by Judith Pella
“I was first shaken from this conviction,” Broken Wing said, “following the massacre at Sand Creek. It was then that I killed my first white man, during the defense of our village. We who survived this battle, hot with the hunger for revenge, went on the warpath against the white man soldiers. Even Black Kettle did not stand in our way. We attacked the army fort, we plundered their supplies, we raided the roads and the farms. But when the fires of my vengeance began to die out, I was troubled by what I had done and soon wanted no more of this path. Black Kettle, too, was of this mind, and gathered to him about eighty lodges of Cheyenne who had their fill of revenge. We left the main force of warriors and moved south of the Arkansas River, where we wanted to live in peace.
“But I knew little peace within myself. In the next fall, we were hunting buffalo and something terrible happened. I was racing on my horse next to a large bull when my mount stumbled into a hole in the ground and both he and I went down. I was unharmed, but my horse had a broken leg and had to be killed. I had my medicine bundle with me because we needed to have a good hunt, and when I removed my saddle from the dead horse, I found my bundle had been crushed. My white eagle feather had also been broken. I was much distressed by this and sought council from Crooked Eye, who told me to go into the hills to fast and seek a vision from the Great Spirit. This I did.
“It is our custom in these cases to fast for four days, lying on the top of a hill the whole time, not eating or drinking. After three days, I had another dream.” Broken Wing’s voice grew very grim and taut. He did not like to think of that dream or talk of it, but he forced himself to continue. “I dreamed again of the white eagle. This time he came to me in a place like where I lay, a very common place with no particular magic to it. The eagle bore no injuries and was healthy and strong. He swooped down at me and, picking me up in his long, lethal talons, carried me far away to a land such as I had once or twice seen south of what the white man calls the Cimarron River. It was very flat and dry and dusty—a land of no great beauty. But its real ugliness came not from the land itself but from the fence that circled much of the land. It was a tall fence that seemed to go up as high as the heavens. Within that fence I saw many of my people. They were sad and sick and weak. They did not have the strength to try to scale that fence. They had not the courage even to try.
“I asked the white eagle why it brought me here, but it did not answer. In silence, it dropped me in the middle of the terrible fenced place. As the eagle flew away, to my horror, I heard the bird I thought was my friend laughing in a most evil way.
“My first thought was to escape that place. I spent hours trying, until my hands were raw, but it was impossible, even for a strong warrior such as I believed myself to be. But while climbing that fence, I saw that there was only one way out of the prison … the only escape was the Hanging Road.” Broken Wing stopped, his voice clogged with emotion. He could not speak again for some time, and Deborah, herself choked with emotion, lay in utter silence also.
But Broken Wing was determined, now that he had begun, to complete his grim tale. “You know as well as I, Wind Rider, the meaning of my dream. I saw the fate of my people. I saw what the final treaty with the white man will bring us. There can be no other way, not for them.”
“You … you have never said anything about this to me,” said Deborah, stricken.
“When my dream was over and I awoke, I ceased my fasting, for when bad dreams come to a man, it is best to give up the fasting and leave. This I did, and on my return journey to my camp I found you. I believed you were a sign from Heammawihio, a way to comfort me and counter the bad dream.”
Deborah asked in a tormented voice, “How did you know I was not just an extension of your dream?”
He replied with soft assurance, the pain in his tone momentarily replaced with the intensity of his feeling for her. “Because you were another helpless white bird in need of the healing of my love.”
Deborah closed her eyes as tears coursed down her cheeks. Broken Wing leaned toward her, kissing her tear-streaked face.
“My love for you, Wind Rider,” he said, “has erased the torment of the fenced place from my mind.”
“Until now … ?” she whispered.
“I have had the dream again. The sun has come and gone ten times since the dream last came to me.”
“Ten days ago!”
“I could not tell you. I have tried to forget. But I can’t. Do you know what I thought when I learned of Walking Wolf’s and Yellow Shirt’s deaths? I said to myself, ‘They are fortunate, for they will never see the fenced place.’”
