Blood on the Plains (A Cheyenne Western Book 5)

by Judd Cole

  Several fire arrows thwacked into the keelboat, one dangerously close to the powder cache. Old Knobby hustled to put them out.

  Munro had emptied both pistols. Now he leaped toward one of the swivel-mounted blunderbusses. The twenty two-inch barrel had a two-inch flared muzzle which accepted eight-ounce balls. Unlike the prow cannon, these were kept constantly loaded. He fired it, missing his target. But the smoky explosion spooked several of the Crazy Dogs’ horses.

  One of the Crows had leaped into the river and jumped over the gunnel unnoticed. Now, as he raised his stone skull-cracker to bash Touch the Sky’s head in, Old Knobby screamed in English:

  “Look to your right flank, tadpole!”

  Touch the Sky spun, glimpsed a movement in the corner of his eye, ducked. The club passed so close he felt the wind from it. His battle-ax was already in his hand. Before the Crazy Dog could recover his balance, Touch the Sky shattered his breastbone.

  “Hi-ya!” screamed Wolf Who Hunts Smiling, rallying his comrades. “Hi-ya, hi-i-i-ya!”

  Now all three Cheyenne braves stood shoulder to shoulder, repelling boarders with their knives, lances, and axes. Old Knobby fired a blunderbuss, and a charging Crow warrior literally lost his head.

  The body, carried forward by nerve momentum, took three or four more steps while blood spumed from the severed neck.

  The first wave had been broken, but the second was now rushing the boat. Munro was desperately loading the one-pounder with musket balls.

  “Where the hell’s them white-livered frogs?” bellowed Jackson.

  Touch the Sky glanced back at the opposite bank. The Creoles had all gathered behind Etienne, watching the battle in wide-eyed astonishment. They were not afraid, Touch the Sky realized. They simply felt it wasn’t their fight.

  Etienne’s eyes met Touch the Sky’s. The Creole leader saw the arrow protruding from his thigh, the streaming blood where a spear had torn a ragged gash in Little Horse’s side.

  Munro fired the one-pounder, and two Crazy Dogs were turned into stew meat. This slowed the assault and bought precious time.

  The leader of the Nose Talkers abruptly shouted something in French, leaping into the river. With a chorus of answering shouts, his men leaped in behind him. In moments they were scrambling aboard the keelboat and accepting the carbines which Jackson hastily threw out from the cabin.

  Chapter Eight

  Once the voyageurs joined the battle, it was quickly over.

  The Crow Crazy Dogs, true to their fanatical oath, died to the last man. Touch the Sky and Hays Jackson had taken arrows, neither serious wounds, and Little Horse would be laid up for a day or two until the wound in his side started to mend. Two of the Creole crew received minor wounds, and one had been seriously hurt. A stray bullet had killed one of the mules.

  But despite the sudden ferocity of the attack, no one aboard the Sioux Princess had been killed. For two more days the keelboat limped along, again short of crew members while the wounded recovered. The seriously injured boatman, laid out by a Crow war club, would survive but would be useless for any hard labor. These losses, plus the death of the voyageur crushed at the rapids, held the boat to as few as fifteen miles a day.

  Then favoring winds again sprang up, and the daily distance was more than doubled for a few days.

  Munro’s mood noticeably improved, and he was generous with rations of good whiskey and coffee. Even Jackson, to whose surly face smiles were total strangers, cursed less at the crew. Under strict orders from Munro, he avoided any further confrontation with Wolf Who Hunts Smiling.

  But Jackson and Munro now had reason to keep a close eye on Touch the Sky.

  On the night after the attack by the Crazy Dogs, the two men had met in secret inside the plank cabin.

  “That tall red devil palavers English,” said Hays Jackson with conviction. “During the fight, did you hear the old codger warn him to look to his right flank? And by God, he looked.”

  Wes Munro nodded. As usual he was neatly dressed in a clean linsey-cloth shirt and trousers, his face smoothly shaven. His eyes seemed like hard, flat chips of obsidian in the light of the coal-oil lamp. The two men sat at a crude deal table which had been spiked to the deck. A bottle of good liquor gleamed like topaz among the charts spread out between them.

