Wind Walker

by Terry C. Johnston

  Turning to his old friend, Titus said, “Soon we will be close enough to see which one of those riders is your Red Paint Rock.”

  For a long time, the Shoshone studied the figures, staring into the distance, but not as if he were trying to choose among the distant horsemen. When he finally turned to speak to the white man, his cheeks were wet with frozen tears. “No … our women are dead, Ti-tuzz. Both us have nothing left but the killing now. Our women—they both dead.”

  “And soon our enemies will be too,” Titus spoke into the growing strength of the northern wind as the black belly of the horizon darkened, “unless they kill us before we can raise their scalps.”

  The Shoshone smiled at that, his eyes brimming, then pounded a fist twice against his left breast and pointed that hand into the distance at the narrowing gap between the Blackfoot and their pursuers.

  “Yes, two hearts,” Titus replied with a roar as he pounded his fist twice against his own breast and smiled at this old friend. “Two women. Two old warriors. And two scalps we must take.”

  Just as they both shrieked with a feral cry at those icy-blue lowering clouds, the Blackfoot raiders suddenly boiled into action. The enemy horsemen reined this way and that into the captured herd, splitting the Crow ponies in half, then even more pieces, as the raiders divided and divided, and divided again—a few warriors taking a small bunch of the horses and slowly peeling off from the direction they had all been taking together.

  “I must follow the Red Coat!” Titus shouted.

  The Shoshone nodded. “It is good! You see the one riding beside your red coat?”

  “The one wearing the headdress with one buffalo horn?”

  Slays grinned, his eyes hard. “That one, I remember from the taking of my woman.”

  “They go together,” Scratch cried happily.

  “So will we!”

  Five of them. That Red Coat. And the Buffalo Horn Headdress. In addition there was an elkskin painted an earth yellow. Then a faded, green-striped blanket. And finally a buffalo robe decorated with wide bands of earth-paint color running its full width. Five would not be so many that he and his old friend could not whittle them down once they caught these Blackfoot. Five had never been too many for a man who put his head down and kept on coming. Nothing else a man could do when he found he had nothing left to lose.

  Magpie. His sweet little Magpie all growed up and married, a mother too. And that oldest boy of his. How he had already made his mother proud. One day soon he would cast his eye on a girl and take a bride—perhaps even this coming spring, when the days lengthened and the weather warmed and a young man’s blood pounded hot and strong in his limbs. Holds the Fight would father his own children. And so the blood of one tired old warrior would be reborn again and again and again, and again. If Titus had not made his son stay behind, chances were Holds the Fight would never have known the pleasure a woman could bring a man, never experienced the joy of holding his own newborn child naked in his arms, all arms and legs and screwed-up red face staring into his.

  The same mighty blood coursed through young Jackrabbit, already coming of age. And in little Crane too. The one who looked more like her mother than any of the others. They both had this chance, both stood on the cusp of a changing world their father could not begin to fathom, dared not even attempt to imagine. His youngest two now belonged to their brother, and to each other. They were family—even without their mother and father. They were family.

  “Children,” Scratch had said as he dropped to one knee on the snow in front of Magpie’s lodge and wrapped the youngest two into his arms, “you will go with your brother soon, and pray at the foot of the tree where he will lay your mother.”

  “You will not be there to pray with us, Popo?” Jackrabbit asked.

  “No, your brother is a man now. He will watch over you for me, instead of me, from this morning on,” he whispered, then hid his tears in their hair as he crushed both of the youngsters against him and kissed the tops of their heads.

  Little Crane squirmed her way loose so she could peer up into her father’s lined and war-tracked face. Her tiny hand came to the long scar that coursed its way down from the outside corner of his left eye. She stroked it with such intense seriousness, and finally asked, “When will you come back to us?”

  He smiled through the tears. “One day, I’ll see you both again, Crane. Just like you will see your mother again one day too. When what I have to do is finished … I will see you both again.”

  The flesh between her eyes knitted up in confusion. “Where are you going?”

  “I’m going to a place where I hope to put your mother’s spirit and mine to rest, little daughter.”

