Blood on the Plains (A Cheyenne Western Book 5)

by Judd Cole

  “Everyone knows that Gray Thunder has the courage of a silvertip bear fighting for its cubs,” said Black Elk. “But only think on what happened to the red man east of the Great Waters. They too were slow to paint their faces against the Long Knives. Indeed, they greeted them with smiles and helped them survive the short white days of the cold moons.

  “And now, only look! The Kiowas, the Sacs, the Foxes, the once-proud Shawnees on the Meramec—now they crowd into the white man’s stinking cities to trade their best furs for strong water. Now they are so unmanned by drink they no longer remember the Warrior Way or the old cure songs.”

  Gray Thunder nodded. Black Elk was quick to rise on his hind legs, but this was well spoken.

  “All this is true enough, fiery buck. But nothing draws more hairy faces than the murder of their own. This paleface claims enough power to address the Great White Council. I have the welfare of my tribe to consider. If we kill these dogs, a pack far larger may descend on us in wrath. Should the women and children suffer because I choose the warpath?”

  Arrow Keeper approved these words with a silent nod. Gray Thunder, Touch the Sky realized, had a more realistic grasp of the sheer numbers of the whites. Black Elk still thought of them as merely one more tribe, capable of extermination.

  Gray Thunder addressed Touch the Sky again.

  “We must listen and watch, learn what their plan is. You understand their tongue. I have decided to grant the white man’s request. He did not lie about the Mandan raid. Word-bringers from the south have confirmed it. We will loan him three capable bucks to help with their journey.

  “It will surely be dangerous. If they have killed Smoke Rising, a great chief, they will not hesitate to slaughter three young Cheyenne bucks. Therefore, I will send only strong warriors. You will go with Wolf Who Hunts Smiling and Little Horse. Do you understand the importance of this mission to the red nation and to your tribe?”

  Touch the Sky nodded. “Yes, Father.”

  “Good. And do you understand that there is no room for personal battles within the tribe?”

  Touch the Sky understood. All in the tribe knew that he and Wolf Who Hunts Smiling were enemies. But they were also the best of the younger warriors.

  Again Touch the Sky nodded. “I have ears for your warning, Father. My tribe comes first.”

  Gray Thunder looked at Black Elk.

  “Send your cousin and Little Horse to me. I will speak the same warning to Wolf Who Hunts Smiling. And, without telling them what is in the wind, have your warriors make ready their battle rigs and keep them ready. This double-tongued white man is clever like a fox, and I fear our wise Arrow Keeper is right. The tribe faces great danger!”

  ~*~

  Camped just to the west of the Cheyenne’s permanent summer camp on the Powder River were their close allies, the Arapaho. Descended from the same ancestors as the Cheyenne, ancestors who had once roamed the wooded lake country of Minnesota until forced west, the Arapaho too were divided into Northern and Southern branches.

  The Cheyenne and Arapaho had experienced minor clashes on occasion. But these amounted to family squabbles. They were close enough that the Arapaho, like the friendly Dakota, would receive Cheyenne exiles into their camps with no questions asked—and even let them take Arapaho wives.

  The two tribes also looked remarkably similar in face and body type. Which was why the white militiaman named Fargo Danford was not sure, at first, whether the riders approaching his position overlooking a bluff near Roaring Horse Creek were Arapaho or Cheyenne.

  Danford adjusted his Army-issue field glasses, squinting for a closer look.

  “Durned if them ain’t Arapaho,” he finally announced to his men. These riders all wore their hair braided, which most Northern Cheyenne braves did only for ceremonies or in old age.

  Danford sat astride a big claybank. He wore a flat leather shako hat, his trophy after murdering a Mexican vaquero in California. His Colt Navy pistol was tucked into his holster butt forward to accommodate his left-handed cross-draw.

  “If them’s ’Rapahos,” said Heck Nash, the big, balding man on the roan stallion beside him, “that means they’re from Smoke Rising’s band.”

  “That it do,” said Danford, “that it do. And it also means these red Arabs has seen their last sunrise. They’re breaking white man’s law now. This is wagon road right of way. According to that treaty they signed, they’re spoze to steer clear of this land.”