  “That would explain,” said Munro slowly, thinking out loud, “why Gray Thunder changed his mind. They wanted to send a spy along. But why? Is it just natural suspicion of the white man, or did the chief receive some kind of warning?”

  “Well, I kilt Smoke Rising clean,” insisted Jackson. “Just like you told me. No marks on him. The old pus-bag was close to death anyhow. Even if the Cheyenne got wind of him goin’ under, why should it make them uneasy about us?”

  Munro glanced away, irritated as usual by Jackson’s twitching left eye. Munro always tried to stay downwind of the man too. Munro had grown more fastidious since his days as a long hunter, and Jackson always smelled like a whorehouse at low tide.

  “It could just be natural suspicion of the white man,” Munro suggested again. But then something else occurred to him. “How does the old man know he spoke English?”

  Jackson pondered that, his small, close-set eyes staring into the lamplight. “Might be he don’t. Might be it was just natch’ral to yell out in the heat of the fight. It don’t strike me as too likely that old sot could know him.”

  Jackson was no great intellect, but Munro nodded agreement.

  “It’s also possible,” said Munro, “that we’re wrong about the buck knowing English. The old man yelled loud, and the warning was clear in his tone. The buck might’ve understood the warning without understanding the exact words.”

  “That could be,” conceded Jackson. “The crew’re dumb as dead stumps, but even they’ll sometimes hop when I say ‘jump’ in English.”

  Both men wanted to believe that possibility because it was comforting.

  “At any rate,” said Munro, “we’ll keep a close eye on him. We need bodies, and he’s a strong worker. But at the first sign he’s bamboozling us, kill him.”

  ~*~

  The three Cheyenne braves had covered most of this Tongue River territory during their warrior training with Black Elk. So when the Sioux Princess sailed into view of the Eagle-tail Mountains, their snow-capped tips probing into the blue dome of the sky, they knew they were approaching the Dakota village of Chief Bull Hump.

  The Dakota were not such close allies as the Arapaho. But they were on a friendly footing with the Shaiyena nation and had sent generous gifts to the chief-renewal. Once each year a Dakota sub chief sat in as an honorary member of the Cheyenne Council of Forty.

  So the three Cheyenne braves worried when, once again, the crew began to break open crates of trade goods and heap them on the deck. By now, of course, thanks to what Touch the Sky had overheard, they knew the gist of Munro’s plan to steal Indian homelands for the paleface wagon road. Now their attention was concentrated on some plan to interfere with Munro, to disrupt the well-oiled machinery of this engine of destruction.

  When and if the opportunity came, they had to get word back to their camp. But now they had a more immediate concern. Chief Bull Hump had been a good friend to their tribe. They wanted desperately to protect him from the fate which had befallen Chief Smoke Rising.

  But the keelboat did not stop close to the village of Bull Hump. Munro gave the order to anchor about an hour’s hard horseback ride to the south. And the lone brave who was waiting for them there, hiding from his own tribe’s scouts and lookouts, was not Chief Bull Hump. It was a rebellious young sub chief of twenty five winters named Cries Yia Eya.

  Cries Yia Eya waited on a buckskin pony. The Dakota tribe did not like riding bareback, but preferred their flat, stuffed buffalo-hide saddles. The powerful young warrior wore a leather shirt adorned with intricate beadwork.

  For a moment he glanced with curiosity at the three young Cheyennes. But though they knew him, from brief councils he had held wit
h Black Elk during their warrior training, he did not remember them. He dismissed them with one haughty glance and turned his attention to Munro, greeting him in English.

  Touch the Sky had noticed that, since the battle with the Crow Crazy Dogs, Munro and Jackson would not speak around him as openly as before. He was not aware they had heard Old Knobby’s shouted warning to him. But a worm of suspicion gnawed at him—the fear that they somehow knew he spoke English.

  Munro and Cries Yia Eya disappeared inside the plank cabin. Much later the brave emerged and departed, taking none of the goods heaped on deck.

  Munro did not give the order to weigh anchor. Touch the Sky guessed that, whatever was afoot, they were waiting for the cover of darkness—Dakota lookouts must surely surround the area, as all tribes maintained constant security from surprise attack.