  This time a suspicious Jackrabbit inquired, “How far away is that?”

  Tousling the boy’s hair as he got to his feet and pulled those young ones against him, waving Hold the Fight and Magpie against him too, wrapping all four in his arms, Bass said, “I hope it is not too long a journey, children. When you go to the tree and pray at the foot of your mother’s body … ask the First Maker to be sure it is not too long a journey for your old father.”

  One by one, he kissed them each, on the eyes, on the mouth too, touched their faces one last time, remembering the golden, shining moments of their squirming infancy and how they had brought such exquisite joy to their mother … then before the agony of this separation would delay him any longer, or he would decide against leaving them without both of their parents, Titus Bass suddenly spun and walked away from his four children—

  Ahead of him now those five Blackfoot raiders yipped and cried at one another, repeatedly glancing back over their shoulders at the pair of horsemen who followed, closing the gap.

  “You are not alone, old warrior!”

  Titus turned and looked over his shoulder, surprised to find the face of the one who had called out to him from behind. Bear Who Sleeps urged his heaving pony up to the white man’s side. He smiled at the Crow. “Is your heart strong today?”

  The warrior grinned and shook his old smoothbore. “It is a good day to die!”

  That made him yip like a young warrior, the cold wind and lowering sky whipping tears from the corners of his eyes. Titus slapped his chest and cried out, “Nothing lives long but the rocks and the sky! All the rest of us must die!”

  “A good day for this!” Slays bellowed on his other side. “A good day!”

  “Goddamn right!” Titus roared to the heavens rumbling toward them, boiling with a storm right over their heads, blue sky turned black and heavy with winter’s fury, clouds beginning to hurl sharp lances of icy snow. “What a damned grand day it is to die!”

  THIRTY-THREE

  There comes an overwhelming peace when a man finally stands upon the ground where he is prepared to die.

  When all things are suddenly made right in his world … and in the world beyond.

  Those five Blackfoot yelled at one another as they reached the rolling, snowy bottom ground along the Judith River. Close enough were these enemies that Scratch could see how they sneered and maybe even cackled to find themselves pursued by only three Crow horsemen. So sure of their numbers and their strength that they could rein up at any moment, whirl around, and overwhelm these three puny pursuers. Especially since they were sure to see that two of them were old men. A pair of tired old warriors, and the five of them were clearly strong, vital, and in the flower of their youth.

  It did not matter to him what the hell the Blackfoot thought, or what the devil they did when all eight of them got close enough to fight. He kept his wind-weeping eye on that Red Coat, seeing now how the man clutched his left arm low against his hip. Wounded by the shot Bass gave him in the village after the Blackfoot killed Waits, but not wounded near bad enough that his pony couldn’t lick it over this broken ground with the four others. No matter what those five warriors did when it came time for the close fighting, which way they turned or how they squared off against their pursuers, Titus vowed he would keep his ey
e on Red Coat, follow him to the death—and if Red Coat was the only one Bass could strangle this cold day … then all things would be made right in his world.

  Scratch turned to Bear Who Sleeps. “The Red Coat is mine. He took my wife from me in camp.”

  The young man nodded solemnly. “I know. That one is yours.” Then the Crow leaned forward slightly to peer around the white man and look directly at the Shoshone. “Friend,” he said, a word that surprised both Bass and Slays in the Night, “I will go after these enemies on the left: the Painted Robe and the Green-Stripe Blanket.”

  Into a wild and feral smile, the Shoshone’s old, wrinkled face beamed with happiness. “It is good! This day I will kill the Yellow Paint Elkskin and Buffalo Horn Headdress! Keee-yiiii!”

  It was clear to see that the Blackfoot were running the horses toward the edge of an icy slough where the dead and hollow stalks of seven-foot-tall reeds stood shuddering in the freezing wind, the bottoms of every bush and clump of willow already collecting a delicate white ringlet of snow—a tiny, hard, icy snow. Not the gentle whisper of dry, downy flakes that normally fell on these northern plains, but a deadly, wind-driven pelting of pain. The stolen horses began to scatter off the narrow path they had been taking, starting to turn this way and that as the snow-crusted meadow widened against the long, narrow borders of willow, alder, and skeletal cottonwood, trees that seemingly stood alone against the lowering blue-black bulk of the clouds.

