by J. R. WRIGHT
While standing in the street as Luke rode away, a great wave of guilt washed over Sarah. She felt bad for not being forthcoming to him that Breanne was alive. She’d thought of telling him several times, but somehow just couldn’t bring herself to do it. But then, if she had, she knew full well the outcome. He’d go chasing off to the east in search of her, probably never to return, whether he found her or not. Besides, Breanne was probably remarried anyhow. Maybe to that missionary – what’s his name – Harry Budd, and maybe she had six kids by now. In that case, Sarah reasoned, for his own good, it was best he never found out.
CHAPTER SIX
No sooner had Luke arrived at Fort Kearny than he was summoned to the office of Colonel Snively.
Colonel Henri Snively was a cocky West Pointer who thought he knew everything there was to know about Indians. In reality, though, the extent of his understanding was gleaned from an ancient novel written by an English author with little knowledge of plains Indians, who referred to them throughout as savages.
“Come in, Hill,” Snively ordered once Luke was announced by an aide.
“Yes, sir.”
“Hill, I have word from Fort Pierre that a tribe of savages has moved in here.” He pointed to a crudely drawn map on the wall behind his desk. “This general northern portion of the Black Hills, near the Belle Fourche River, at a place the old French trapper’s map calls Spearfish. I guess they got that name from Indians at one time or another. It appears not to be more than four days’ ride west of Pierre. Are you familiar with the area?”
“I was here last summer,” Luke pointed to the southern reaches of the Black Hills near the Cheyenne River. “It’s a big place, sir. Rough terrain. The whole Hills area is a horse killer. It would be better to follow the Cheyenne up the east side to the Belle Fourche and come across west, than down from the north here.”
“Good,” Snively agreed. “I want you to go up there and find these savages. Mark their exact location and estimate the number in their village. I warn you, though, they’re not a friendly lot. Some hide hunters from Fort Pierre were near killed last fall when they came upon the village by accident, not expecting them to be there. They seem awful protective of what they have, and I’d like to know why.”
“Did they mention a particular tribe?”
“They camp like Sioux, or whatever they choose to call themselves now.”
“The Cheyenne call them Sioux, which means snake. I doubt they would call themselves that. If they camp like Sioux, or what we all know as Sioux, then they are more than likely any one of a dozen different tribes that are cousins, but call themselves something else.”
“Okay, you’ve made your point, Hill. So what tribe do you think they are?”
“I’d say Lakhota. Game has been scarce on the plains with the drought of the past few years. My guess is they moved in there from the east out of desperation. Most likely, last summer sometime. A starving people can be awfully protective of their food supply.”
“When can you go?”
“I’ll leave at first light.”
“Might be best if you ride over to Independence and catch a riverboat up as far as Fort Pierre,” Snively suggested.
“I just came over from Independence. I don’t have a hankering to go back so soon,” Luke said, hoping to stay clear of Fort Pierre even after all this time. “Besides, it’ll be faster to cut over to Fort Laramie, then head north from there. I should be back by the middle of May, barring any trouble.”
“As you wish, Hill. Check whatever supplies you’ll need from the quartermaster.”
“Thank you, sir.”
The ride up the North Platte on the Oregon Trail had always been a pleasant one for Luke. About every day’s ride brought him to some sort of civilized life, whether it be a road house or a squatter farm. And there were always the wagon trains carrying pilgrims of every sort and the soldiers that escorted them as a guard against the raiding attacks of the pesky Pawnee. Of course, it was too early for wagon trains yet this season. Perhaps he would encounter some of those on the return trip in May.
On the first of April, Luke reached Fort Laramie. It was located on the Platte just above the mouth of the Laramie River. Fort Laramie was a very sturdy garrison, constructed of twenty foot high square cut logs, with bastions at the south and north corners and a block house over the main gate. His stay there was brief, just long enough to replace a thrown horseshoe on the chestnut and gather some additional supplies.
A hard three day ride north brought him to the Cheyenne River. And from there, off in the distance, standing tall and shadowy, were the Black Hills. But this was just the beginning, he knew. It would be another hundred and fifty miles of travel, given the route he had laid out for Colonel Snively, before reaching the Indian camp. A route he never intended on taking in the first place. Not when it was only fifty or sixty miles through the interior of the Hills to his destination. It would be slower going, but faster in the long run. And he knew from experience traveling through mountains that he would need to map the trail, taking note of landmarks along the route, if he ever expected to find his way back out again.
“It’s a spooky dark place,” an old trapper had told him once. “Nothing is as it ought to be. Rivers and streams run every which direction, sometimes uphill it seems. The piney hill you see in front of you has the same look about it as the hill behind. Get turned around and you may never find your way out. And those hills groan and howl. Stay too long and surely it will drive you mad.”
North of the Cheyenne a day’s ride, the buffalo trail Luke had been following forked. One path went to the right, the other near straight north, by his compass. He was surprised to see a buffalo trail leading into the Hills, but there it was, and he took it. A short distance into the interior he spotted another animal trail heading up and took it as well. At the top of the pine covered hill, he found what he was looking for: a place to rest the horses for a day that offered a reasonable view of the valley below. He too could use a rest, along with a hot meal, he concluded, even if he had to settle for a cottontail or squirrel to begin with.