  Whatever was in the wind, Touch the Sky thought grimly, it could not bode well for Bull Hump. Most of the trade goods on deck consisted of new scatterguns, Hawken rifles, and percussion-cap pistols.

  Little Horse too had made a somber inventory of the munitions. He and Touch the Sky were employed in repairing frays in the cordelles while the boat lay idle. Wolf Who Hunts Smiling had been sent ashore by Munro to hunt fresh meat.

  “Brother,” said Little Horse, “soon comes a storm of trouble. What can we do?”

  Frustrated and miserable, Touch the Sky shook his head.

  “I wish my medicine were as strong as Arrow Keeper’s. Then I might quickly summon magic to help us. Already our shadows grow long behind us. Whatever these dogs have planned, it will happen when our sister the sun has gone to her resting place. Somehow, some way, we must follow them under cover of darkness.”

  ~*~

  When the Sun Dance ceremony had ended, Gray Thunder’s Cheyennes made ready to return north to their permanent summer camp at the fork where the Little Powder joined the Powder.

  This operation was impressive in its efficiency. While Black Elk sent scouts out to make sure the route was secure, the women and children broke down the camp. The tipis, which would take much longer to erect than dismantle, came down in minutes. Everything they owned was lashed to travois, along with the very old and the very young incapable of walking or riding ponies.

  The warriors formed a double column, the rest of the people traveling between them. Black Elk sent out flankers and point riders. The ponies, well rested and grazed, made good time. In only a few sleeps the summer camp was reestablished along the Powder.

  By tradition, each clan pitched its tipis and lodges in the exact spot where they had stood previously. These spots had been carefully marked by buffalo ribs stuck into the earth. A place developed strong medicine that was special to that clan.

  The tipis of Little Horse and Wolf Who Hunts Smiling were erected, in their absence, by their clans. However, Touch the Sky had no known blood clan among the Cheyenne. But old Arrow Keeper made sure that two young boys erected the tipi for him on the lone hummock where it had always stood near the shaman’s.

  Few in camp knew of this new trouble with Wes Munro. They were told only that the three missing braves had been sent to assist the journey. The recent hunts had been good, filling the meat racks with jerked buffalo and ensuring plenty of pemmican for the cold moons. This and the elation following a good Sun Dance left the tribe in unusually high spirits.

  However, word of new trouble soon arrived.

  On the third sleep after the return to the Powder River camp, River of Winds showed up outside Black Elk’s tipi. He was one of the scouts Black Elk had sent out and one of the most trusted warriors in the tribe.

  “Black Elk!” he called from outside the elkskin entrance flap. “I would speak with you. It is an urgent matter.”

  Black Elk lifted the flap and bade him enter. A small cooking fire blazed in a circle of rocks, the smoke curling through the hole at the top of the tipi. Honey Eater sat amidst a pile of buffalo robes at the back of the tipi, finishing a hide on pumice stone.

  Despite the obvious importance of River of Winds’ message, Cheyenne custom was strong and a visitor always an important thing. Honey Eater prepared hot yarrow tea and bowls of spiced meat for the two men. After they had eaten, Black Elk packed his long clay pipe and both men smoked, speaking of inconsequential matters. Finally Black Elk lay his pipe carefully between them. This was the signal for the serious discussion to begin.

  “Brother,” said River of Winds, “I did as you told me. I scouted for several sleeps along the Tongue, following the route of the white men’s boat.

  “Strange little lodges without entrance holes have been erected at places near the river. I cannot read the symbols painted on them in white. Around these lodges, the trees have been blazed with tomahawks.

  “More than once I was forced to find cover. Large groups of heavily armed white men are patrolling the area. They are not Bluecoats. I watched one of these groups approach a band of Arapaho hunters near Roaring Horse Creek. Brother, I saw . . .”

  Here River of Winds was forced to stop, sudden emotion choking his words off. Honey Eater knew it was important to stay out of the affairs of men. Nonetheless, she stared openly now at their visitor. The hide lay ignored in her lap.

  Black Elk noticed this. A fierce frown wrinkled his brow. He knew full well why his bride was so concerned.

