by Jory Sherman
Suddenly, Chalk Face grabbed Red Tomahawk's wrist. He squeezed it tight.
"I will go now," said the dying boy.
It seemed to Tomahawk that Chalk Face looked up at the many lights in the sky and lifted his shoulders off the ground as if to fly his body up to the heavens.
Instead, Chalk Face sagged back to the earth, and let out a long sigh as if his spirit was flowing from his mouth.
His grip on Tomahawk's arm relaxed. His body shuddered once and he spoke no more.
Angrily, Red Tomahawk shoved the arrow through Chalk Face's neck.
He did not bleed anymore.
The next day, the best warriors of the Oglala set out after the thieving Crows and when they returned after two suns, they had thirteen horses and three fresh scalps. But Chalk Face's body lay on the death scaffold, with his personal medicine things dangling, blowing in the wind. In Red Tomahawk's heart there was an emptiness that would not go away.
He wondered why the old men of the camp went over the killing ground so carefully, picking up all the arrowheads, the metal they could find before turning the buffalo skulls to the east, as was the custom. And when he asked Snow Wolf, his father told him that the people had forgotten how to live without white traders and white man's goods, but they must learn again. There would be no more metal for the arrow points and the Lakota would go back to their old ways, making battle with their enemies, stealing horses, striking coups.
There were many such raids on the Omahas, the Pawnees, and Crow that summer in the white man's year of 1855, and Red Tomahawk heard that Curly had killed an enemy, an Omaha, but when he went to take the scalp, discovered he had killed a woman. This was a great thing to do, for the Lakota believed that it brought great shame on a warrior to let his woman be killed by an enemy. But Curly saw how young the woman was and turned away from her and let another take her scalp. Red Tomahawk thought this was strange, but he would not listen to words against his friend.
But, there was more to the story than that, and when Red Tomahawk learned the rest of it, he knew his friend was bound to be an important man someday. During that same raid on the Omahas, a trader's son was killed, and he was the son of Fontanelle, who had once lived at the soldier fort on the Laramie before the soldiers had bought it. This son was a big man in the Omahas, because of his mother and he had been to the city of the Great White Father in Washington and had been made a great chief. So, the Lakota thought there might be trouble over this and burned the scalps, turned loose the horse of the son of Fontanelle after making it lame.
Sometime after that, Red Tomahawk heard that the soldier fort had a new chief, with hair that was like snow on the mountain tops. He was called Major Twiss and he gave out orders, through the traders and friendly Indians, that he knew who had been raiding and was going to punish all bad Indians. He made talk that he would not hurt friendly Indians and said that those who wanted peace must move south of the Platte and wait there until he told them what to do. Some of the Indians moved back down there, including Man Afraid.
Snow Wolf heard some of the Oglalas talking about this and knew that there would be arguing in camp over what to do. Some wanted to go back to show the new soldier chief that they wanted peace. Snow Wolf was against this, and he spoke openly about what the Oglala should do.
"The white soldiers want us close to the fort so they can rub us out," he said. "Have you forgotten what was done to Conquering Bear after only a single winter?"
"Man Afraid goes there and he is wise," said those who wanted to leave for the Holy Road right away.
"But his warriors stay out to count coups and live as men," countered Snow Wolf.
Red Tomahawk heard this talk and made up his own mind. He would not go south to the Platte to live in the shadow of the soldier fort. He was glad his father talked against this.
Several days later, scouts came riding into camp with news that was to make the people afraid and cause trouble among the Oglalas.
"We come from Little Thunder's camp on the Blue Water," said Yellow Bow. "He has had a good hunt and there is much meat. Many robes are drying."
"And how is Little Thunder?" asked one of the elders.
"He has listened to the words of Iron Shell, who brought news from the white man's fort on the Laramie."
"Ahhh," sounded the councilors, "Iron Shell is a good man, but his heart has been good to the whites. And Little Thunder is a man of peace. What could be the reason for these men to light the pipe?"
