by Judd Cole
They had just entered the bend when a flock of startled sandpipers rose from the shore ahead of them, from a point out of sight just past the bend.
Both Cheyennes saw the birds at the same moment. Tired muscles screaming at the strain, they quickly back-paddled against the current and angled toward the bank. They hid their dugout behind some hawthorn bushes. Then, sticking to the thickets and willow rushes, they crept forward with their rifles held close to their chests.
When they were almost through the bend, they spotted them.
About a half-dozen well-armed whites sat their horses, sharing a smoke break with another man on the ground.
“The hair-face militiamen,” whispered Wolf Who Hunts Smiling, “checking with one of their sentries.”
Touch the Sky nodded. “Your knife will not silence all these.”
“No,” Wolf Who Hunts Smiling said grimly. “Now we lose more precious time carrying the dugout.”
“Not this time,” said Touch the Sky, thinking again of Little Horse and Knobby. Both men had saved his life, had fought beside him in pitched battles and proven themselves brave warriors. If there was a chance that either of them was still alive, that chance got slimmer with every hour wasted.
“On horseback,” said Touch the Sky, “we can reach our tribe in one sleep. This is where we trade our dugout for horses. Hear my words.”
His plan was simple and reckless, and thus it appealed to Wolf Who Hunts Smiling. They worked quickly, before the riders could leave. First the younger brave returned to the dugout for the rest of their weapons. Then, leaving his rifle with Wolf Who Hunts Smiling so he could move unencumbered, Touch the Sky worked his way into the thick brambles and bushes beside the river.
He waited until Wolf Who Hunts Smiling had sneaked into position behind a huge elm tree near the white men.
Then, quite boldly, he stepped into the open as if unaware the others were present.
“Look yonder!” shouted one of the militiamen.
The growth hereabouts was too dense to chase a man on horseback. As Touch the Sky leaped back behind cover, his heart thumping hard against his ribs, the first bullets sliced through the brush all around him. He made plenty of noise as he ran, hoping the whites would give chase on foot.
They did, though he couldn’t be sure how many. Their clumsy, heavy boots made it ridiculously easy to track their progress as he led them on a wild run away from the river. Occasionally, when they seemed to be slowing, he showed just enough of himself just long enough, teasing them into another shot and more clumsy pursuit. But now and then a bullet whanged past his ears, dangerously close, and reminded Touch the Sky this was no child’s game.
Then a single rifle report back near the river made Touch the Sky’s blood surge with hope—and sent the whites back to the bend in a near panic.
Touch the Sky made his way quickly downriver to the copse where he had arranged to meet Wolf Who Hunts Smiling. The younger brave waited impatiently for him. His face was triumphant and arrogant as he handed the reins of a powerfully built bay to Touch the Sky. He also led a spotted gray mare whose chest was thickly ridged with muscles. Both animals had clearly been selected for endurance.
“As you said, they left only the one paleface to watch their mounts,” he said. “And though I had no time to raise his hair, another white enemy has crossed over!”
The horses were saddled, which caused Wolf Who Hunts Smiling considerable trouble and scowling at first. But soon they were making good time as they crossed the open tableland between the Tongue and the Powder, every heartbeat bringing them deeper into Cheyenne country and closer to their people.
~*~
“Wolf Who Hunts Smiling and Touch the Sky approach camp!” shouted the crier, racing his pony up and down the clan circles. “They ride in on white man’s horses!”
It was early morning, the mist still floating like pale smoke over the Powder River. Curious Cheyennes spilled forth from their tipis, congregating in the central clearing before the council lodge. Honey Eater was among them, her lower lip caught between her strong white teeth in her nervousness. She felt Black Elk’s angry, jealous eyes watching her every moment. She tried to keep the deep concern and relief from showing in her face.
But when she finally spotted Touch the Sky, her breath snagged in her throat.
The blood-encrusted gash over his temple, bloody and raw bracelets around ankle and wrist, the huge, grape-colored bruises on his ribs, the arrow wound in his thigh—these spoke eloquently of such suffering that tears of pity formed on her eyelids.
Then, as the two warriors rode up, Touch the Sky’s eyes found hers.