  Nash held a sawed-off scattergun loaded with a double load of buckshot carefully balanced across his saddletree. The riders clustered behind them were also heavily armed.

  These “militiamen,” and others like them, had been employed by Wes Munro. They were scattered all along the river routes where Munro had entered into private treaties with the various tribes. Technically illegal, these bands were mostly out-of-work miners who had gone bust in California. Many had been riding the outlaw trail for years, on the dodge from the law. But the only law this far out on the frontier was the U.S. Army. And generous payments to the right commanders ensured that the ragtag militia remained mostly unchallenged.

  Their job was to enforce the illegal private treaties—treaties most of the Indians understood little, if at all.

  One of the militiamen carried a wooden guidon with a white truce flag flying from it. At a nod from Danford, he rode out in front of the group. The others fell in behind him, spurring their mounts to a long trot.

  The white truce flag snapped in the breeze. They descended the long bluff in a loose wedge formation. They bore down on the small party of Indians, who had led their ponies to the creek to drink.

  “C’mon, boys, let’s put paid to it. It’s like shootin’ at a bird’s nest on the ground,” said one of them.

  “Damn good thing, Tom,” another joshed him. “You couldn’t hit a bull in the butt with a banjo.”

  “Real slow and careful-like now, boys,” said Danford. “Don’t draw any steel until I give the signal. We don’t want to spook ’em. Don’t give ’em any time to get out of the weather when it comes!”

  ~*~

  The small party of five Arapaho braves was hunting fresh game for its tribe. They were led by a brave named Smiles Plenty.

  Smiles Plenty, one of the friendliest braves in the tribe, was in an especially joyous mood today. This despite the recent death of Chief Smoke Rising, whom the tribe was still mourning.

  On the day before, his son Fleet Deer, who had only eleven winters behind him, had killed his first eagle with his bow and arrow. Proudly, Smiles Plenty had stood in the door of his clan’s dance lodge until late that evening, announcing this feat to all who came. Would such a son not be a great warrior?

  Smiles Plenty had spotted the paleface riders even before they rode forward to meet the Indians as if to parley. Despite their truce flag, he was wary. He remembered ten winters ago when the hairy-faced fools tore across the country toward the far-off land of the Modoc tribe, the land beyond the sun which the Long Knives called California. In their mad dash for the yellow rocks, they had broken every promise in their talking papers.

  Now Smiles Plenty was worried. But it was no use trying to outrun them. Fleeing from whites was an invitation to be shot. Besides, these whites did not seem intent on any serious mischief. They had slowed from a trot to a walk. Now their horses came forward with their heads down, setting their own pace. Nor had any of the whites drawn his weapon.

  His braves were armed only with their bows, their lances, and one old muzzle-loader. So fighting was out of the question. Best to parlay and count on his good disposition, his skill as a diplomat, to get them through. He was the tribe’s best negotiator, and had kept them off the warpath more than once with no loss of honor.

  “Just let your ponies drink,” he instructed the rest. “This thing will pass.”

  When the whites were close enough that he could make out their faces, Smiles Plenty stepped out to meet them.

  Smiling the broad, ear-to-ear, toothy smil
e that had earned him his name, he lifted one hand. He turned it in a slow circle from the back of the hand to the palm, a universal Plains Indian greeting of friendship. Then he folded his arms to show his band was at peace.

  The paleface in the silly leather hat seemed to be their chief. He said something in the white tongue. Smiles Plenty stepped closer, shaking his head to let them know he did not understand.

  “Game’s over, pards,” Fargo Danford had said quietly to his companions. “Time to call in the cards.”

  A heartbeat later the smile was literally blown off of Smiles Plenty’s face when Heck Nash emptied the double load of buckshot almost point-blank.

  Suddenly, more rifles and short arms spat fire. Before Smiles Plenty’s heels had quit scratching the dirt, the other four braves lay dead or dying.

  “Lift their scalps, boys,” said Danford as he holstered his Navy Colt butt forward. “I’ll need somethin’ to prove to Munro that we’re doing our job.”

  Chapter Six

  Despite the fact that the Cheyenne seldom ate the plentiful trout which the blue-bloused soldiers loved, rivers were essential to their existence. Every major camp, summer or winter, was erected near a river. Yet, not until he became a member of the crew of the Sioux Princess did Touch the Sky begin to truly understand the constant dangers and grueling hardships of river life.