  This had always been a beautiful valley, he remembered as he spotted the first of the snow-dusted beaver lodges. The industrious creatures had turned this meadow into a home fit for several families of the flat-tails. But now they and their tiny kits were holed up inside the warmth of their domed mud-and-branch lodges, staying dry, on shelves that kept them out of the freezing water, until spring finally broke winter’s hold on this high and dangerous land once more in nature’s never-ending cycle of giving life back after all had been taken away with the coming of a deep and mighty cold. Yes, this had always been a beautiful place, he reminded himself.

  A fitting place to see this through to the end.

  The Blackfoot wouldn’t have much cover if they didn’t make it to the foothills of those mountains still miles and miles away. He heard the first muffled gunshot from off to their left and turned quickly. Couldn’t see any of the other raiders, nor the rest of the Crow pursuers. Another shot. The others must be drawing close enough to the raiders to bring things to a fight, he thought—but he kept his eye on Red Coat. And noticing how the gunshots unnerved some of the five enemies. No, these Blackfoot would not have much cover to hide in once they went afoot in this frozen swamp … but neither would their pursuers.

  That’s why Titus determined he would stay in the saddle as long as possible. He was nowhere near as quick and nimble on foot as his strong, young enemies would be. And he would have a decided advantage over the wounded man if he was able to run Red Coat down with his horse. Besides, he told himself as the five began to drift apart, no longer in a tight bunch, this painted pony beneath him might just serve as the finest shield of all for one or maybe two lead balls fired his way when things got close and deadly. When the guns of these enemies started to roar and their muzzles spewed jets of yellow fire back at their pursuers.

  Closer and closer they got to the Blackfoot as the five continued to drift apart, two going to the right and Slays in the Night reining away with them. The other three he followed with Bear Who Sleeps. Red Coat turned to look over his shoulder, fear beginning to show in his eyes for the first time.

  “You remember me, don’t you?” he screamed at the warrior.

  Red Coat stared a long moment at the white man, blinked.

  “Yes! I’m the one going to kill you!”

  As he turned back around, Red Coat shouted something to those who rode at his side. Buffalo Horn Headdress and Yellow Paint Elkskin were busy a moment pulling at something attached to the front part of their bodies. Figuring they were dragging pistols from their belts, he prepared to duck the moment they twisted around to fire at him … but then he watched the two companions with Red Coat bring their hands to their faces. They hadn’t brought pistols!

  In a moment they turned to peer back at their two pursuers, and Bass saw both had put whistles between their teeth. The sort of eagle wingbone whistle that many warriors wore from narrow thongs around their necks as they went into battle. Holding it between their lips as they charged into battle, blowing those shrill, high, keening notes of the majestic warbird, calling upon its spirit, invoking its courage and strength, perhaps praying that the cry of their whistle would turn an enemy’s knees to water.

  “Not today, boys,” Titus muttered grimly. “Nothing gonna turn me away from this last fight.”

  The faintly shrill sounds of those whistles drifted back on a brutal gust of wind as winter’s fury snarled past his ears with a mournful death howl—

  Suddenly Buffalo Horn Headdress yanked back on his reins and brought his frightened pony around so savagely that the horse almost toppled with its rider into the soggy, icy bog of this grassy meadow, where beaver would thrive and a new generation flourish come the floods of spring. The young man’s face was one of determination as he blew on his whistle, lowered his short-barreled English smoothbore at the two advancing enemies, then slammed the heels of his thick winter moccasins into his pony’s sides.

  “A brave one—this!” shouted Bear Who Sleeps.

  “I only want Red Coat!” Titus screamed.

  “Yes!” Bear Who Sleeps replied as he brought out his heavy flintlock pistol and raked back the hammer. “This coup is for me!”

  “Shoot straight!” Titus roared at the warrior. “And your heart will be sure to follow!”