“Broken Wing—!”
He laid a finger across her lips to silence her. “I have not told you the whole dream. I have not told you its end.”
“I don’t want to know!” she exclaimed with such force she nearly woke Carolyn again. “It isn’t good to know the end of things.” She paused, knowing full well that her attempt to shield herself from the truth was useless. “Broken Wing,” she said in a faint, reluctant whisper, “I already know the ending of your dream.” She swallowed hard. “You took the Hanging Road, didn’t you?”
He nodded, then said, “I will die like a warrior, not in a white man’s reservation. But I still try to believe that there are two white eagles, and that if I can find the good eagle again, peace may still be, and the Cheyenne will keep their hunting grounds and the freedom to follow the buffalo. But, Wind Rider, it may be that I will have to fight the white man again.”
“I can accept your fighting the soldiers,” said Deborah, “but only if I know you are fighting to win, not to die.”
“I do not wish to die.”
“All right.” She had to be content with that. She should have realized from the beginning that she had married a warrior, and a warrior’s wife must live every day with the threat of death in battle. Had she considered this, would her decision have been different? She could not have stopped loving him, and the happiness she had known with Broken Wing surely must outweigh her anxieties. She thought of her brother, who had also been a warrior. It had been difficult to let him go off to war, but at the same time she had also been proud of him.
She was proud of Broken Wing, too—as long as she could be certain he had not given up.
“Broken Wing,” she added, “you have much to live for.”
“I know that, my wife.” He gazed lovingly at her.
“More than that.” She smiled, and if it was forced and frayed, at least it was sincere. “You will soon be a father.”
He responded with a sudden, wide grin. All the previous pain, the confusion, the haunted torment disappeared in a joyous instant and, for a time at least, all thoughts of dreary fenced-in prisons faded away.
38
In the fall of the year 1867, Deborah gave birth to a son. She could not remember the last time she had felt such pure and uncluttered joy. She had not the least reluctance to look upon this child and felt only gladness when she saw how he resembled his father.
“Except for his blue eyes,” said Broken Wing proudly.
“You don’t mind … ?”
“Why should I? They are your eyes.”
“You once said that the black hair and dark eyes and brown skin were the best gifts of the Wise One Above.”
He smiled sheepishly. “I think I was wrong. It might be that in a time before memory, a drop of white blood found its way into me also. Nevertheless, here is a Cheyenne son, as perfect as I have ever seen, and his eyes are blue like the sky where Heammawihio dwells. So it must be that the Wise One has other perfect gifts I know nothing about.” He paused, then added with satisfaction, “I will call him Blue Sky.”
That night Broken Wing went out alone and raided a Crow camp, returning home with a dozen horses, which, in joyous celebration of his son’s birth, he gave away to all his friends.
About two weeks later, runners were sent from the bluecoat fort requesting the various tribes to come in for a council.
In the pre
ceding months, Broken Wing had committed himself to defending his tribe’s rights to the Smoky Hill region by participating in raids on the stage line and the encroaching Kansas-Pacific railroad. But he considered his actions to be of a purely defensive nature, so when the whites began to make overtures toward peace, he believed himself honor bound to follow the path of peace whenever it was possible.
The Dog Soldiers, still furious over Hancock’s burning of their village, wanted no part of it and even tried to physically bar any warriors from attending. But Black Kettle managed to evade the Dog Soldiers, and by October 14, he had moved his village south of Fort Larned to the Medicine Lodge Creek where the council would be held. Decked out in a robe of fine blue cloth, a tall dragoon hat upon his head, Black Kettle made an impressive sight as he rode up to meet the white chiefs. Broken Wing rode proudly with him, hopeful that this might be the council that would finally bring a true peace between the white and red men. Unfortunately, from the beginning, it was beset by misunderstanding, confusion, and intrigue.