"Many soldiers are coming, with wagon guns, making big dust on the Holy Road. Walking soldiers and horse soldiers. Jim Bordeaux says the Brules should come in or take their lodges, their women and children, far from the path of the soldiers."
And a big sigh arose again from the men who heard these words.
"What will Little Thunder do?" asked Snow Wolf.
"He will stay on the Blue Water a few more days. Then, he will go to the sandhills where soldiers will not follow."
"That is good," said Black Twin.
The wise old men made a decision to send scouts back with Yellow Bow so that they would know if Little Thunder got away before the soldiers found him.
Snow Wolf was chosen, and he asked that his son go with him because it was known that Red Tomahawk was brave and had taken a Crow scalp, killed many buffalo.
Permission was given, and at dawn, just before the Moon of Calves Growing Hair began, the white man's September, Red Tomahawk joined the scouts going to the Blue Water where Little Thunder had his camp. He did not know it, but he would soon see Curly, and much more that would make his heart sad for his people and turn it away from the white man forever.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Red Tomahawk spotted the lone rider before his father or any of the others.
He knew who it was even before he could see the figure clearly.
"I am going," he told Snow Wolf.
"Wait."
"That's Curly."
"Yes. He is watching the old travois trail that leads down from the Running Water. Do you not see the smoke in the sky?"
Red Tomahawk looked in the direction of Little Thunder's camp on the Blue Water. It was true. There was a big smoke in the sky.
"I am going," said Red Tomahawk and before his father or Yellow Dog could stop him, he rode away, slapping and kicking his pony. He let out a series of yips to let Curly know he was coming. No one tried to stop him.
Curly waved, waited for his friend. He was leading a wild buckskin yearling he had caught.
"Ho, you ride alone," said Red Tomahawk, breathless.
"Where do you go?"
"To Little Thunder's camp."
"We will go together. Did you see the big smoke in the sky?"
"Yes."
"I had four friends riding with me. I caught this pony because he looks like the fine buffalo horse Long Spear lost in the hunt last week. But it is not the same horse. It will make a fine pony, a good hunter."
"Hou!"
"We will go to the camp together."
"Where did your friends go?"
"They were afraid. They rode off."
"Are you afraid?"
"Yes." Curly clapped moccasined heels to his pinto's flanks. The pony leaped from its standing position, muscles bunched. The buckskin, its head pulled high on the rope halter galloped along behind. Red Tomahawk followed, looking behind him to see if Snow Wolf and the others were still coming.
Long before they reached Little Thunder's camp, the two young men smelled the bad smoke of gunpowder, of burning skins and flesh.
Red Tomahawk's stomach twisted with fear.
In the air, too, was the scent of a storm and the clouds in the sky were turning dark, growing like mushrooms in the woods. By the time they reached the camp evening was coming on and the sky was lit by bright flashes of lightning.
"Look," said Curly, pointing, "there is old Lame Beaver. He's hurt."
The two boys rode into a washed out stream bed. The Brule seemed to be dazed. There was bloo
d smeared on his temple and he had fresh cuts all over his body. He cringed and held his hands over his head when the young men rode up on him.
"Lame Beaver, why are you hiding up here? I am Curly, son of Crazy Horse. And, this is my friend, Red Tomahawk, the Oglala."
The old man, his hair snowy white, looked up at Curly. One of his eyes hung from a socket, dangled on his cheek.
"Old Tesson, he brought them here," said Lame Beaver. "He told the soldiers where we were. Tesson knows all our favorite camping places. I saw them last night."
"The soldiers?"
"Yes," Lame Beaver nodded. "The pony soldiers crossed the high prairie above the creek and hid in a gully to wait for the sun to wake up. The walking soldiers sneaked up like wolves from the Shell River and put themselves around our village. I was going to cry out when the bad Lakota braves found me and beat me until my head turned dark as night. I heard a great noise of wagon guns and many rifle shots. And Tesson came back and struck me with his warclub. You had better be careful. I think the Cheyennes are fighting with the white soldiers. You cannot even trust your brothers."