The hunted-animal hardness left his troubled gaze. The suggestion of a smile replaced the grim, determined slit formed by his lips. Her fragile beauty again took his breath away and made the blood throb in his temples. And he told himself again, this is why I fight.
But Black Elk was watching both of them, and the light smoldering in his eyes was clearly not a welcoming fire as was hers.
“Father!” said Wolf Who Hunts Smiling, spotting Chief Gray Thunder as he swung clumsily down from the saddle. “Have ears for my plea and call the Councilors together now.”
Gray Thunder silently studied his two bruised and bloodied young warriors.
“You left on the white man’s boat,” he said at last, “and now you return on stolen ponies, bearing the marks of much suffering and pain. This is how the white men used you, Cheyennes, in spite of their word that you would be respected. Yes, the Councilors will meet as is the way. I would hear your tales. But the greater part of them is told in these scars and hurts you bear. Soon the Arrows will be renewed for battle!”
Now Gray Thunder nodded at the camp crier, who was soon covering the well-packed paths of camp as he summoned the Council of Forty to the meeting lodge. The sense of urgency was strong, and the usual ceremonies of prayer and smoking to the directions were suspended.
Gray Thunder called on both braves to speak. Touch the Sky reported in detail everything he had overheard about the scheme to build a wagon road through the heart of Plains Indian homelands. Wolf Who Hunts Smiling admitted he understood less of the English, but verified these things.
Gray Thunder showed little emotion, though he nodded with approval at Wolf Who Hunts Smiling’s description of the aborted coup by Cries Yia Eya, and his subsequent capture by the Dakota people.
“There is nothing else for it now but a battle!” said Touch the Sky when his companion had finished. “Chief Smoke Rising has been murdered. More villages will be divided, more of the ‘private treaties’ signed. If Munro is allowed to complete this journey, his talking papers will speak against us, and they will speak a death sentence! Soon all red men will lose the lush grass and the buffalo. They will be confined to the arid, empty lands where the Apaches hide.”
These words stirred several headmen to voice agreement. Touch the Sky had only spoken from his heart. But when he finished, he saw Arrow Keeper eyeing his apprentice with pride and admiration. A red man who could speak well at council would go far indeed!
“The stones will speak,” said Gray Thunder. “These whites have killed not only Smoke Rising, but Smiles Plenty and his fellow hunters. For these crimes and others, I too counsel for war against these whites. Our fight is not with the hired boatmen. Those who do not fire at us will not be fired upon. But the dogs named Munro and Jackson must die with their murdering ‘militia’!”
“My warriors are ready,” said Black Elk. “I was for greasing their bones with war paint from the first moment I heard his honeyed tongue spreading its lies!”
Black Elk and Touch the Sky had carefully avoided meeting each other’s eye. Both were well aware there was an unsettled score between them. And Black Elk had noticed the approval Touch the Sky’s words inspired from some elders. But rumors about Black Elk’s jealousy had spread through camp, and he knew it would not be wise to speak against his enemy. So now he passed a quick signal to Swift Canoe, who
was eager to snipe at his enemy at every opportunity.
Swift Canoe spoke: “Fathers and brothers! It has not been so long since River of Winds, one of our most trusted warriors and hunters, reported that Touch the Sky is a spy for the Long Knives! I saw with my own eyes when he met with a Bluecoat chief, when he left messages for this chief in the forks of trees! Is it wise to rush into battle against whites now at his bidding?”
“Wolf Who Hunts Smiling is your friend,” said Touch the Sky. “He has been with me for this entire voyage, and he too counsels for war.”
A long silence followed this comment. All of the Councilors looked at Wolf Who Hunts Smiling, waiting.
“Yes, I counsel for war,” he said. “But as for Touch the Sky’s loyalties, I say Swift Canoe is wise to advise caution.”
Now Wolf Who Hunts Smiling looked only at Gray Thunder. “Touch the Sky begged that white jackal Munro to loosen his bonds. He boasted how he was a spy for the hair-faced soldiers. He boasted how cleverly and easily he spoke out of both sides of his mouth. He compared himself to those Indians who raise one hand in greeting while with the other they kill you!”