  Wes Munro had expected disappointing news when Chief Gray Thunder sent a delegation of headmen to his boat. Instead, to his considerable surprise, the new Cheyenne leader agreed to lend him three strong young bucks for the journey.

  As a good-faith gesture (and a practical move through such dangerous territory) the Cheyennes were allowed to bring their weapons. Besides their knives in their beaded sheaths and well-honed throwing axes, all three owned good long guns. John Hanchon had given his adopted son and Little Horse their choice of weapons when they rode to Bighorn Falls to help him defeat Hiram Steele’s gun-throwers. Touch the Sky had selected a percussion-action Sharps, Little Horse a four-barrel flintlock shotgun with barrels that were rotated by hand.

  Wolf Who Hunts Smiling owned a Colt Model 1855 percussion rifle. It had once been Touch the Sky’s. But when Wolf Who Hunts Smiling had made the gesture of returning it, after Touch the Sky saved him from Pawnees, the tall Cheyenne had told him to keep it.

  Despite this offering, however, the two young Cheyennes were far from friends. Instead, a grudging, temporary peace of sorts had developed between them. Between them was the mutual respect one brave warrior always feels for another, even an enemy.

  But both were of opposite temperaments. And Wolf Who Hunts Smiling, who had watched his father cut down by Bluecoat canister shot, would never accept a Cheyenne raised in the white man’s world. Especially one who was so clearly his rival in the warrior arts. His ambition to be powerful within the tribe was great, and they both sensed that someday they must clash.

  For the moment, however, all three Cheyenne bucks were united against new enemies. First of all was the mysterious Wes Munro, who talked like a red man but lied like a white. There were also the hostile Hays Jackson, the hostile crew of voyageurs or boatmen, and not least formidable of all, the hostile river itself.

  Old Knobby carefully avoided any contact with Touch the Sky. He also clearly preferred the company of his horses and mules over the company of Hays Jackson or Wes Munro.

  They departed almost immediately after the three youths had reported aboard and stowed their gear. For the first few hours a strong favoring wind from the southeast had filled the canvas sail. Only occasionally were a few of the crew required to assist the boat through an embarrass, a spot where floating debris had formed chokepoint, with long wooden poles.

  Then the breeze suddenly died, the square sail went limp, and the Sioux Princess halted all forward progress.

  “Man the cordelles, you raggedy-assed lubbers!” bellowed Hays Jackson, his left eye winking open and shut from his nervous tic.

  The Creoles groaned. The river was too narrow at this point to fix the long oars into their locks along the gunnels.

  Men scrambled over the gunnels and splashed ashore on either side. They trailed long, thick ropes connected to metal rings on both sides of the prow.

  “The hell you blanket asses waitin for? An invitation from the Queen of England?” demanded Jackson, glowering at the Cheyennes. They stood together amidships, curiously watching.

  Little Horse did not understand one word, though the powerfully built paleface’s hateful tone was clear enough. Wolf Who Hunt Smiling spoke slow English and understood some of this. Touch the Sky, however, understood every word. He was grateful that the Cheyenne way had taught him to hold his face expressionless and not let his feelings show.

  Jackson gestured impatiently. The three bucks slipped into the river and up onto one of the banks. They took their place on the cordelles and strained with the rest of the crew.

  It was slow, agonizing work. Despite their strength and youth, their hands were not thickly callused for such work. By the middle of the first afternoon, Touch the Sky’s hands were raw and blistered. Nor were their thin elkskin moccasins designed to dig into the rocky, uneven ground of the banks. Soon their feet were bloody and lacerated from sharp pieces of flint.

  The Creoles despised them and the whites, sticking to themselves. Their informal leader was a small but wiry and tough man of about thirty named Etienne. His skin was even darker than the Cheyennes’. He led his fellows in singing strange songs in French, an odd language which, to the Cheyennes, seemed to be thrust forth out of the nose, not the mouth. It was Little Horse who dubbed them the Nose Talkers.

  Clearly, one condition of the voyageurs’ service was an unlimited supply of alcohol. They began drinking early in the day and remained drunk. They were constantly broaching another keg of rum or whiskey.