It was quiet. Red Tomahawk wondered how much of the old man's story was true.
"We will hide our horses here," said Curly, "go up to the top of the hill and take a look. Lame Beaver, do not worry. We will come back and help get you back to your people."
"They are all dead," muttered Lame Beaver. "I know this. There were too many guns. Too much shooting. All dead."
The two boys crawled to a hill that overlooked Little Thunder's camp. A pall of blue-white smoke hung in the valley and the sickly sweet scent of burnt flesh wafted upward, drifted cloyingly into their nostrils.
"Where are the lodges?" whispered Red Tomahawk. "Is this not the place of Little Thunder's camp?"
"All gone. Look at the burning things the people left behind."
It was true. Travois, parfleches of meat, clothes, weapons, smoldered in the soft dusk, sending little winding smokes up in the air to join the cloud that spread like a fog over the valley.
Red Tomahawk put his ear to the ground. His eyes went wide.
"Many soldiers walking along the river. Horses, too. I do not hear the scrape of lodge poles or the sounds of ponies that have no iron shoes."
"Come," said Curly, "let us look at the trail."
They slipped quietly down the hill. It was light enough to see the moccasin tracks.
Red Tomahawk's heart clogged his throat, fluttered with a nameless dread. There were many tracks of Lakota and some Cheyenne.
"Captured," said Curly softly.
"What can we do?"
"Go after them, find out what happened."
"We must be like the gray wolf at night, like the floating owl."
The boys raced up the hill, mounted their horses. Curly left the buckskin hobbled.
They did not see Yellow Dog or Snow Wolf as they rode through gullies and canyons, following the track-marks in the earth. Once, they stopped, after hearing noises, and dismounted. They slithered up to the edge of a ridge-top and there, the noises were much louder.
"Wagons and wagon guns," said Red Tomahawk.
"And people walking. Many feet."
They heard the far-off sound of white man's laughter.
"They have Lakota women," husked Red Tomahawk, his anger choking him.
"But where are our warriors? They should be shooting the soldiers. They should be fighting."
They listened hard, but there was no scattered gunfire, no sound that Lakotas, as was their custom after such a raid, were hiding ahead, attacking from ambush. The sounds faded.
"Maybe," said Red Tomahawk, "there are more soldiers than these. Maybe they are still chasing the people."
"Yes, and killing the helpless, the little ones," said Curly bitterly.
The evening grew darker and lightning sent jagged lances of light through the skies.
"We should go back to the camp, see if there are other tracks," said Red Tomahawk. "Maybe the warriors led the fighting soldiers off so they could make a big circle and get the women and children back."
"We will see. Let's go."
They rode back to the Brule camp. Curly let his horse pick its way. He leaned down, watching the ground, waiting for those times when the thunders made light so that he could see. In this way, he and Tomahawk could follow the path of the fleeing villagers. They saw many moccasin tracks and the prints of unshod Indian ponies, all crisscrossed and tracked over by soldiers' boots and the iron marks of their horses' hooves. They rode back through the empty camp and Curly's pony stiffened, set its ears straight and began to stamp and snort. The smell of death was strong in the air. Crackling lightning splashed silver into the waters of the stream.
Red Tomahawk sensed that Curly's heart was bad hurt, filled with the knowing-ahead sadness that told him things before they happened. Curly had always had that gift of see-ahead, know-ahead, but not many people knew about it. Hump did, Red Tomahawk thought, and Crazy Horse, Curly's father. But not any of the other boys his age.
When they got back to the gully, Lame Beaver was gone. The lightning flashes showed the tracks of ponies.
"Snow Wolf and Yellow Dog were here," said Red Tomahawk, "They took Lame Beaver with them."
"Yes. Look, they follow the tracks of the village fleeing."
"That is good. Many got away."
"Many were captured. Many women."
"Do you want me to go with you when you follow these tracks?"
"Yes, but your heart must be strong, Red Tomahawk. There is spilled Lakota blood here, but there is more blood on my people's trail."