Black Kettle told the United States commissioners that the Dog Soldiers were still on the warpath and he warned the officials that he could not guarantee that they wouldn’t attack the camp. He also wanted eight more days to gather in the rest of the tribe. The commissioners were not happy about this delay; after all, the Kiowa, Comanche, and Arapahoe were already represented. They did not comprehend that in the Cheyenne power structure, a chief was not a supreme authority. He made no major decisions without the approval of the tribe in general. To foster good relations, the commissioners finally agreed. That night, however, another serious and startling delay occurred.
A party of Dog Soldiers, heavily armed, appeared in the council camp demanding a conference with Black Kettle. Broken Wing watched in shocked silence as they threatened and railed at the great peace-chief. The main point of their visit was to inform the chief that one of their number had pledged an Arrow Renewal ceremony, and if Black Kettle did not attend, they would kill his horses.
The sacred Medicine Arrows were the most revered possessions of the tribe, given them by their ancient hero, Sweet Medicine himself. Two of the four arrows gave the Cheyenne power over the buffalo, and the other two, power over human beings. They were customarily renewed in the presence of the entire tribe before most great undertakings, such as a great tribal hunt … or a war. The significant timing of this particular ceremony was not lost on Broken Wing, nor on any who had an understanding of the Cheyennes.
Black Kettle requested of the commissioners an additional four days for the completion of the ceremony. He was obviously distraught and very likely feared for his own safety if he did not comply. Permission was granted and the council was delayed once more, much to the consternation of the commissioners.
Broken Wing rode out with the party, and when they paused for a rest on the way, he sought out Stands-in-the-River, who had begun more and more to associate himself with the Dog Soldiers and had joined them in approaching Black Kettle.
“Why are they treating Black Kettle in this way?” Broken Wing asked. “He is a chief, a man of honor.”
“Black Kettle walks too close to the white man,” replied Stands-in-the-River. “You know we cannot make peace with the bluecoats.”
“We must try.”
“They ask us to give up too much.”
“Some of them are reasonable,” argued Broken Wing. “We should hear their words, at least. If they ask too much, then we can fight.”
“We have listened too many times and we have lost much. The Dog Men will listen no more!” Then he leveled a narrow, accusing stare at Broken Wing. “You are becoming two-hearted like the whites. Does your white woman make you into a white man?”
Broken Wing bristled at this, but he replied evenly, “You know that is not true. But if you treat a great man like Black Kettle with contempt, if you attack the innocent, if you deal deceptively, then it is you, not I, who becomes like our enemies.”
Stands-in-the-River spat on the ground. “We do what we must do.”
“And so do I,” said Broken Wing.
“Do not forget, Broken Wing,” Stands-in-the-River said, altering his tone slightly so that he sounded more like mentor and friend than adversary, “that a Cheyenne man is a warrior above all else, and it is a good thing not to live to be an old man.”
Broken Wing responded with a halfhearted nod and walked away. He could not bear a falling out with his brother over this. Yet Stands-in-the-River had hit upon the truth, the central dilemma of Broken Wing’s life—a life continually torn between two worlds, two philosophies. He desired peace with the whites, if for no other reason than because he saw the futility of any other path. But he also knew he would rather die in battle than live to be a toothless old man in the white man’s world.
In spite of his ambivalence, however, he participated in the renewal ceremony. And, as was certainly the Dog Soldiers’ intent, it instilled in him a renewed sense of who he was as a man and as a Cheyenne. It confirmed the importance of maintaining their way of life, the way he loved.
This sense of tribal and individual pride was heightened in Broken Wing, and no doubt in every member of the tribe, on the fourth and final day of the ceremony. While all the females were securely out of sight within the walls of their lodges, the sacred Medicine Arrows, ritually attached to a pole, were brought out into the sunlight in open view of all the Cheyenne males. Then every male, regardless of age, passed solemnly by the arrows. Broken Wing, carrying Blue Sky in his arms, joined the procession, and gazing upon the arrows saw in them the soul of the tribe. In them lay the very survival of his people, the assurance of ultimate prosperity. And Broken Wing knew it was no accident that this was represented by arrows and not some other more passive objects.