Wolf Who Hunts Smiling had not missed the increased tension between Black Elk and Touch the Sky. Now Wolf Who Hunts Smiling met his older cousin’s eye and held it as he added, “He also boasted openly of the joys of tasting the fruits of both race’s women, without owing responsibility to either.”
The furrow between Gray Thunder’s eyes grew ominously deeper as he stared at Touch the Sky. “Are these charges true?”
The youth felt his face flush. These last words were an outright lie, but the first part had been true enough. “I spoke some words like these, Father. But they were bent words. I wanted the white dog to untie me.”
“I was in pain too,” said Wolf Who Hunts Smiling, “So was Little Horse. We did not forsake our tribe just to be untied and made more comfortable.”
Touch the Sky rose in anger from his spot beside the center lodge pole. “You know full well that I did not seek ‘comfort’. I only wanted the chance to free you and Little Horse and go for my enemy.”
Though he held his face impassive, inwardly Wolf Who Hunts Smiling was gloating. Here stood his worst enemy in the tribe, showing his embarrassed anger in his face like a white man! Of course the wily Cheyenne buck knew Touch the Sky hadn’t intended to cooperate with the whites. But it was dangerous to let this tall newcomer win too much influence among the elders. Again Wolf Who Hunts Smiling had managed to sow seeds of doubt amongst Gray Thunder and the Council of Forty.
“This incessant bickering only turns over old dirt,” said Gray Thunder, “without bearing fruit. Our purpose now is to vote with our stones. Do the Cheyenne people ride the warpath against this land-stealing murderer?”
Half of the Council of Forty were voting Headmen. A pouch containing forty stones—twenty white moonstones and twenty black agates—was passed among them. Each voting Councilor removed a stone of his choice and kept it hidden in his palm. When the pouch returned to Gray Thunder, he shook it out on the robes in front of him: twenty white moonstones formed a pile.
Gray Thunder stared at the unanimous yes vote. Then he gazed around at the Headmen and addressed them as one:
“The red man did not send out the first soldier, we only sent out the second. Now the tribe has spoken with one voice. The Shaiyena people are at war!”
Chapter Seventeen
No time was wasted after Gray Thunder’s announcement.
Cheyenne warriors seldom mounted an offensive battle without painting and dressing and making their offerings to the sacred Medicine Arrows. Warriors often chose to run away, with no loss of honor, rather than fight before they had thus acquired strong medicine. So it was announced that the Renewal of the Arrows would take place that same day. The war party would then ride out well before the sun went to her resting place.
Cheyenne and Sioux scouts had already reported on the militiamen, and the warriors knew these well-armed hair-faces would likely join the battle as mercenaries for Munro. However, no one knew their actual numbers. But between the militia and the big-thundering guns of the Sioux Princess, a hard, bloody fight was expected.
In the past Touch the Sky had made offerings to the Medicine Arrows before riding into battle. But today, for the first time, he would assist Arrow Keeper in conducting the ceremony.
Always at the back of his mind was his concern for Little Horse and Old Knobby. Though he knew that escaping had been the only chance for all of them, he still felt gnawing doubts—despite Little Horse’s crushed knee and the lack of time, could he have freed him? But how? And Knobby—Munro and Jackson would not be slow to guess who must have cut the Cheyennes loose. The old man had known that when he did it, sacrificing his life to give them a slim hope of escape.
This constant worrying about his friends alternated with rage toward Wolf Who Hunts Smiling. The wily brave’s clever posturing at the council had once again revived the specter of Touch the Sky’s supposed treachery. How much longer, he wondered bitterly, must he be punished for the crime of having been raised by whites?
All these thoughts and worries scurried through his head like frenzied insects as he dressed and painted for the Renewal. He had just donned the mountain-lion skin Arrow Keeper had given him when he heard his name called harshly outside of his tipi.
No mistaking that deep, sullen bark: Black Elk.
Touch the Sky threw aside the entrance flap.
“Your war leader would speak with you,” said Black Elk’s haughty voice.
