy Horse. He has the best trained and most numerous of the Lakota warriors.”

  They split up and each rode hard. Satisfied that his kinsmen would sound the alert if the worst befell, Chase kneed Thunderbolt, guiding him through the melee of people toward Crazy Horse's camp. Some warriors still adorned themselves for battle while others rushed back for fresh horses. Women returned to seize more belongings left behind in the first dash to get the children to safety. In a few moments he spied the great war chief, mounted on a splendid piebald stallion, and made his way toward him.

  Crazy Horse was a young man with fiercely imposing features. Although not particularly tall by Cheyenne standards, he sat his horse with arrogant grace, calling out commands with the cool aplomb of a West Point veteran. His keen brown eyes were set deep in a wide flat face with high cheekbones and surprisingly well-defined eyebrows below a shallow forehead. His heavy hair was stretched tightly from a center part into two thick braids adorned with eagle feathers. A deeply grooved mouth with wide thin lips set in a flat line gave his face a perpetually austere appearance. He inclined his head to Chase when the Cheyenne reined in beside him.

  Chase quickly outlined his fears and explained about the two scouts he'd sent to the western rim of the valley.

  Crazy Horse took it all in, weighing the White Wolf's words. Then the slightest hint of a smile touched his mouth. “I, too, am going to attack from behind.” He pointed northward to a shallow ford in the river across to the east where the steep bluffs sloped off. “We will go around the hills and circle the Blue Coats.” He made a sweeping motion, curving his arm in an arc. “No one will escape. My scouts have seen them and they number many less than us, but no one could see if the Long Hair leads them. I hope he does.”

  “Custer's luck may finally have run out,” Chase said.

  “It would be just after the betrayal of your people on the Sweetwater,” Crazy Horse replied.

  “I was at Washita the year before and swore vengeance against him.”

  “Then join us now and count coup on him if he is their leader.”

  Grimly Chase cast an anxious glance across the valley. “I thank you for the honor, but I must be certain there is no menace yet to strike from the west. Then I will join Gall at the coulee. We will hold them on the east side of the river.”

  “It is good.” Crazy Horse called up his warriors and they rode north across the river, leaving behind a great swirling cloud of dust.

  Chase turned Thunderbolt about and rode toward the heavy firing coming from the deeply gouged ravines across the river. The bluebellies had been driven back, their charge through the coulee quickly broken. What fools to blunder onto a camp of this size. Surely there was no way they could rout the Indians. Chase prayed he was right as he stared into the smoke and dust of the battle. Within a short while Plenty Horses and Blue Eagle returned with welcome news. There were no soldiers to the west. The vast open grasslands stretching above the benches were calm with not so much as a puff of dust to indicate a lone horseman.

  The three warriors rode toward Gall's men to join in the bitter contest. On impulse, Chase leaned over to Plenty Horses and spoke. “If I should perish this day, I would ask a great favor. Take my wife, your foster sister, to the Frenchman who sometimes trades among us. Gaston de Boef will see she is returned safely to her people.”

  “It will be as my brother asks,” Plenty Horses replied gravely.

  Stephanie could hear the guns, so many rifle and pistol shots they merged at times like distant thunder echoing across the Valley of the Greasy Grass. Some of the women, upon hearing that the soldiers were being defeated, rode boldly across the river to watch the men, cheering them on with high, excited trills.

  “I wish to see this great victory, Eyes Like Sun. It will be safe for us to return,” Smooth Stone cajoled.

  Shuddering, she could imagine the carnage that must be taking place in the rough terrain across the river. “No, Smooth Stone, we will remain here. I do not wish to see anyone killed.”

  He studied her, puzzled at her vehemence. “Is that because you are still loyal to the White Eyes?” he asked without rancor.

  “I cannot change what I am,” she said, suddenly feeling incredibly sad and bone weary. She wanted nothing so much as to lie down and sleep until the killing was over. But she could not sleep or even close her eyes. My first responsibility is to the children, she reminded herself. In her heart she knew what she would see every night hereafter—Chase, the White Wolf, dressed like the other savage warriors, riding off to kill or be killed. Soldiers, possibly even men she knew, were dying at that very moment, as were these people who had become family to her. What cruel fate had asked her to choose between them? I choose Chase, every time. Please, don't let him die! she prayed silently, holding tightly to Tiny Dancer, who had wrapped her arms around her foster mother's neck trying to console her.

  “It's all right, Eyes Like Sun. Our warriors are defeating the invaders. Soon there will be a great victory dance,” the little girl said in Cheyenne. Stephanie did not reply, only stroked the child's shiny hair and held her.

  Red Bead, unperturbed by all the commotion, set about making camp. To occupy Smooth Stone and keep him from trouble she had him prepare a fire. She dragged out the large cookpot she had rescued, along with the makings for some stew. Soon she had Stephanie and Tiny Dancer enlisted in helping her, but as the white woman worked, her eyes kept returning again and again to the smoke and dust rising in the distance.

  Chase, what will happen to us now?