They rode through the thunder-rumbling, lightning-flashing night, letting their ponies follow the trail because they could not see except when the sky turned bright.
Their ponies spooked at the base of a limestone bluff.
Lances of silver light showed them what had happened in that place. The rocky slope was strewn with things from the village: cradleboards, lodge rolls, parfleches of meat, blankets, robes, bows, arrows, lances, quivers. They saw dark splotches of blood on the rocks and the dark mounds of dead Indians. They rode up the slope, passing through the dead as if they were at a sacred burial ground.
At the top of the bluff, more dead. Little children hacked to death by soldiers' swords, women, too, some blown apart by cannon, lying next to holes gouged out by the balls from the wagon guns. A little dog slunk out of the blackness, whining, its tail tucked between its hind legs. A burst of lightning illuminated it and Curly gave a cry of recognition.
"That is my grandmother's dog," he said, and then was sick. He emptied his belly again and again until his throat rasped and there was nothing more to come up.
Red Tomahawk slid from his pony's back, hobbled the animal quickly. Rage contorted his features. Something hard clogged his throat as he went among the dead women, pulling their dresses down over their exposed private parts. He became aware, after a while, that Curly had joined him, silently helping him cover up the shame done by the soldiers.
He saw Curly stop at one woman, shake his fist at the flashing sky. Red Tomahawk walked over, stared at the face of the young woman.
"This is the sister of Long Spear," said Curly. "She was one of the maidens who chopped down the Sundance pole this summer."
When the lightning flashed again, Red Tomahawk saw that she had been scalped between her legs. As Curly pulled her blue dress down, Red Tomahawk turned away, sick as Curly had been.
A few moments later, the skies opened up and the rain came down hard, drenching the boys as they mounted their ponies and rode past the killing place, sick at heart. They did not seek shelter, but kept following the sad trail of the Indians.
Soldier tracks on both sides of Blue Water Creek told the story of hard pursuit. The Indians moved fast for four or five miles until the soldier tracks became less and then stopped, until only the Lakota prints remained, filling up with water from the rain.
The boy was dead, but something in t
he blankets next to him was alive. Curly and Red Tomahawk dismounted. Curly lifted the blanket, saw the Cheyenne woman clutching a newborn babe.
"Ah," she crooned, seeing Curly's face during a brief moment when light washed his face with a sudden brightness. "The light-haired one."
"Yellow Woman?"
"You know me."
"Is that your son?" he asked, pointing to the small dark shape on the ground.
"Yes. He put himself between me and the soldiers. My man is dead in a cave back there. The new one came a short time ago."
Her trilling cry of grief stabbed at the boys' hearts. Red Tomahawk found a travois for the woman and her baby, hitched it to Curly's pony. They could not take the dead boy, but set the woman on the travois. They walked through the rain, dragging the keening woman, letting the horses eat along the way.
Toward morning, they came upon a scout from the Brule camp.
He spoke to them, his voice heavy with sorrow.
"Did you see soldiers coming?"
"No," said Curly.
"We have camped where the little lake nests between two trails."
"Have you seen Snow Wolf, my father?" asked Red Tomahawk.
"He is there, and Yellow Dog."
"Little Thunder . . ." began Curly.
"Do not ask questions now," said the brave, whose name was Blind Owl. "There is much grief in camp, but there is food."
The boys started to walk away, leading their ponies. The travois poles made scraping sounds on the earth.
"Are you Red Tomahawk?" asked the Brule scout.
"I am."
"Your father has a bad wound. He is singing his dying song."
"The soldiers . . ."
"No," said Blind Owl slowly, "not the soldiers. A Lakota. The one who betrayed us."
"A Lakota? Who?"
Red Tomahawk felt his stomach sink.
"The old one. Tesson."
The name sounded like a hiss on Blind Owl's lips, like the name of a snake that comes silent through the grass and strikes at the soft part of a man's legs, sinking long fangs into the flesh, shooting in the yellow poison, then sliding off into the grasses with no more than a whisper.