He looked down into his son’s blue eyes. “You are Tsistsistas,” he murmured, although the child was too young to understand his words. “Be proud. Your way of life is worth fighting for. But I hope, for your sake, victory will come by peace and not war.”
At the council camp, the commissioners and the retinue of soldiers and journalists and other white spectators grew more and more concerned at the delayed return of the Cheyenne. Several days beyond those requested by Black Kettle had already passed, and the whites were becoming decidedly nervous.
A treaty was concluded with the Comanche and Kiowa and Apache. The Arapahoe asked to be dealt with separately from the Cheyenne, obviously fearing that if the Cheyenne were about to make war on the camp, their close association with the Cheyenne would go ill for the Arapahoe. But the commissioners ignored the Arapahoe.
Tensions mounted when the Cheyenne chief, Little Robe, rode into camp to tell the commissioners the Cheyenne would be there soon and not to be alarmed if they heard gunfire because the warriors would be firing into the air.
The next day came the cry, “Cheyenne!”
Broken Wing rode the gray stallion, a robe of crimson silk around his shoulders and white feathers and brass disks ornamenting his long, flowing hair. His solemn, proud face was painted with bold geometric designs, as were the flanks of the stallion. And he was not alone.
With Broken Wing was a column of Cheyenne warriors, five abreast and five hundred strong, led by the fierce and determined Dog Soldiers. All were ornamented similarly to Broken Wing, the sun glinting off the thick array of silver and brass the men wore. But more striking than that was the obvious presence of weapons, accompanied by the deafening explosions of the firearms.
No white man could look upon the ensuing scene without some trepidation. Most felt utter panic.
Stands-in-the-River, riding next to Broken Wing, grinned at his brother. “Look at them!” he shouted above the din of gunfire and the hoots of the Indians. “The whites will think twice about their dealings with us now!”
Broken Wing thought about what Deborah had once suggested about a united Indian front. Was it truly that simple? But Broken Wing had heard there were thousands upon thousands of bluecoats—even a
fter the war they had had between themselves, there were still thousands. Deborah herself could not deny this. A mere five hundred Cheyenne would appear as nothing to such a mighty force.
But, for the time being at least, they made a sight to be reckoned with, and as the vanguard of the Cheyenne splashed and clamored across the stream, every white soldier and spectator braced for a charge. But the galloping Cheyenne ponies pulled up to an abrupt stop before the line of waiting commissioners. Then a group of chiefs, led by Black Kettle, dismounted and strode up to meet the white chiefs. An almost audible sigh of relief rose up from the camp.
But the tensions quickly returned during the negotiations.
Oddly, it was not Black Kettle who was chosen by the Cheyenne nation to be spokesman—an indication not only of his eroding prestige among his people but also of the growing discontent of the warriors with their treatment by the whites. Instead of the old peace-chief, a chief named Buffalo Chief spoke for his people, making clear the position of the Cheyenne, if not of all the Plains Indians.
“The land north of the river you call Arkansas is the land claimed by my people. The bones of our ancestors are buried there. You give us many presents, but all we want is to have our lives as they have always been. You give us presents and take our land; that is why there is war.”
Broken Wing braced himself for a stalemate, because the Cheyenne wanted the very thing the commission was determined to take from them. The Indians desired peace and were willing to sign the white man’s paper, but only if they could keep their hunting ground between the Arkansas and the Platte Rivers.
The delay was making the commissioners and other whites nervous, especially with the unpredictable Dog Soldiers still providing an ominous presence over the proceedings. A breakthrough finally came when Senator Henderson, one of the commissioners, drew aside the chiefs and gave them a verbal promise that if the Indians kept away from white settlements, they could continue to hunt in the disputed area as long as the buffalo remained. To the chiefs, this was as good as a guarantee of Indian rights to the land for many years to come, since the buffalo would remain plentiful for a long while.