  * * * *

  The sun was at its full summer zenith. Chase reckoned the date to be late in June although he had no way to accurately count the days. Waves of blistering heat pounded down on him as he rode through the scene of carnage, intensifying his building sense of horror. In the past five years he had seen bloody battlefields, but nothing ever of this magnitude. Although the victorious Lakota and Cheyenne did not know it, they had utterly annihilated the command of George Armstrong Custer, the infamous Long Hair. Chase recognized what remained of the regimental flags and other insignia.

  The battlefield stretched nearly three miles across the ridges and ravines of the Valley of the Greasy Grass. Everywhere bodies lay sprawled grotesquely in death, some scalped of their hair, others of their beards. Paper money, bright green against the brown dusty earth, fluttered in the wind, tossed away by the Indians, who saw no value in the 7th's last payroll. Rather they took the gaudy uniforms of the officers, proudly donning jackets with gold braid and trousers with yellow stripes, even though the tall Horse Indian's arms and legs were usually too long for the clothes to fit. A group gathered around a stripped soldier, marveling at the large eagle tattooed across his chest, never having seen “war paint” on a white m
an before.

  The 7th's horses were rounded up. The saddles would be given to the women and old men. Cartridge belts and guns were also sought-after prizes as were tobacco and coffee. Here and there other items were taken, the whiskey flasks being especially popular with some of the young warriors. Field glasses were another valuable prize, but pocket watches and compasses frightened the Indians. One youth pulled a ticking watch from the pocket of a soldier and held it to his ear, exclaiming, “It is alive!” Then he tossed it away, fearful of the White Eyes medicine.

  Chase could only guess how many soldiers had died in the senseless attack but the numbers were staggering—probably several hundred. He had seen Custer's body, shot in both head and heart, lying up on the ridge surrounded by his troops. The blaze in those zealous pale blue eyes had been extinguished forever, yet Chase found no comfort in the sight. The Indians had not recognized the Long Hair for he had cut his hair before this campaign. Chase did not tell anyone who he was. What use was there now? The greatest tragedy of the day was not Custer's death, but the death it would bring to the Lakota and Cheyenne. The 7th Cavalry's destruction would be enough to bring white vengeance down on the victors who had paid a high price already. Dozens of Lakota and Cheyenne had perished. Now their women came to claim the bodies, slashing their arms in mourning as the slain warriors were carried away for burial. He knew by nightfall the sky would blaze brightly as the lodges and possessions of the dead were burned.

  There would be no celebration after such a costly battle, but Chase knew his people had no idea what this unexpected victory would cost them. He did. Generals Terry and Crook would not be all that far behind Custer. Once Sheridan learned of the death of his favorite young officer, he would move heaven and earth to destroy those who had killed him. There would be no place on earth they could hide.

  I must get Stevie out of here before it's too late.

  He had put off the melancholy thought during the hours the battle had raged, fighting with Gall's Lakota in the narrow ravine where soldiers fired down on them from the heights until the numerically superior Indians climbed around and encircled them. If not for the repeating rifles he had brought in such numbers, the bluebellies might yet have cut through and ridden across the valley to destroy their families. As it was, a small force of troopers—the first to attack the Cheyenne from the south—still held out in the timber, having been reinforced later in the course of the battle. Once Custer' s main force was destroyed, Chase had wished to fight no more. Some Indians continued to keep the troopers pinned down and had run off all their horses but would wait to rush them until their ammunition ran out. Enough warriors had already died this day.

  Chase knew what he must do. Bruised and scraped from climbing around in the rocks, and bloody from several small bullet nicks, he turned his mount westward to collect his family. In route he passed through the center of the huge encampment, now deserted save for those preparing to burn the possessions of their dead. Some Lakota erected burial scaffolds as was their custom while the Cheyenne gouged out troughs in the sides of the steep bluffs and interred the bodies, covering them with rocks.

  Everywhere wails of mourning filled the air but the sound of strident voices arguing in Lakota and Cheyenne caught Chase's attention near the Sans Arc teepees. An old man stood with quiet dignity as a group of Lakota warriors surrounded him menacingly, accusing him of helping the Blue Coats.

  “I am Cheyenne,” he replied, pounding his fist against his chest. “I do not ride with White Eyes soldiers.”

  He spoke in Cheyenne and the Lakota did not understand him; neither did he understand their language. The confrontation was getting ugly as the small group of Cheyenne warriors shielding the women and children who had come with them gathered in a circle ready to defend themselves. Recognizing their leader, Chase dismounted and stepped to the front of the crowd.

  “This is Little Wolf of the Cheyenne, blood brother of my father and my uncle. He is a man of honor,” Chase said in Lakota, then looked into the seamed face of the old warrior whose black eyes lit with recognition.

  “Chase the Wind, now grown to be the great White Wolf. My band sings stories of your bold deeds which match those of your father, Vanishing Grass.” He clasped Chase's arms.

  “It has been too long a time since last I saw Little Wolf,” Chase replied, returning the embrace.