The young warrior was resplendent in his battle finery of war bonnet, bone breastplate, and leggings reinforced with stiff collars of leather to protect from lance points and tomahawks. His coup stick was heavy with tufts from enemy scalps, died bright red and yellow. Black Elk’s face was streaked red and black for battle. Again Touch the Sky felt a slight shiver move up his spine as he looked at the dead-leather flap of severed ear sewn back on to Black Elk’s skull with buckskin thread.
“Then speak,” said Touch the Sky curtly. He was in no mood to conciliate his enemies within the tribe. He had learned that conciliation was seen as weakness.
“I am your war chief! You will not use this tone with me.”
“And I am a warrior who has counted coup and slain enemies in battle. I have killed whites, Pawnees, and Crows in defense of my tribe. The council has honored me for my bravery. You will not talk down to me as if I were a dog. This is my tipi. Speak your words and then leave.”
“As you wish, shaman. I am here to say only this. You have used your black arts to beguile Honey Eater. You have cast some sort of spell over her and hold her enthralled. But she is my bride! Her clan accepted my gift of horses and vows have been exchanged.
“So know this, if I ever see you exchange even one word with her, I swear by this coup stick to finish what our chief’s summons interrupted. My blade will open you from throat to rump and spill out your guts for the maggots!”
His threat still hung in the air like bitter smoke long after Black Elk had turned and left. Touch the Sky finished dressing and painting. Then he met Arrow Keeper in the clearing before the council lodge. The four sacred arrows in their coyote-fur pouch lay atop a wide stump.
First the warriors danced a war dance, kicking their knees high to the steady “hi-ya, hi-ya,” cadence.
Arrow Keeper prayed to Maiyun while Touch the Sky gave his prayer wings, scattering rich tobacco as an offering to the four directions of the wind. Then the warriors lined up for the solemn ritual of presenting an offering to the Medicine Arrows.
They left skins, weapons, favorite scalps, bright beads, shards of mirror, doeskin wallets and parfleches, quilled moccasins, beaded leggings, brightly dyed feathers, tobacco, long clay pipes. Black Elk carefully avoided Touch the Sky’s eyes as he knelt to leave a handsome calico shirt before the stump—this near to the Arrows was no place for hostile thoughts.
Wolf Who Hunts Smiling, however, showed no such
restraint. As he rose, after leaving a tow quiver, he whispered for Touch the Sky’s ears alone:
“A powerful shaman indeed! Where was his strong medicine to free his faithful friend Little Horse? He is dead by now, medicine man, and all your prayers and incantations are useless!”
These words burned in Touch the Sky’s mind like glowing embers, refusing to go out. They still plagued him as the war party, in two long columns singing their battle songs, finally rode out.
~*~
The war party rode hard, constantly keeping flankers and point riders out. They all reported the same thing: There was evidence of many shod horses, but no sign of militiamen. Touch the Sky feared this could mean only one thing, that the mercenaries had been summoned to the Sioux Princess in expectation of a hard battle.
For two sleeps they rode hard. Touch the Sky had chosen his spirited dun mare, a present from Arrow Keeper. Cheyennes fasted before battle, and now they only gnawed on strips of venison as they rode, swallowing only the juice. They stopped twice to water their horses and sleep for short periods. When they finally crested the last long rise before the Tongue River valley, Touch the Sky’s fear became reality.
Far below, still toy-sized in the waning sunlight, was the heavily armed keelboat. And surrounding it was the harrowing sight of a virtual army, dug in for heavy fighting. Scores of militiamen swarmed behind solid breastworks of pointed logs. The boatmen had been ordered to remain in their usual camp on the far bank, armed with carbines as a rearguard force. At this distance Touch the Sky could make out no signs of Little Horse or Old Knobby.
“Brothers, hear me well!” said Black Elk as they camped that night below the crest.
It was a cold camp by strict order, and sentries had been sent out. As was the custom, the attack would commence at dawn and they would attack out of the sun.
“The hair-faces have put up a mighty show of defense. But tomorrow the green grass beside that river will flow red with hair-face blood! They are fighting for nothing but money; we fight for the red homeland! Apaches are better fighters than these men. Yet did I not rout the Apache leader Sky Walker and thirty followers from breastworks?”