His luck, however, was better than expected. As Luke was making camp, a spike buck took an interest in what he was doing and stood motionless long enough for him to gather the Hawken from the horse and bring him down.
After dressing the small deer, Luke chose a black granite crevasse among the many rocks as the ideal situation for poling it across a hot fire. Within an hour, outer layers of the tender meat were ready for eating, with just the right amount of char he preferred.
When he had his fill, Luke stretched out on the flat rock next to the fire and let the warm spring sun shine on his face. The soft life of Independence could never take the place of this, he thought as he sucked in a deep breath of the fresh, pine scented air. Even this rock felt better than did the squeaky, hammock-like bed at Sarah’s. It may be alright in the cold of winter, but he knew now he must always have the solitude of nature surrounding him during the spring and summer months.
Before long he was sound asleep, his mind drifting further and further back in time. There was much gaiety where he was now. And there, at the top of the ramp, was the most beautiful woman in the world. She was coming toward him in flowing white. And then it thundered… and thundered again. Breanne… Breanne… Where are you… Where did you go?
And then he was awake, and it thundered again. At first he lay very still, carefully listening. Then, staying low to the ground, he made his way through the pines to the edge of the hill. Below was a large group of Indians, circling a very small herd of buffalo, maybe twenty in all. They seemed larger than the plains buffalo he had seen on numerous occasions. He had heard of the timber bison that possessed a greater frame, but hadn’t expected any to be in this part of the country. The sound of a gunshot brought him to his feet behind a tree.
These Indians had rifles. Near every one of them had one, he noticed. More shots echoed through the hills, and before long all of the buffalo were
dead except for one – a big bull. This one they played with, each riding close enough to touch it, all the while seeing to it that the bull did not break out of the circle they ran him in.
It was then Luke noticed him. The one who just rode in for the kill, spearing the bull through the heart, was a white man. He had golden hair halfway down his back, yet his dress and actions were like the others, all yelping and carrying on in celebration of the kill. Then the women came running to do their job of the butchering.
Luke had been so consumed with the action below he hadn’t noticed the horses until now. They were raising a fuss back where he had tied them. With all the commotion below, he doubted there was much danger in them being heard. But if one should break loose and be seen, you could bet they would do a thorough job of searching for its owner. He got to them just in time. One had already snapped her hobble and was pulling heavily on the halter rope. Quickly, he gathered and calmed them before moving the two far below on the opposite side of the hill, out of earshot. Arriving back at the top, he scattered the fire before again going to watch the Indians.
By nightfall the butchering was done, and the group moved out. By the looks of it, they left behind very little for the crows that had moved into the trees around him, awaiting their turn.
He doubted these were of the tribe he was searching for. Sixty or so miles would be an unusual distance to travel for game, but then maybe they had exhausted their winter supply and were desperate. Either way the location of their village would have to be noted.
He gave them until mid-morning the following day before setting out on their trail, which, surprisingly enough, led straight north through the heart of the Black Hills.
CHAPTER SEVEN
After two days of following the trail, it became more and more evident to Luke that the people he followed were of the tribe he had originally set out to locate. As it were, he must be getting close to the area Colonel Snively had pointed out on the map. Another ten or twenty miles ought to do it. But then the trail was severely dog-legged, and that always meant more miles, and therefore time. What should take three days may take four, or even more, depending.
One thing was for certain; the mapping had become a chore. There were just too many notable landmarks – mountain streams that seemed to run uphill, gigantic rock formations that he tried to name by their general appearance: window rock, sitting buffalo, chimney rock and others, as well as the breath-taking waterfalls. It was truly the most haunting and at the same time mesmerizingly beautiful place he had ever been. Luke wished Breanne were here to see it.
It was the following morning when he realized he had gotten too close to the group ahead. While crossing a dry creek bed, he noticed the tracks left by the ponies were much too fresh for his liking. Maybe as little as two hours old. Most disturbing of all, however, were several sets of moccasin tracks much more recently made. They were heading in the opposite direction – the direction from which he came. There was no doubt they had discovered him, and he knew now what he must do.
Most likely they were all around him; it would be ill advised to make a run for it. Which way would he go if he attempted an escape? He was fenced in on both sides by rocky, pine-covered hills, too steep to climb on horseback. That left forward, which would bring him to those he followed. Or backwards, where surely eight or ten braves were, given the number of tracks he saw.
His only choice was to appear harmless. Dismounting, he walked away from the horses, leaving the rifles with them. Twenty paces away, he stopped in a small clearing that caught a shaft of morning sunlight. There he rotated slowly, scouring his surroundings carefully as he did. He saw nothing, but remained stationary for what seemed an eternity. The forest that had been teaming with wildlife just moments earlier was now deathly silent. Not a bird’s chirp, or squirrel’s chatter, was heard. No question Indians were near; he felt their eyes on him. The horses became nervous and started back down the trail, slowly at first, and then they broke into a terrified run.