  “I have ears for your words,” he said with impatience to River of Winds. “But I have no medicine to understand them unless you finish speaking them.”

  “Brother, I saw these hair-faces ride down under a truce flag, as if to parlay with the hunters. Then, with no warning, they slaughtered the Arapahos! They scalped them and mutilated the bodies. They sent them under to an unclean death with no chance to sing their death song—and the leader of the hunters was Smiles Plenty!”

  A choked sob escaped from Honey Eater. Even Black Elk, who despised public displays of emotion by men, was stunned into a long silence. Like River of Winds, he too automatically made the cut-off sign. Smiles Plenty was popular among the entire Cheyenne village. Worse, they both knew that by strict Arapaho custom, the names of those who died unclean could never be mentioned again. Their tribal history had ended with their deaths.

  Keeping her face averted, Honey Eater suddenly rose and hurried outside. Black Elk watched her, his eyes smoldering with furious jealousy. He realized it wasn’t just Smiles Plenty’s death that had upset her—clearly, she was fearful for her tall young buck, the squaw-stealing Touch the Sky.

  “You have reported this thing to Gray Thunder?”

  River of Winds nodded. “He ordered me to report it to you immediately. It will be discussed tomorrow in council.”

  “These murdering white dogs,” said Black Elk, “do they know the palefaces on the boat?”

  “I do not know this thing, Black Elk. But they always ride close to the river, and they are thickest everywhere where the boat has been.”

  After River of Winds had left, Black Elk rose in agitation and paced around the dying fire. This was indeed grim news for the tribe. But something else bothered him, something much more personal—something that pierced him hard in a place where his warrior’s armor was useless.

  He knew where Honey Eater was right now.

  Not wanting to confirm his suspicion, yet driven by some morbid need to know for sure, he slipped out of the tipi. Night had gathered her black cloak over the camp. Fires blazed everywhere, casting eerie shadows. In the clearing at the center of camp, the younger braves were congregating to bet on the nightly pony races.

  Keeping to the shadows beyond the fires, Black Elk made his way toward the lone hummock where Touch the Sky’s dark, empty tipi stood.

  A scud of clouds blew away from the moon, bathing the camp in soft, silver-white light. And there, on her knees before Touch the Sky’s tipi, was Honey Eater.

  She clutched a smooth, round stone to her breast. In the moonlight limning her pretty face, he could see the glistening tears streaming down.

  Bitter bile rose
in Black Elk’s throat as the words drifted back from the hinterland of memory. Words he had heard Touch the Sky shout to Honey Eater when she and the tall youth were both held prisoner in the camp of Henri Lagace’s whiskey sellers:

  Honey Eater! Do you know that I love you? Do you know that I have placed a stone in front of my tipi? When that stone melts, so too will my love for you! These white dogs can kill me now, but they will never kill my love for you!

  Black Elk’s rage was instant.

  He rushed forward and seized his wife hard, lifting her from the ground and shaking her.

  “What? Are you in rut for your randy buck? For him you would gladly get a child in your belly, yet where is my son? I will cut off your braids, you unfaithful she-bitch! Then the entire camp will know you are in heat for him!”

  Honey Eater was frightened by his terrible wrath. But she was the daughter of a great chief, and her pride was also great. Her own indignant rage was immediate and deep.

  “Then cut them off! I am weary of your childish accusations! Do women in rut shed tears? I am worried for him! While you sully the Arrows with this unmanly strong-mushroom talk, he faces great danger for his tribe.

  “Here! Take this! Cut my braids off now and be done with your threats!”

  All Cheyenne women fiercely valued chastity. Thus they carried a “suicide knife” on a thong under their dresses. These were used to kill themselves rather than face rape from captors. Honey Eater pulled it out now.

  But already Black Elk regretted his rash outburst. In his overweening pride he would never publicly mark his wife for shame—this would be an admission of his own weakness, a public acknowledgment of his inability to control his squaw.

  Roughly, he threw her back down to the ground.

  “Then cry for him! Make rivers with your tears, flood the plains. You are wise to do so, for if the whites do not kill him, I surely will!”