  Each night the boat anchored and two camps were made, the three Cheyennes on one bank, the Creoles on the other. Wes Munro and Hays Jackson slept in the plank cabin. Knobby slept on deck under the stars, erecting a small canvas awning when it rained.

  The boat’s lazaret, the storage area under the deck, was well stocked with provisions: dried fruit, jerked beef and venison and buffalo meat, slab bacon, hardtack, coffee. The Nose Talkers caught trout and cooked them in their camp at night, the smell causing the three Cheyennes to wrinkle their faces in disgust. Old Knobby made biscuits each morning. It was the Cheyennes’ responsibility to occasionally supplement the fare with fresh game. Rabbits and pheasants were plentiful near the river. Sometimes they even shot them from the boat.

  Three sleeps after their departure, Touch the Sky’s aching muscles began to condition themselves to the cordelles. But his feet, like those of Little Horse and Wolf Who Hunts Smiling, were still bloody and lacerated. Some of the deeper cuts had even begun to ulcerate.

  They tried all the natural remedies which Black Elk and Arrow Keeper had taught them, but none was powerful enough to help much. Old Knobby took pity on the trio of badly limping bucks. One evening when Munro and Jackson were conferring inside the plank cabin, he quickly showed them how to mix river mud with crushed marigold and myrtle leaves, forming a soothing poultice. Slowly their feet began to mend and toughen.

  But there was no end of new troubles and hardships.

  On the fifth day of their journey, they passed the fork where the headwaters of the Shoshone River joined the Tongue. The current abruptly picked up strength, slowing the Sioux Princess almost to a standstill. Suddenly the boat hit a spot where the opaque river water was boiling furiously.

  “Sawyer!” shouted Jackson. “Tack around ’er!”

  A sawyer was a submerged tree or huge clump of tree limbs. Trapped in the water unseen, they “sawed” back and forth snagging anything that passed over.

  The banks on either side were too steep to man the cordelles, and too many gravel bars made rowing impractical. So the entire crew lined both sides of the keelboat, thrusting their long poles into the river bottom.

 
; “I said tack around!” Jackson raged. “Heave, you pack of spineless maggots!”

  He constantly carried a knotted-leather whip in his sash. Normally he used it to lash the deck and gunnels, goading the crew to greater effort. But now, as the keelboat balanced on the feather edge of becoming entangled in the sawyer, Jackson brought the whip across the shoulders of one of the Creoles.

  Etienne saw this. Touch the Sky, his shoulder and back muscles straining as he manned his pole, watched the crew leader’s eyes narrow with hatred when he stared at the white tyrant.

  Wolf Who Hunts Smiling too saw this.

  “Hear my words,” he said in a low tone to his two companions. “We are on a mission for our tribe, and I have orders directly from my chief. But I am no cowering dog like these Nose Talkers. I swear this thing, if that stinking white pig’s afterbirth touches me with his whip, I will use his guts for a new bowstring!”

  Such talk troubled the other two. The hotheaded Wolf Who Hunts Smiling had been making more and more threats of this nature lately.

  “As you say,” said Touch the Sky, “we are on a mission for our tribe. Our task is to discover what these whites are really doing on this journey. I hate the filthy dog too. But our personal feelings do not matter. Perhaps later our chance will come. But for now we must remember that we are warriors and will endure anything rather than place our tribe in danger merely to taste revenge.”

  “Merely?” said Wolf Who Hunts Smiling. “Revenge can be a sweet dish, and I am ready for it now.”

  “You blanket-asses shut your damn gobs and heave!” shouted Jackson, his face bloating with rage. “This ain’t no time to palaver!”

  The Cheyennes fell silent and threw their all behind the poles. Etienne shouted something in French, rallying the voyageurs. Slowly, inch by inch and just in the nick of time, the keelboat slipped sideways and edged around the furiously boiling water.

  ~*~

  Wes Munro, who spent much of his time in the cabin poring over papers and charts, tried to be more diplomatic than his abrasive lackey. He never struck members of the crew and seldom even raised his voice. This was not the result of compassion. To him, men were like dogs—sometimes a pat on the head got better results than a kick on the rump.