Luke heard the rapid clanks of shod hooves on rocks as they rounded a bend and disappeared out of sight. Momentarily, he heard shrill whinnies. Soon thereafter the horses came charging back. When they passed him by, they were running full out. Still, he did not move from the well-lighted place he had chosen for surrender.
Then, as if by some magic, they appeared all around him. First he saw one, then two, then six. Finally there were twelve. At least two of them must have been dogging his trail all along. Had they seen him on the hill, watching them as they slaughtered the buffalo? Smelled the fire? Heard his horses? Or had he just been spotted from some high area by a lookout?
Cautiously, he raised his right hand in peace and turned so all could see. They advanced rapidly now. The first one to him, clutching an old French flintlock, took Luke’s knife and, with it, cut the straps of his bullet bag and powder horn from around his neck, causing them to fall to the ground.
“Paw- husk- a Kon- ek- soa,” Luke said, meaning white hair comes in peace, in Sioux. They did not respond, other than emitting some grunts. Instead, they motioned that he should move on up the trail. Could these Indians be of a different dialect than the Sioux of farther south, on the Great Plains? Where did their people come from?
They were all young braves, and by the looks of them, it was apparent none were of any authority in the tribe. This would have worried him had they been of the Pawnee, on the central plains, where tribal chiefs had very little control over the thieving, murderous young renegades of the various tribes.
A short time into the march, the one with the rifle spoke to the others and they all laughed. Luke made out only two words in the Sioux dialect he was familiar with: pale fox. They must have thought his hair color was funny. But why should they? They had a fair-haired man amongst them, the one he had watched kill the last buffalo. And then another said, “Ahu-pah lay-chyl dahnee ahu-poh wasichu,” which meant, as best he could translate, “White man look like the dawn in the shaft of daylight.”
“Ahu-poh lay-chayl.” Like the dawn, another repeated. And then it went around. Indians liked to repeat what each other said, but often abbreviated as they did, he knew. And when it ended up, it was just Ahu-poh or Apo, they said. “Like the Dawn… The Dawn… Dawn… Dawn…” It seemed he was named, as often as they repeated it. And perhaps he was. Dawn was a whole lot better than the name a friendly Brule camp attached to him after he rode in unexpectedly: “Man whose horse shits in village.”
Thank God he was never required to go back there. Before he departed, the name was reduced to “Man who shits in village,” then to “Man shits” by the time he left.
The walk to the village took the remainder of the morning. It was then that the mountain valley they traveled gave way to a vast meadow where near three hundred tepees, glowing white in the midday sun, made for a grand appearance below.
Most of the women of the village busied themselves jerking the newly acquired buffalo meat and draping it over smoke poles. The hides were stretched on the ground and staked, ready for scraping once the sun had melted the bits of fat that remained.
As expected, Luke was paraded around the entire village before arriving at a central location and made to stop. Here, several hundred villagers gathered and circled around. What appeared to be a chief pushed his way forward and began creating signs as he spoke the words in his native tongue loud enough for all to hear.
“I am Spotted Horse. Why do you come to village of the Lakhota?”
“Because you are here, where you have not been before,” Luke signed back. “Great White Father wants to know from where you have come?”
“Sharp Knife has sent you to tell us we must move again?” Spotted Horse asked accusingly, bringing many groans and shouts of protest from the villagers.
Luke knew that Sharp Knife was a name attached to Andrew Jackson by many tribes. It was said often during and after treaties, while he was present, in reference to earlier treaties that had taken away much of their lands in Minnesota
and Wisconsin territories.
“No!” Luke shouted to calm them. “I have not come from Sharp Knife. I do not come to take your land.”
“Sharp Knife has lied before. He will lie again,” Spotted Horse continued, hoping to keep alive the support of the growing number of people that surrounded them.
“Sharp Knife is no longer chief,” Luke said as he signed, doing his best to quell the protests. “Sharp Knife is dead!” And that did it. The protests quickly switched to cheers.
“Then what have you come to tell us?”
So as not to upset the people again, Luke signed, “I have come in peace to welcome you to this heavenly place you call Paha Sapa, the Black Hills.” With that, he removed his hat and bowed to the young chief.
This brought more cheers, to the obvious dissatisfaction of Spotted Horse, who for a brief time had felt like a real chief when the people were behind him. Now this white man of about his age had their favor.
“Will Great White Father make paper that gives this place of many spirits to the Lakhota and our brothers the Dakotah?” And again the people cheered, but now for Spotted Horse. To his satisfaction, the tide had turned once again. A glimmer of a smile appeared on his face.
It was a ‘got you’ smile, and this made Luke very uncomfortable. Thinking fast, he signed, “If I may meet with your council, we can discuss your wishes…” That’s all he got out before Spotted Horse interrupted.
“Old chief is in sorrow over death of old woman, Taloma. He has asked that you remain here to speak with him when the sun next rises?”
Finally it came out. Luke suspected all along this relatively young chief was not the supreme authority in a village of this size, made up of two tribes.
“I will wait. I’d be honored to meet with your wise chief.” Luke signed.