  “You were a young warrior then, when the buffalo blackened the plains of the Arkansas River. Now we live on the white man's handouts at the reservation,” Little Wolf said sadly. “That is where we have come from.”

  Seeing that the White Wolf would vouch for the new arrivals, the Lakota braves made them welcome. Afterward, Little Wolf took Chase aside and said, ‘‘You have saved my band this day. I am forever in your debt.”

  “There is a favor I would ask which would more than repay it,” Chase replied. “You know the Blue Coats will pursue us mercilessly after what has taken place here.” The old man nodded in agreement. “If the worst should happen to my band, I ask you to care for those who survive. My uncle Stands Tall will bring you our aunt Red Bead who is full of years and two young children whom I have adopted.”

  “It shall be as the White Wolf wishes, but let us not dwell on the future which is in the hands of the Everywhere Spirit. I would see my old friend Stands Tall if he yet lives.”

  Chase took Little Wolf and his people and headed for their new camp. Stands Tall was having a few minor injuries tended by Red Bead while the children watched gravely. Observing the bodies of dead warriors being prepared for burial all around them was another grim experience for Smooth Stone and Tiny Dancer, who had already seen too much of death. Stephanie stood off to one side, isolated in the midst of this grief. Chase watched his uncle greet Little Wolf and make him welcome. Then he walked up to her and took her hand. It was ice-cold in spite of the warm evening. “Come with me. We must speak,” he said, pulling her away from Red Bead's cookfire.

  They wended their way through the makeshift open camp. No one had put up the lodges taken down after the battle. Family possessions were packed up with only a few simple cooking utensils and basic foodstuffs left out. Many made their pallets out in the open and some erected brushy arbors for the night's shelter. No one knew how long they dared remain in the Valley of the Greasy Grass.

  Stephanie followed him, still numb with fright. Stands Tall had returned over an hour earlier, saying that Chase was alive. She had kept a vigil as more and more dead warriors were brought from the battlefields by their families, wondering if she, too, would have slashed her arms and legs to show her grief if he had been among the dead. But then he had come riding in, smeared with blood and dust, alien and deadly looking, a half-naked savage with feathers in his long braided hair.

  She had started to run to him but something stopped her—not the newcomers whom he escorted to their fire but something in his manner. There was none of the triumphant blood lust that had so horrified her when he had returned to the stronghold from successful raids. Rather, he looked as bone weary as she felt. A cool dark distance seemed to separate him from her even when he took her hand. As soon as they reached the edge of the camp, he relinquished his grip, expecting her to follow him over the slight rise where a small copse of gooseberry bushes allowed them some privacy to speak.

  She stopped when he did, feeling a chill of premonition as he turned to her in the twilight. The bleakness in his eyes robbed her of breath, yet there was also such stinging bitterness in the set of his lips that she dared not offer comfort. What was there to say? His people had killed hundreds of soldiers. The desultory firing from the small remnants in the timber to the south only served as a reminder. She hugged herself and waited for him to speak.

  “I'm returning you to civilization,” he began without preamble. He'd spent hours hardening his heart, assuring himself that there was no other way. Yet just the sight of her standing alone so slender and lovely in her doeskin tunic had nearly cost him his resolve. He thought of her as his wif
e. But that was in the Cheyenne manner. In white society she would be legally bound to Hugh Phillips. Surely she would not return to him. Chase prayed it was so, but could not ask now, for to do so would reveal the depth of his pain, the irrevocable loss he suffered in sending her back to safety.

  Stephanie could read nothing behind his terse statement. The message did not surprise her but the cold, clipped way he spoke did. “Why, Chase? Why now after all we've been through?”

  “The army won't take a defeat of this magnitude lying down. That was Custer' s Seventh we wiped out on that ridge.” She gasped in shock but said nothing as he went on relentlessly. “The army will come after us with everything Phil Sheridan can muster.”

  “But the children—they'll need me to—”

  “They're Cheyenne now. You're white. They'll have Red Bead and Stands Tall to look after them while I fight. And I will fight your Blue Coats, Stephanie...and I will die, sooner or later. There's no future for us.” As if to punctuate his words another burst of gunfire erupted from the timber.

  “I have no future without you, Chase. Don't send me away. I've made a life here—or at least I've tried to. We have been a family, the only family I've ever known. Please—”

  “Cheyenne women don't beg,” he said coldly, turning away from her before he did something foolish, something he would regret.

  Stephanie stared at his back, bare and bronzed, the hard muscles moving fluidly as he stiffened his spine and crossed his arms over his chest. His hair hung past his shoulder blades in a thick plait woven with eagle feathers. She ached to reach out and touch his barbaric splendor. She had lain with this man and even now carried his child in her womb. And like the enigma he had always been, he turned away from her.

  Cheyenne women don't beg. She would not tell him about the babe. Somehow she would protect her mixed blood child in white society. He would never know he was a father, for if that was the only thing to bind them together, the child would suffer as much as they would. “I love you, Chase. You told me you loved me. Did you lie?”