  “My bones are the rocks of this earth” Bear Who Sleeps sang his high-pitched song, “and my eyes are doors to the sky! I will live always with those rocks and the sky!”

  With a quick jab of the heels, Titus sharply reined his pinto to the right, away from the Crow, his eyes searching for the Shoshone and the other two Blackfoot. He found that Green-Stripe Blanket had dismounted and dropped to one knee, bringing up his rifle. But Slays in the Night was quick enough, good enough at that deadly range—firing before the Blackfoot could, tumbling the warrior onto his back as the Shoshone rode on over the dying man after that shot, pursuing Painted Robe on into the thick stands of reeds so tall they could almost hide a man on horseback.

  Gunfire roared to his left, a little behind. Two shots so close together they could have been the two halves of a man’s heartbeat. Twisting around, Bass watched Bear Who Sleeps bound backward onto the rear flank of his pony, his arms flung wide as he pitched off the horse into a shallow puddle of ice-rimed meadow water. Buffalo Horn Headdress immediately leaped his horse over the body of his enemy and reined around sharply, the pony’s hooves sending up cockscombs of dirty spray at the edge of the shallow beaver pond. The eyes of the Blackfoot were trained on his next enemy as he suspended the empty firearm from the front of his saddle by a leather loop tied through its trigger guard. His other arm was already reaching behind his shoulder, pulling a bow and a handful of arrows from the wolfhide quiver strapped across his back.

  Those intense, black-cherry eyes widened as Bass raced directly for him, bringing up his old flintlock as Buffalo Horn Headdress nocked an arrow against the twisted rawhide string and started to muscle it back. Scratch sensed the buck of his rifle as it fired—the half-inch-thick ball catching his enemy midchest. The bow and its lone arrow went spilling one way, the rest of the short arrows and the warrior toppled off the far side of the horse.

  Yanking back on his reins, Bass skidded to a halt right over the body. The luster was gone from the eyes that peered up at him, the lips slowly releasing the wingbone whistle he had clamped between his teeth … mouthing something in silence. Then the lips moved no more.

  Titus quickly jerked around, looked over his shoulder, and spotted the backs of the other two as they pushed their ponies behi
nd the stolen horses up the long, low slope at the side of this beaver meadow, making for the saplings and stunted cedar. With a moment’s hesitation, he reluctantly opened his left hand, watching the long-cherished flintlock tumble into the icy scum of black water.

  “You been a good girl,” he whispered, his eyes burning with remembrance and regret. “‘Ol’ Make-’Em-Come’ … you brung me all the way through the years ’thout ever lettin’ me down. Appears I gotta do the rest of this on my own now.”

  Freeing a wild cry that raked his throat like the shards of a broken china mug some trader might use to dispense his watered-down whiskey, Titus Bass wheeled his wide-eyed, lathered pony and pounded his legs into its ribs—setting off after the last two. Stuffing the thick braid of buffalo-hair rein between his teeth, the old man yanked out both pistols from his belt.

  A muffled shot rang out somewhere to his right. Must have been Slays in the Night, he figured. With a quick glance, he realized could not see anything of the others. Only the two left in front of him. They were all that mattered now. His old friend was finishing his business with these men who had stolen and killed what had mattered most to the Shoshone. Slays was having his finest moment—a redemption long coming to a man who had chosen the wrong path so many winters ago. A man who had climbed back onto his feet and owned up to his trespasses … stepping back from the brink of dishonor.

  No matter now, Bass thought, Slays in the Night will die a warrior, an honorable man. His will be a life redeemed before his Creator, here in these glorious final heartbeats of a man’s existence.

  That’s what it was. Redemption—

  There! Yellow Paint Elkskin was leaning off his pony ungainly, suddenly lunging to the side, frantically grabbing a handful of Red Coat’s sleeve as the warrior Bass had wounded back in the Crow camp slowly keeled to the side. Try as he might, Yellow Paint Elkskin could not prevent the wounded man from falling off his horse. Red Coat flopped to the snowy slope in a patch of cedar, rolled onto his back, and kicked his legs a little. Then lay still.